Читать книгу The Prince Next Door - Sue Civil-Brown - Страница 11

HE WAS LATE.

Not fashionably late, ten or fifteen minutes. Not even a half hour.

No, it was ten minutes to eight. Serena’s stomach growled as she tapped her nails on the glass tabletop. She had rearranged the place settings three times. She had chilled the sauvignon blanc, and decanted the merlot, just in case. She had even deigned to endure that most hated of feminine habits and put on makeup. Not much. A light brushing of blush on her cheeks, mascara and a shimmery pink lip gloss. Just enough.

And he was late.

The grandfather clock in her living room had swung and ticked its way to 7:58 when the doorbell rang.

“I shouldn’t even answer,” Serena said.

“Of course you should,” Ariel replied.

“He’s late.”

“So?”

“It’s disrespectful.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he was unavoidably detained.”

“Making a drug deal?”

“Maybe,” Ariel said. “Or maybe he was caught in traffic. Or maybe he had to close a million-dollar deal on a painting. There’s only one way to find out.”

The doorbell rang again.

“And that’s it,” Ariel said, pointing to the door.

With a heavy sigh—wondering yet again why this young girl intimidated her so—Serena walked to the door and opened it.

Damn him.

“Hi,” Darius said, holding out a bouquet of yellow carnations. “Sorry I’m late.”

The flowers even matched her dress.

“No problem,” Serena heard herself say, without so much as thinking about it. Then, as if another brain had taken charge of her vocal chords, she added, “I was late getting ready myself.”

What was she doing?

“It worked out well, then,” he said. He lifted the large plastic bag in his other hand. “I hope you like Italian.”

“Sounds yummy!” Ariel said, reaching out to take the bag. “Come on in.”

“Yes, do come in,” Serena added.

“Thank you,” Darius said, stepping into the small, tiled foyer. He paused a moment to look around. “You have a lovely home. That’s a Robert Franklin, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” Serena said, looking at the painting above her sofa as if for the first time. It was a pastel watercolor, a man and a woman caressing each other’s cheeks. “I just picked it because I liked it. I really don’t know anything about art.”

Darius offered a disarming smile. “Not to worry. You’ve chosen well. It fits the room.”

She hoped he’d turn that smile off soon. Before her brain made yet another detour into complete abandon. She fell back upon safe territory. “Well, let’s eat!”

In the kitchen, as she and Ariel transferred the steaming food from the containers into serving dishes, Ariel whispered, “Well, he recognized who did the painting in your living room. One point for art dealer.”

Serena, shocked back to reality for a second, was about to admit she may have been wrong, when a thought struck her. “The painting is signed.”

Ariel gave her one of those long, deep looks, then nodded. “That’s true.”

But Serena was beginning to wonder if her need for excitement hadn’t pushed her right over the edge. Then she remembered the weaselly man saying, “We have your mother.” Darius Maxwell was not acting like a man who was in any way worried about his mother. The weasel’s words had certainly sounded like a threat, not a reassurance.

Hmmm.

Food in serving dishes—scampi, pasta primavera, ravioli stuffed with Portobello mushrooms, and garlic bread, she and Ariel paraded into the dining area with the offerings.

“I hope,” said Darius, standing near the table, “that the selections please you.”

“Oh, definitely,” Serena said, managing a bright smile. At least he’d turned off that thousand-watt smile of his. It had settled into a pleasant curve of his very pleasant mouth.

After the women had finished placing the dishes on the table, Darius held their chairs out for them, Serena’s first. That was an old-world courtesy, so old that Serena had actually forgotten men could do such things.

Ariel’s gaze seemed to say, And you think this guy is a drug dealer?

Serena felt herself blushing, faintly, she hoped. Damn her fair complexion. Maybe she should bake in the sun, set herself up for melanoma, and make sure the world could never again see her cheeks pinken.

When they were all seated, Darius apologized again. “I really was unforgivably late. But like an idiot, I decided to go to this small mom-and-pop restaurant where they have the most wonderful Italian cuisine, and I totally forgot about rush hour across the drawbridges.”

Serena smiled politely. “It’s all forgiven. The food smells wonderful. Don’t you have to deal with rush hour?”

A clue, she thought. She had to deal with rush hour, as did every other upstanding American, except perhaps the president.

“Well, not usually,” he admitted as he passed the scampi. “My job has rather irregular hours.”

“Oh?” She lifted her brows at him, then scooped a small portion onto her plate before passing the dish to Ariel.

“I’m an art dealer, as I said,” Darius explained smoothly. Maybe too smoothly. “I’m working on a project in St. Petersburg right now. A new gallery is opening, centered on the works of Mateus Davilla.”

Ariel perked up. “Like the Dali Museum?”

“Yes, like that.” He smiled at her. “The gallery is very well funded by a collector, and I’ve been scouting for some additional paintings for them. Some of Davilla’s works have been missing since World War II. I’ve managed to find a few of them, along with a truly priceless collection of his charcoal sketches. But there are some provenance issues I need to work on while I continue to scout. At present, I have reason to believe a number of Davilla’s works are here in the U.S.”

“So you’re based here for a while?” Ariel asked.

“Yes, until my project is finished.”

So he was a drifter, Serena thought, stuffing her mouth. Then the flavor hit her and astonishment filled her. “My goodness, that’s the best scampi I’ve ever had!”

Darius grinned at her. “So maybe getting stuck at the drawbridge was worth it.”

Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t resist that smile. As the scampi warmed her stomach, that smile warmed every inch of her, including the cockles of her heart.

“It sounds like an exciting job,” Ariel said.

“It is,” Darius agreed, turning to her and releasing Serena from his thrall. “Well, to be fair, most of the time it’s terribly routine. I breathe a lot of dust in old archives chasing clues. But occasionally…well, there have been a few times when it’s been rather dangerous. One doesn’t always know who one is dealing with, and some of these paintings are stolen, so…” He shrugged, a very European gesture. “I’ve met a few thugs in my day.”

Like the one outside his door, Serena thought. She wished she had the nerve to ask him about it. Then it struck her that she did. “I was concerned about that man who let himself into your apartment yesterday. I’m glad it was all right.”

Darius shook his head. “As it happens, it was merely a nuisance.”

“But…you say you’ve met thugs. Why didn’t you let me call the police?”

There, it was out, the question that had been plaguing her.

He tilted his head, studying her, as if reading her mind. “Sometimes unsavory characters merely want to sell me a painting. Other times…well, I know how to deal with them.”

“Oh!” Ariel exclaimed, looking as thrilled as any teen faced with her idol. “Do you carry a gun?”

For an instant he looked shocked. “Never!” he said firmly. “Not ever. I realize you Americans depend on them, but I was raised in a different culture. I tend to believe that guns only elicit greater violence.”

Serena heartily agreed with him on that point, and felt herself thinking she might actually be able to like this man. How unfortunate, when he was probably just feeding her a pack of lies. Very good lies, but lies, nonetheless. Lies that could provide an excuse for all the unsavory characters that might come to his door.

Hmmm.

The evening light that poured through the sliding glass doors began to grow golden. The glow it cast through the living-dining areas was almost surreal, as if the room were under a spell.

“I wish,” Darius said unexpectedly, “that I had an ounce of artistic talent.”

“Why’s that?” Ariel asked.

“I’d love to be able to capture this light.”

“Did you want to be an artist when you were little?”

He nodded. “I most certainly did. I grew up surrounded by fine art, and was given every opportunity and a lot of very expensive lessons. Nothing helped. I can identify masterworks, but I’ll never paint one.” Then he laughed. “Oh, well. At least I spend my life looking at the things I love most. Not many can say that.”

Serena was beginning to believe him. She didn’t want to believe him. It would ruin her entire vacation, not to have a criminal living next door. Nonetheless, her suspicions were falling away like dead leaves. If this man wasn’t exactly what he said he was, then he deserved every acting award in the universe.

But still nagging at her was that threatening statement: We have your mother.

AFTER DINNER they moved out onto her balcony to watch the sun set over the water. Serena served Tia Maria in liqueur glasses along with Blue Mountain coffee. Between that, the wine they’d had with dinner, and the soothing glow of the sunset, Serena felt…delightfully buzzed.

The evening breeze was just warm enough to be delightful. The passing of the storm had left the air surprisingly dry, creating the kind of evening that made Serena want to close her eyes, let her head fall back and feel her hair toss gently.

“I love the wind,” she said impulsively. “Gentle or fierce, it always gives me such a feeling of freedom.”

“I love it, too,” Ariel said. “It makes me feel as if I could fly.”

Darius said nothing. Curious, Serena turned to him. He appeared lost in thought, not necessarily of the happiest kind. Maybe he wasn’t completely indifferent to that threat made earlier.

“Do you have any family in the area?” she asked, hoping to pry some information loose.

“No. My family, such as it is, is in Europe.”

“Such as it is?”

“My mother is the only close relative I have left.” His mouth twisted wryly. “She is, however, the world’s biggest schemer, highly manipulative, and highly volatile. And I love her dearly.”

Serena didn’t know how to reply to that. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if she had utterly misheard that weasel’s words. “Do you…see her often?”

“Whenever I’m in Europe, which is quite often. It can be something of a trial, though. She’s forever plotting to find a way to turn me into something I’m not.”

“Which is?”

“Well, it used to be James Bond. Right now it’s something else.” He waved a hand, as if to brush away the thoughts. “What about you ladies? Your families?”

“Well,” said Ariel, “I have none.”

That was a question Serena had never asked her, and now, hearing the answer, she felt her throat tighten. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” Ariel said brightly. “It’s been a long time. And I’m well-off. Luckier than most, don’t you think?”

“You’re such a positive thinker.”

Ariel laughed. “Of course. Is there any other way to be?”

“Well, you can share my family from now on.”

Ariel looked impishly at her. “Are they all like you?”

A helpless laugh bubbled out of Serena, rising from deep within her. “Touché,” she managed to say between giggles.

Ariel laughed with her, and Darius looked from one to the other, amused, even though he must surely feel left out.

“Serena,” Ariel confided, “is a would-be adventuress. She gets into all kinds of trouble when she’s on vacation.”

“Hey,” Serena said, “I haven’t been arrested yet.”

“She came awfully close last Christmas,” Ariel explained to Darius. “She was playing Mrs. Claus at the mall, and one too many little brats mouthed off at her and kicked her in the shin. So she told the parents, all the parents, what they could do with their little monsters.”

Darius laughed heartily. “Good for you,” he told Serena.

“She was supposed to go on a naked cruise this time,” Ariel continued, “but the IRS seized the ship.”

“Ariel!”

The young woman shrugged. “It’s the truth. I know you keep saying ‘clothing optional,’ but I don’t know what the difference is.”

Darius’s gaze settled on Serena again. He was smiling, but his eyes seemed to hold some deeper message, something that made her squirm in her chair. Something that felt too pleasurable for her own good. She gripped the armrests tightly and forced herself to be still.

At that moment an errant gust hit her, blowing her hair across her face and somehow managing to blow her skirt up to the top of her thighs.

“Oh!” Embarrassment filled her and she blindly reached to pull her skirt down and tuck it tightly around her legs.

“Better than Marilyn’s,” Darius said, a laugh trembling in his voice.

Serena glared at him through strands of blond hair. “Don’t be a cad.”

“Odd. That’s one thing my mother has always hoped I’d become.”

Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she asked, “Why?”

“My father was a very stolid Swiss banker. She spent most of his life trying to turn him into D’Artagnan.”

“Poor man.”

“They were very much in love.” Darius’s gaze strayed back out over the water, his face growing pensive, almost sad. “Anyway, now she’s decided to reform me.”

Serena’s heart slammed. “How so?”

“She’s staged her own kidnapping.”