Читать книгу The Prince Next Door - Sue Civil-Brown - Страница 13

THERE WAS NO Y on the island, and going to the nearest one meant crossing two drawbridges, not something Serena cared to do first thing in the morning, during rush hour. It was bad enough when she had to go to work and left every morning at six to beat the rush. No way was she going to do it on her vacation.

But Ariel’s comments were still stinging, mainly because they were true. So instead of putting on her jogging outfit, she chose a white polo shirt and white shorts and picked up her tennis racquet and balls. She could practice her serve for a while, and maybe someone else would show up to play with her. Someone with whom she could be sociable.

The complex had two private tennis courts with well-maintained clay surfaces. When she arrived, a couple were already playing at the farthest court. They paid her no attention and their game wasn’t of a quality to justify watching, so she grabbed a bucket of practice balls and began to hit serves.

It stank. With the first six balls she hit the net three times. Boy, was she out of practice.

Just as she moved to go gather up her balls and try again, a familiar voice said, “You’re tossing it too far forward, so you’re hitting it on the downswing.”

Her cheeks, already a little flushed, flushed more. She turned and saw Darius Maxwell, potential prince and ruler of some nearly invisible country, standing just inside the gate. He, too, wore tennis togs and carried a racquet and balls. Lord, did he look fantastic in white, with his bronze skin.

“Hi,” she said, suddenly feeling as if she might trip over her own feet.

“Good morning.” He smiled, and the world lit up like noon, even though the sun was still trying to creep its way up from the horizon. “I don’t mean to butt in, Serena. If I’m annoying you, tell me to go away. But if you’d like a match…”

His voice held a hopeful note she couldn’t resist. “Sure. But I’m out of practice.”

“So am I. But I suspect you’ll get your game back faster than I will.”

Not only was he a gorgeous man, but he also had a gorgeous accent. British, with a hint of something exotic.

He helped her gather the balls, then came to stand behind her while she practiced. She could feel him back there, watching. It made her nervous. Too nervous.

The other couple finished their game just then, and gave her a few moments of reprieve as they left the court. Then there was just her and Darius.

She felt wobbly. “Look,” she said tartly, “you’re making me nervous, standing back there and watching.”

“But I’m not being at all critical,” he answered. “Tell you what. I’ll stand beside you and we’ll both practice our serves.”

“Fine.”

It gave her great pleasure when his hit the net and hers went exactly where it was supposed to.

“See?” he said. “I’m out of practice, too.”

His next ball hit the net, but so did hers. Now she was getting annoyed. She could serve better than this. Far better than this. And for some reason she felt a strong need to show him up.

She picked up another ball, drew her racquet back and slammed the ball across the court. “Bingo! Slam-dunk!”

He laughed. “Beautiful serve.”

It was his turn, and this time he, too, aced it. She suddenly had a bad feeling, and turned to him. “You weren’t hitting the net on purpose were you? Just to spare my feelings?”

He held his free hand up, as if to push away any such thought. “Of course not. I’m rusty.”

She still felt suspicious, even though he looked as innocent as a newborn baby. Turning, she picked up two more balls and served them, one after another, perfectly. Her arm was going to hurt tomorrow, but she didn’t care.

“What are you going to do about your mother?” she asked him.

“I don’t really need to do anything,” he replied. He served, and watched the ball fall short again. “She’s on the Riviera enjoying herself.”

“But how can you be sure of that?”

“I talked to her. She didn’t want me to behead her kidnappers. Besides, I recognized the country code and exchange. I called the phone company and they were able to tell me that much.”

“Behead her kidnappers?” Stunned, Serena forgot all about tennis. “Would you really do such a thing?”

He shook his head, and this time when he hit the ball she could sense anger in his swing. He aced it.

“I’d never behead anyone. But I was testing her. She would ordinarily love the idea, if not the execution of it. Instead she told me it was déclassé.”

“Oh, my word!”

“Exactly. The woman is so hung up on becoming the dowager princess of Masolimia that she’ll go to any lengths. Well, I absolutely refuse to become her pawn.”

“I can’t say I blame you. I imagine being a prince would be an awful job.”

“Exactly.” He slammed another ball across the net. “I like to travel. I like my business, most of the time. I like being in the art world. Why in the world would I want to give up my entire life so my mother can preen for the rest of hers?”

Serena found herself nodding. But then she had a thought, “Still, there’s that genetic thing.”

“I know.” He bounced a ball off the clay, caught it and looked at her. “I’m not heartless. Those people really do need this contract. I visited Masolimia enough as a child to know how impoverished it is. But the real prince will serve just as well.”

“How are you going to find him?”

He hesitated, then said, “I have an idea. The problem is carrying it out.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s…a little illegal.”

Serena looked at him, her jaw dropping. Then, before common sense could resurrect its ugly head, she said, “If it doesn’t call for hurting anyone, count me in.”

SHE REALLY DID NEED someone to stitch her tongue to the roof of her mouth, Serena thought as she showered. How had she ever allowed herself to say such a thing? And now she had to meet Darius at his apartment in twenty minutes.

To plan something that was “a little illegal.” As if there were degrees of illegality.

Although, in a way she supposed there were: misdemeanors and felonies. Somehow she had a feeling this was going to be no mere misdemeanor.

Good Lord, she needed to grow up!

Well, she’d just go over there and tell him she’d changed her mind. She didn’t want to even conspire to commit a crime. She didn’t want to have knowledge of a crime. She didn’t want any reason to find herself in a courtroom, either as defendant or witness.

But even as she castigated herself, she was intrigued. There were butterflies in her stomach. Her adrenaline was pumping.

And she wasn’t bored. Not one whit.

AT THE APPOINTED TIME she presented herself at Darius Maxwell’s door. It opened immediately in answer to her knock, and he invited her in.

His living room was full of paintings, large and small, cramming the walls and sitting on easels. The room itself was done all in white, including the furniture, as if not to detract in any way from the beauty on the walls.

Before she had done more than say hello, Serena was drawn to the walls, to the paintings. A small Rembrandt in an ornate frame. Heavens, it was real! Some artists whose names she didn’t recognize. A goodness-gracious-for-real Titian.

Her jaw practically agape, she turned to Darius. “Aren’t you afraid these might be stolen?”

“If they ever are, I’ll know how to get them back. That’s the advantage of my trade.”

She nodded, believing him. “Did you collect them all yourself?”

“The more recent works. The older ones are family heirlooms. A trust for future generations.”

Never once in her life had she thought that way. Of course, she didn’t come from an old European family, either. “I’m surprised you brought them here with you.”

He shrugged. “I’m going to be here awhile, and they give me great pleasure. It would be a shame to keep them in storage. They’re meant to be enjoyed.”

“Well, I’m certainly enjoying them.”

She walked slowly around the room, feasting her eyes, trying to remember each and every painting. Before she finished, however, she was honestly feeling overwhelmed. It was all too much to take in. “This is like trying to do an entire gallery in a single day.”

“I know. Feel free to drop over when I’m home. I’ll be glad to take down whichever painting you like so you can just sit and admire it. I often do that. This space is too cramped. Each painting really needs a separate setting.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She accepted his invitation to sit, feeling as if she sat in a room covered with jewels. “Listen, about this thing you’re planning…”

“I know.” He smiled and poured coffee from a carafe into a bone china cup. “It was kind of you to offer your help, but you don’t want to get involved in anything shady.”

For some reason that set her back up. “I’ll be the one to make that decision, depending on what it is you’re planning.” Staples. She needed to staple her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

His smile deepened. “You’re feisty, aren’t you? Well, here’s the problem. The reason the Masolimians think I’m the prince is because they followed the catacombs all the way back until they found a male branch in the late prince’s line that was not yet defunct. Then they followed the catacombs along that branch and came to me. They naturally believe, given the way the catacombs are laid out, that I’m descended from that long-ago prince, and am his only surviving male heir.”

“And you disagree.”

“Certainly I disagree. Is my entire future to be determined by a handful of Masolimians crawling through a network of crypts with flashlights and a ball of twine?”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“What’s more, they’ve made no allowance for the fact that one or more walls might have been broken through by nature or accident. They may well have followed an entirely wrong course!”

“That’s possible.”

“Of course it’s possible,” he said. “In fact, it’s likely, considering how far back they had to go. We’re talking about the fifteenth century here.”

Serena nodded, fascinated. “That is a long time back.”

“Long enough for something to have become bollixed. I’m hoping to prove that with as little ado as possible.”

“But how? Aren’t the crypts a map themselves? The only map? Isn’t that why the genetics company wants the contract?”

He nodded and sipped coffee. “But I did my homework, you see. There is a seventeenth-century map of the entire network of catacombs. And it’s here. Well, it’s in St. Petersburg. Five miles from here.”

“Where?” Coffee forgotten, she leaned forward, as expectant as a child on Christmas morning.

“In storage at the Kristoff Museum.”

“I’ve been there. It’s quite a place, but don’t they show mostly artifacts from old civilizations?”

He too was leaning forward, looking less urbane and far more intense. “A private collector has made a conditional donation. It’s a hodgepodge of works of art and artifacts collected from around the globe.”

“Well then.” Serena straightened. “All you have to do is ask to see the map.”

He shook his head. “I wish it were that easy.” Rising, he began to pace the room. “The museum won’t let me see any part of the collection, because the donation is conditioned on the collection being seen by no one until the donor dies.”

“Why would someone do that?”

He gave her a wry look. “Oh, I suppose because the provenance of some of the articles is in doubt.”

“What do you mean?”

He lifted a hand. “Some of it is stolen.”

“Oh. Oh! But…” Now Serena was standing. “From museums?”

“Probably not. Would you like a croissant or something?”

“No, thank you.”

He nodded and resumed pacing. “First of all, a lot of artwork disappeared during and immediately after World War II. Someone who stole any of those items would not want to be identified while alive. Then there’s another whole category of theft, having to do with archaeological artifacts. Most countries have made it illegal for such items to be in the hands of private collectors, and certainly illegal for them to be removed from their country of origin. This collection could well contain some of those items.”

Serena nodded. “So the museum will lose the collection if it lets you view anything at all.”

“Precisely. And I attempted to get permission from the collector directly, just to see the painting of Princess Rotunda, but he refused.”

Serena blinked. “Princess Rotunda? For real?”

He smiled. “For real.”

“Good grief, the poor woman!”

“Indeed.”

She shook her head. “But why would you want to see the portrait of a princess? I thought you wanted to see a map.”

“I do. But the map is overlaid on the Princess’s portrait.”

“What?”

He spread his hands and shrugged, looking suddenly very Gallic. “Apparently someone was short on materials for making the map. Or perhaps it was done purposefully. No one knows for sure. The stories I’ve been able to dig up conflict in all but one essential element—the map of the catacombs as they existed in the midseventeenth century is painted over her portrait like a spiderweb.”