Part 20 (1/2)
”Excellent. I'll see you there. And, Ms. Medina, don't stand me up. I a.s.sure you I will make this meeting very worth your while. Please be on time.”
”I-”
But he had already hung up. In a furious mood, I listened to Max's message: He had news from Bram. I poured lukewarm tea into my cup, calmed down, and called Max, wondering if Bram's news confirmed what Victor had told me downstairs about the value of Kevin's book.
Or, if you were Edward Jaine, his book.
”Bram says that copy is worth several million, sugar,” Max said after we exchanged small talk. ”If he were selling it at auction, he'd ask around five.”
”Edward Jaine just called me,” I said. ”He wants to know where his book is. Kevin may not have notified the Franciscans that he had it in his possession, so it might legally belong to Jaine. He asked-ordered-me to meet him tomorrow for coffee to discuss it. He's in London.”
Max made an unhappy noise. ”He might own it or does own it?”
”I don't know.”
”Apparently he's not the only one interested in it. Your friend Victor Haupt-von Vessey's father was making some quiet inquiries. Bram heard about it through the grapevine,” he said.
”That's because Kevin flew to London with Victor and showed it to Archduke Orlando the week before he died.”
”So Kevin knew how valuable it was?”
”Yes.”
”You can't get in the middle of this, Sophie,” Max said in a warning voice. ”What are you going to tell Jaine?”
”I don't know. I guess I'll have to tell him Bram has it. It can't be the first time Bram has had to deal with parties warring over who owns something.”
Max sighed. ”I know you're trying to do the right thing, but sometimes you just gotta leave things lay where Jesus flang them. The book's not your problem anymore. Tell Jaine the truth, and then you'll be done with it.”
But I wasn't sure I would be done with it, especially after what had happened today at the Seed Bank.
I suspected there would be more to come.
16.
Someone knocked on the door after I hung up with Max. James stood in the doorway behind a small table draped with a white linen tablecloth, place settings for two, covered silver dishes, and a bud vase with two red roses.
”I didn't order dinner yet,” I said. ”Did Harry change his plans and come back to London tonight after all?”
”Allow me to leave this with you, and you can knock on Mr. Wyatt's door.” James gave me an enigmatic smile. ”I'm sure it will all make sense.”
I knocked on Harry's door. My husband stood in the doorway.
”Someone told me you might be free for dinner,” he said. ”I believe the butler did it.”
In the thirteen years Nick and I have been married, I have learned not to be surprised when he turns up on the doorstep even though I'm dead sure he's in some other part of the world. This time was different.
He pulled me to him, kissing me until I couldn't catch my breath, and whispered into my hair, ”You have no idea how much I've missed you.”
And then he took me over to the bed and proceeded to show me.
Nick and I had met in Paris fourteen years ago on New Year's Eve at the party of a mutual friend who had rented a gla.s.s-enclosed riverboat that cruised the Seine until sunrise. I remember that evening as magical, the boat gliding under lighted bridges, the fizz of champagne, the romantic cigarette-and-whiskey songs of Aznavour, Brel, and Piaf, Notre-Dame basked in floodlights, the Eiffel Tower glittering like an enormous studded jewel, and finally the pale blush of colors in the dawn sky, but mostly I remember falling head over heels in love with Nick. We spent the next day together walking the quiet streets of Paris, found a little bra.s.serie that was open on New Year's Day in a mostly shuttered city, and eventually, as we knew we would, ended up spending the next night together in my hotel in the Latin Quarter. After that, Nick liked to joke that we had the world's longest first date, spanning two years. He proposed six months later, on a sultry summer night on the viewing platform of the Eiffel Tower, and we were married the following Valentine's Day at the Chelsea Town Hall in London.
We knew from the beginning that the secrecy that cloaked Nick's job and the clandestine nature of his work, along with my itinerant travel schedule with IPS, were going to be hard on our marriage. So whenever we got together after one of those separations, the first thing we did-before talking about work or the mundane concerns of home life, bills, our families-was go to bed together. After fourteen years, it was still as good and intense and erotic as that first night in Paris, maybe even better because we knew each other so intimately.
I had not thought to close the curtains before we tumbled into bed tonight. The soft golden light from the streetlamps on Carlos Place caught the outline of Nick's naked body as he hovered over me, silhouetting him so he looked like a perfect Greek G.o.d. I pulled him down and guided him inside one more time. He groaned and murmured my name, and before long we were touching and kissing again, starting all over.
Later, when we were lying in each other's arms, I remembered James arriving with our dinner . . . hours ago.
”What are we going to do about the meal James brought us? It's been sitting there for at least two hours.”
Nick ran the back of his finger across my shoulder and down one arm. ”It's okay, sweetheart. Everything's on ice and it's a cold supper: caviar, foie gras, scallop and endive salad, fruit and cheese.” He sat up. ”First, we ought to have some champagne.”
He pulled me out of bed and led me over to the connecting door between my room and Harry's.
”Wait a minute.” I tugged on his hand. ”How do you know what's under those covered dishes? And this is Harry's room . . . we can't just . . . and this is his bathroom. I don't think-oh, my gosh, how beautiful.”
Someone had placed lighted votive candles throughout the white-and-gray marble bathroom, and the large soaking tub was already partially filled with a bubble bath. Nick turned on the hot water and the heat released a fragrant scent, lavender combined with the heady aroma of ylang-ylang. A small bowl filled with red rose petals sat on the tub ledge and a bottle of Mumm was chilling in a silver bucket next to a tray with two crystal champagne flutes on it.
”Don't worry about Harry,” Nick said. ”Why do you think he's staying in Lingfield tonight?”
”You mean he knows? You two planned this?”
Nick grinned. ”It's the next best thing I could do since I missed our thirteenth wedding anniversary. Harry and I couldn't have done it without James. Who do you think prepared the bath and lit all these candles?” He held out his hand. ”Come on, why don't you add those rose petals to the water and I'll open our champagne?”
I picked up the bowl and scattered the bloodred petals. Then I let Nick help me into the tub.
We sat facing each other, my legs wrapped around his waist, and finally talked as we drank our champagne. He told me all about what he'd been doing in the Gulf, animated and excited in a way that I hadn't seen him for a long time.
”You seem happy,” I said.
He moved his hand across the top of the water and scooped up a handful of foamy soap bubbles. ”I am. By the way, Quill said I don't have to work out of the Was.h.i.+ngton office if I don't want to. We could move back here.”
”To London? Are you kidding me?” I sat up and knocked the bubbles out of his hand. ”When were you going to tell me that?”
He grinned and brushed the tip of my nose with more bubbles. ”I just did. So what do you think?”
”You know I'd love it. But we just moved back home, we've barely settled in. I think we ought to give it a try.”
”You really want to stay in D.C.?”
”I think so, at least for now.” I finished my champagne and he reached for the bottle, refilling our gla.s.ses. ”Perry told me today that IPS is looking for a White House photographer. Monica Yablonski wants to hear from me by the end of the week.”
”Are you interested?”