Beauty and The Best (Once-Upon-A-Time Romance) (12 page)

Uh huh
.

She refused to feel guilty about something she hadn’t yet done, so Naughty Girl could just keep quiet.

“
Well, hello there!” exclaimed a chipper voice at her side.

Mr. Griff? What was he doing here?

Well, thank goodness for it because the last thing she needed to be doing was wrestling with her conscience about something she might or might not do at some point in the future, cluing Todd in to the fact that she might not be what he thought she was. Or maybe she really was what Todd thought she was, thereby getting herself fired for something she hadn’t even done yet.

“
Miss Gardener?”

“
Hi,” she said, turning all perky, as if she hadn’t just had one of the heaviest discussions of her life, complete with unwarranted—sort of—guilt complex. “What brings you here, Mr. Griff? Are you meeting someone for dinner?” And how’d he get past the bouncers?

He slapped his leg and laughed as if she’d said the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Oh, no.” He wiped the corner of his eye. “I came to give, er,
get
something I left behind. And there it is.”

He scurried over to a bench behind her beneath the pretty white Christmas lights, his serviceable black shoes clicking along the deck, retrieving something large, flat, and rectangular. He stuffed it under his arm then scampered back. He always seemed to be moving about with new verbs she’d never really thought of before. At the grocery store he’d clambered off the floor, now it was scurrying and scampering. What would he try next? Scuttling?

“
Who’s he?” Todd asked, his eyes narrowed.

Great. Now he was back to wondering if she was involved in some covert spy mission. “Relax. That’s Mr. Griff. The one who gave me the book. Not a reporter.”

Mr. Griff reached them with his large, rectangular something.

“
What on earth is that, Mr. Griff?” Jolie asked.

“
Curiosity killed the cat, Cat.” He wagged a finger at her.

“
Her name is Jolie,” Todd corrected.

The little guy had a cat-ate-the-cream grin. “Her middle name is Catherine.”

Todd looked at Jolie who could only shrug, clueless how Mr. Griff knew.

“
So what is that, Mr. Griff?” She nudged the thing.

“
Oh.” He swept it from under his arm as if it were a European crown jewel. “It’s a book on Hans Holbein.”

“
Holbein the Younger?” Todd asked.

Who the heck was Hans Holbein the Younger and why did Todd suddenly find this conversation interesting?

“
Yes,” Mr. Griff answered Todd, turning slightly and flipping the book open. “He’s very talented, don’t you think?”

She craned her neck to look across the table. A book of paintings—but not landscapes like Todd’s. No, these were all portraits. They looked like oils, but since she wasn’t a connoisseur, she couldn’t be certain.

But Todd was. He studied the faces in the pictures, both pages, then slowly turned to the next page. No one said anything, but Mr. Griff had a secret little Mona Lisa grin going.

“
Would you like to keep it for a bit? Since you’re finding it so interesting, I mean.” Mr. Griff somehow managed to slide the... encyclopedia, for lack of a better word, onto the table without disturbing any of the place settings.

Todd flipped another page, his eyes roaming the picture in a really intensive study. Was he looking for the talent, the mastery, or whatever it was an artist saw when he looked at a painting, like she did when someone served an amazing menu item, like, for instance, broiled scallops?

“
I’d love to take a look at it, if you wouldn’t mind.” Todd finally tore his eyes away from the painted page and arched a brow at Mr. Griff.

Mr. Griff made no effort to hide that enigmatic smile and it made her nervous. What if Todd began thinking along the lines he’d been thinking earlier?

And what was with Mr. Griff showing up here with a book Todd would be interested in? It was eerie how the shopkeeper seemed to read minds.

“
You certainly can. Take as much time as you need. Jolie knows where to find me.” He tipped his hat, turned with military precision, and scuttled (no surprise there) away.

Todd followed Mr. Griff’s departure with narrowed eyes, as if he was trying to figure out why a complete stranger would lend him a book. She just hoped he didn’t come to the conclusion she thought he might.

Luckily, the maitre d’ chose that moment to interrupt the visual tracking and Todd returned his focus to the table, handling the dinner order with aplomb.

“
So, who’s Hans Holbein the Younger?” she asked after the d’ left.

Todd turned another page. “A portraitist. A courtier to King Henry the Eighth in the sixteenth century who painted many of the royal court.”

“
Oh. That’s impressive.” She took a sip from her glass, gazing out over the inky water where a boat whispered by, its deck lights outlining its shape.
The Midnight Maiden
rocked with the wake.

“
It is. Especially when you realize this guy lived to his mid-forties. He started out doing religious paintings, then came to the attention of Sir Thomas More. He painted More’s portrait and King Henry became a fan. After that, he was the official artist for Henry’s wives’ portraits, as well as for the search of subsequent wives. Matter of fact—” Todd flipped another page and pointed to a woman in a big black coat with a funny black cap on her head. “He ran into trouble after Jane Seymour’s death. Henry sent him to paint Christina of Denmark, who then passed on his offer of marriage.”

“
Smart girl.” Henry wasn’t the most forgiving of husbands. Nor the most faithful. Given his track record, Jolie would refuse him, too.

“
True.” Todd turned the page. “Henry then sent Holbein to paint Anne of Cleves.” He cocked the book toward Jolie. “Her.”

Anne had a tiny waist and was dressed in a copper-colored outfit, complete with jewels and chains all over it. Those people back then certainly knew the meaning of the word ostentatious. She had a funky little cap on her head with dangly things on the sides, kind of like Princess Leia, though Anne dear might have been bald under it, ’cause not a wisp of hair escaped.

“
Henry was quite taken with the portrait and offered for her. She, poor thing, accepted.”

“
So, what was the problem?”

Todd closed the book with a wry grin. “Holbein was put between a rock and a hard place. Henry had already struck out with Christina, and Anne was not quite the, shall we say, most inspiring of subjects—”

“
A bow-wow?”

“
That’s one way of putting it. But since Holbein was so famous for his portraits, he must have either wanted to portray her well, or Henry’s advisers wanted the king married no matter what. Whatever the case, Holbein, um, took some liberties with his subject.”

“
Aha! I bet Henry was none too thrilled when the beauty in the portrait ended up being more beast-like.”

“
Considering their marriage was annulled six months later, I’d say that’s a safe bet.”

“
Holbein’s lucky Henry didn’t behead him or something.” Henry’s bad temper being somewhat legendary and all.

“
True. But Holbein the Younger was one of the outstanding artists of his time. Henry would have been hard pressed to replace him. The man was a great observer of detail in his paintings, had superb handling of color, a compelling realism.”

So, Todd went off on a tangent, looking more alive in the last fifteen minutes than he’d been all day. Or any time since his wife died, according to the news coverage she’d seen. Mr. Griff’s book could be a good thing for him. Funny how the man knew just which book to give.

Dinner arrived and Todd continued to wax poetic about Hans Junior. It was interesting for about the first ten minutes, but when he went in depth about brush strokes and pigmentation and a whole bunch of other mumbo-jumbo she’d heard before but never really took the time to learn, she got distracted. Not daydreaming, just distracted. Like noticing how his mouth looked really sexy when he said the word “strokes.” Made her want him to do that to her.

Well, okay, that wouldn’t be the smartest idea she’d ever had, but when the guy was lit up like a Christmas tree, going on and on about something near and dear to his heart, it was kinda hard
not
to go that route, since she’d never been near and dear to anyone’s heart.

So, with some daydreaming on her part, and art lessons on his, they made their way through dinner—lobster thermidor and asparagus with hollandaise being some of her personal faves. The maitre d’ checked in periodically, but not intrusively, thankfully. She’d always found it to be a bummer to be having this great conversation and right when she was ready to make the point, the big comment that made her seem brilliant and witty, there’d be a, “Would you like coffee with that?” What a dénouement, and not in a good way.

Todd went on about Sir Holbein. Or Mr. Holbein. She couldn’t remember if he was knighted or not. It would’ve been nice for the guy to get that reward, but, hey, with Tudor job positions fluctuating according to the king’s whim, it seemed keeping one’s head in that period of English history would be reward enough.

“
Would you like dessert?” Todd asked, closing the book.

No, she was not going to ask for whipped cream. “No, thank you. Dinner was more than enough.”

Todd held her chair as she scooted out of it and it was utterly ridiculous how happy his warm body against her back made her. Yes, so maybe she did scoot slower than necessary, what of it?

He touched her elbow to lead her back toward the stairs, Mr. Griff’s book slung under his other arm, and she tried to suppress the shiver his touch evoked.

She gave a little finger wave to the d’ who apologized yet again for the intrusion, and within minutes, they were outside the ship, back on terra firma where the wind blew her hair all over the place—again. It figured. A girl could not have a good hair day around a ship.

“
Thanks for this, Jolie. For tonight.” Todd’s voice was husky, which she might not have noticed had she not heard how difficult this would be for him during her little eavesdropping incident at the office earlier.

“
No, really,” she said. “Thank you. It’s the best dinner I’ve had in a long time.” Ever, actually, but she did have some self-preservation.

“
Look,” he said, leading her to the car, “it’s pretty late and Lord knows I’ve had enough to eat. Why don’t you take it easy tomorrow and come around lunchtime? I think I can skip breakfast.” He opened her car door again and she fought the swoon.

“
But it’s my job and high time I started, don’t you think? I’d like to earn my paycheck, if you don’t mind.”

He closed her door with a “If that’s what you want,” then slid his toned thigh, calves, and firm tushy (and she should know) into his seat. He did that twisty-turny move to put Mr. Griff’s book in the space behind the seats, then he glanced at her.

Once again, she fell victim to those eyes. God, they were incredible. His piercing gaze made her feel as if he could see into her very soul.

Here’s hoping he can’t or he’s in for a surprise.

Naughty Girl just
had
to ruin the moment.

“
Ready?” he asked.

Uh oh. Maybe he
could
.

“
Ready?” she squeaked out.

“
To head home?”

Duh. “Yep,” she said in an effort to keep the blush and embarrassment off her face. “Anything in particular you want me to make tomorrow? Or should I just wing it?” The engine purred as they headed onto the pseudo-freeway.

“
Nah. Surprise me,” answered the walking advertisement for fantasy lovers everywhere.

“
Okay.” She sat back and let the wind muss her hair some more. At this point, it was hopeless anyway, so she might as well enjoy the sensation.

The ride back was nice. Quiet, but nice. There was none of the angst from their earlier conversations and, despite the reporter interruption, Todd was doing okay. Mr. Griff’s book helped. Todd had certainly jumped into that with both feet.

All in all, he’d done rather well. He’d talked about painting, had mentioned his wife—albeit briefly—and had remained at the restaurant after the reporter debacle. The night wasn’t a disaster. Maybe he was starting to heal.

As they pulled onto her street, Jolie realized that her life, too, seemed to be on the upswing. It was finally at the point where she could say she was pretty happy with it. Not overly ecstatic, but nowhere near the bad places she’d been, and definitely headed down the road to her goals and personal happiness.

But when they rounded the bend toward her apartment complex, her thoughts of a decent life went down the tubes.

Or, rather, up in flames.

Before them—and about twenty fire, police, ambulance and reporter vans—her apartment building was on fire.

Taking everything she owned with it.

Chapter Ten

Her apartment.

Her home.

Her entire life. Gone.

Up in smoke. Flames.
Ohmygod
.