Dangerous Ladies (61 page)

“Quaint or not, I can’t afford your idea of decorating. It’s expensive, and I need things done when I need them done, not when you get the time in your schedule.” They’d had this discussion before, and he was tired of it.

“I know that. I’m not reproaching you.” At the point of losing, Grace abandoned the argument and pulled out a piece of china. “I found this for your display case.”

“Oh.” Meadow went to the box as if she couldn’t resist. “This is wonderful. It’s nineteenth-century Chinese cloisonné, isn’t it?”

Grace looked at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted horns. “Yes, a footed bowl.”

“Gorgeous! What else do you have?” Meadow carefully removed some of the cardboard packing and found a covered casserole. “English, of course. Portmeirion, Botanic Gardens?”

“That’s right,” Grace said.

“A good pattern for a party. Expensive but not precious.” Meadow put it aside.

At his mother’s indignant sputter, Devlin subdued a grin.

“Well, of course, it’s very nice.” Meadow didn’t seem to realize
how deeply she was wounding his mother, who so despised
nice
. “You don’t want to spend a whole party terrified that someone’s going to break your precious antiques, do you?”

Devlin leaned a hip against the couch and settled down to enjoy himself. “Mother likes to spend her time torn between terror and triumph.”

Grace glared at her son. “I simply don’t believe Portmeirion is
ordinary.
”

“I didn’t say ordinary,” Meadow protested. “I said it was nice.”

She’d just condemned the Portmeirion to perdition.

Delving farther into the box, she brought up another, smaller box.

“Be careful!” Grace said sharply.

But Meadow unwrapped the tall vase inside with reverent hands. “A Steuben. I love their work. Look at the iridescence!” She held it in the sunshine and it flashed with purple, blue, and gold. Running her fingers around the rim, she said, “It’s in good condition, too—no chips, only a few minor scratches.”

The interaction between his mother and his lover fascinated him, but more than that, Meadow’s knowledge and the way she handled the bowl made Devlin remember the night she’d arrived, and how indignantly she’d refused to throw up in the precious Honesdale vase.

His mother hated one-upmanship—if she was the one being one-upped. With a flourish she unwrapped a wide-lipped glass bowl with swirls of red and pink and orange and jagged hints of purple. “I’ll bet you don’t know this one.” Before Meadow could identify the artist, Grace hastily added, “It’s a River Szarvas.”

“River Szarvas. Really?” Meadow pinned Grace with a look.

Grace actually squirmed. “It’s reputed to be a Natalie Szarvas. But the dealer who sold it to me didn’t believe it, and neither do I. Natalie is River’s daughter, so he has reason to build her reputation, but the girl’s only twenty. She couldn’t make such a mature piece at that age.”

“Of course not.” Meadow cradled the bowl.

“It’s like holding a drop of sunset,” Grace said.

“Exactly.” Meadow smiled.

Every day since Meadow had landed on the floor of his library, Devlin had carefully observed her. He couldn’t quite read her thoughts yet, but he was getting there . . . and she had some interesting thoughts. “So this River fellow is setting up an art dynasty.”

“He runs an artists’ colony in the mountains in Washington,” Grace said. “Very large, very well respected, and apparently quite . . . bohemian.”

A grin broke across Meadow’s face.

“Bohemian?” His suspicions were rapidly becoming certainties.

“I believe your mother is trying to say they’re a bunch of old hippies,” Meadow informed him.

“Well, yes. So I’ve heard.” Grace grimaced. “Their home in the mountains of Washington was a lodestone for artists, glassblowers, and, for God’s sake, environmentalists.”

“Heaven forbid!” To his ear, Meadow sounded phonily incredulous.

“According to my art dealer, everyone is welcome, and there’s scarcely a night when they don’t have guests ‘sacked out’ ”—Grace made quotation marks with her fingers—“on the floor in the studio.”

“That
is
bohemian,” Meadow said.

Devlin could almost see her hidden amusement.

“But they’re artists.” Grace lifted an elegant shoulder. “What can you expect?”

“Exactly.” Meadow handed her the bowl. “That’s quite a find.”

“If you ladies will excuse me, I’ll leave you to your decorating. I have some work to catch up on.” As he left Meadow alone with his mother, he heard Grace grilling Meadow about her family, where she’d gone to school, and what she did for a living. Glancing back, he saw Meadow’s deer-in-the-headlights expression, and he enjoyed himself far more than he should.

When he reached his office, he was surprised to see that Sam
wasn’t anywhere to be found. Poor guy, he’d been working full-tilt for days. Maybe he’d finally crashed.

Devlin went to his desk. He didn’t even sit down, but typed in
Natalie Szarvas,
and after Google had chided him for spelling it wrong, it took him to her home page—and he found himself looking at a picture of Meadow, hair up, sweat sheening her face as she worked the glass.

Natalie Meadow Szarvas.

He’d discovered who she was. Now only two questions remained. Exactly why was she here—and how long could he keep her?

M
eadow walked out of the library at a sedate, reasonable pace, and as soon as she was out of sight she broke and ran up the stairs.

She could kill Devlin for leaving her alone with that woman.

Shallow, self-important, domineering—every one of those words fit Grace Fitzwilliam to a T. Not to mention that she’d interrogated Meadow about her family, her background, her talents, her disposition, and her fertility. Grace was absolutely ferocious in her defense of her son. In fact, that was the only thing Meadow liked about Grace, or would have liked if that scariness hadn’t been turned on
her
.

Rounding a corner toward their bedroom, Meadow ran into smack into Sam.

He rocked back on his heels, but he was sturdy and muscular and took the hit well. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, is there a problem?” As always, he didn’t look as if he really cared; it was a polite question only.

“Yes. I mean, no.” She flapped a feeble hand back down the stairs. “I just left Grace Fitzwilliam in the library.”

“Ah, yes.” Sam nodded as if he understood.

“Is she always like that? Because she’s the only person I’ve seen who could make Devlin back off.” Meadow smiled to show she meant no harm.

As usual, Sam didn’t smile back. “It’s easy to see where Mr. Fitzwilliam gets his strength of character.”

“What a good way of looking at it! I’ll remember that.” She glanced behind her. “Is Devlin in his office?”

“I believe so. After he left the library, he went right there.”

“How do you know that?”

“I watch the monitors.”

“I thought the monitors were in his office.”

“There are monitors on every level—if one knows where to look for them. Every inch of the hotel is kept under constant surveillance.” He sounded as if he were issuing a warning.

“Except for the rooms.”

“Except for the rooms,” he agreed. “Did you wish to go to Mr. Fitzwilliam’s office?” Sam asked.

“No, I think I’ll wander around the hotel a little more.” With an irony she enjoyed, she said, “It’s really a work of art, don’t you think?”

“It is quite lovely.” Sam watched her walk away, then called, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, be careful where you go. The hotel isn’t as secure as one might like to think.”

She turned back and stared at him.

He stared back, his eyes flat, black, soulless.

Apprehension chilled her. “Are you . . . threatening me?”

“Warning you.” He walked away.

She looked around. What was he doing in this corridor? Devlin’s suite was here. Her suite. The suite they shared.

And their door was open. Had he been in there looking for . . . for what?

She walked into the sitting room. It looked fine. Nothing out of place.

Sam was an odd man. He didn’t seem to have friends. He wouldn’t talk about his background. He said threatening things to her. Maybe he really was a serial killer. Maybe she should say something to Devlin.

But what would she say?
You know your secretary? The one you trust? He says sort of hostile things, and the way he looks at me makes me think he doesn’t like me.

She walked to the bedroom. Nothing out of place here, either. Devlin’s slacks, shirts, and jeans hung in the closet with her sundresses. His underwear was in a drawer next to her panties. He’d ordered enough clothes—clothes befitting every occasion—to keep her here through the month.

Maybe she should stop worrying about Sam and concentrate on Devlin. A month’s worth of clothes? Why would he want to keep her here so long? And . . . married? Sure, men lied all the time, but they didn’t claim happily-ever-after. If he suspected she was lying about the amnesia and he was trying to smoke her out, that was one thing, but he was telling
everybody.
Didn’t he worry about what was going to happen when this was all over and he had to explain what they’d been doing?

Even she didn’t know what they were doing.

Again the question skittered across her mind.

What game was Devlin playing? Perhaps she should be a little more cautious. . . .

She irritably shrugged her shoulders, trying to release some tension. She wasn’t afraid of Devlin. They’d made love so wantonly, so sweetly, and never once had she felt a niggling of anything but joy.

She needed to find that painting so she could tell him the truth . . . yet what did she think he would do?
Give
it to her? He wasn’t crazy. The painting was worth a fortune, and it was legally his. When she started the search, she’d believed it was rightfully, if not legally, her grandmother’s, and her grandmother had said it was her inheritance. Taking it from Bradley Benjamin had been one thing. Taking from Devlin Fitzwilliam was another.

Meadow put her hand to her head. What had started out as an easily justified action had become confusing, and no matter how much she loved being in Devlin’s arms, no matter how fondly she recalled his kindness to Mia and Mia’s son, she had also heard him
talk about Waldemar, and possessiveness rang in every tone. She’d listened to his fury.

A footstep. In the bathroom.

Who was hiding in there?

With her gaze fixed on the door, she started backing up.

Then a maid walked out, carrying a wilted bouquet.

Meadow collapsed against the wall. All this subterfuge was getting to her. She was imagining threats where none existed.

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam!” The maid bustled toward her. She was probably sixty years old, short, plump, with curly gray hair and a sweet, rounded face. She looked like somebody’s grandmother.

But Meadow couldn’t remember her name. Or anything about her. She was usually pretty good at this stuff, but with this woman she drew a blank.

Should she confess her ignorance, or try to fake it?

While she hung on the horns of dilemma, the maid said in a lowered voice, “I think I found your painting.”

Meadow caught her breath. “Really? Where?”

“In one of the rooms. C’mon; I’ll show you.” She set off at a great rate, her short legs moving so quickly Meadow huffed to keep up with her. For an older lady, she was in good shape.

Meadow caught up just as the maid took a sharp left turn. She used her key card to unlock the door, turned the handle, and flipped on the light. “The painting’s in here.”

Meadow peered into the depths of a narrow storage closet. She could see a linen cart, a bucket, a broom, and a long shelf piled with pristine white linens. “I thought you said it was in a room.”

“I took it out and hid it. It’s leaning against the back wall.”

“Really?” Meadow stepped inside and shoved at the cart. “I don’t see anything back there that could be a—”

She turned in time to see the door closing.

“Hey!” As the latch clicked, Meadow flung her weight at the door.

It was solid.

She groped for the handle.

There wasn’t one.

She stood staring at the plate with the slot for a key card. “Hey!” She slammed her hand on the door. “Hey, let me out!”

The insulated metal door remained closed, and it muffled the sound.

She didn’t understand. Why would one of the maids shut her in a closet?

She dug through her pocket. Her key card, of course, wasn’t there. She’d slapped on her clothes so quickly she hadn’t even brushed her teeth.

She yelled and pounded on the door for another few minutes, then backed away and took a deep breath.

She wasn’t claustrophobic, so she didn’t mind the closet. Really, it wasn’t the closet that bothered her.