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Holly hesitated. Should she tell him about her quest to discover the flapper’s identity? Perhaps she should. After all, with his legal research expertise, he might be of use.
“I’m trying to learn a bit more about the painting in the attic. Not the provenance of the painting itself,” she hastened to add, “but the identity of the girl in the portrait.”
“Ah, yes, the flapper,” Hugh said thoughtfully. “Well, I’d start with old newspapers from the period – which, it seems, you’re already doing – and then I’d contact a genealogical society for help in tracing her identity.”
“That’s a very good idea,” she agreed. “After all, I can’t do anything until I know her name.” She paused. “I’ll let you know what I find out, if you like.”
“Please do. I’m curious to know.” He cleared his throat again and smiled hesitantly. “Well...goodbye, then, Miss James. Perhaps I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
“Goodbye, Mr Darcy.” On impulse she added, “You know, you can call me ‘Holly,’ if you like. I won’t be offended.”
“Thank you.” He shifted the books in his arms. “Goodbye...Holly.”
And as she turned away to shelve the books, it occurred to her that Mr Darcy hadn’t returned the favor to say she might call him ‘Hugh.’
She rolled her eyes. He might be attractive, and he might be clever and even marginally nice at times, but Hugh Darcy was still pedantic and self-important...
...exactly like that other Mr Darcy.
The next afternoon, Holly dashed across Bleecker Street – dodging a pedicab and a bike messenger on steroids in the process – and entered Jamie’s restaurant. The sound of hammering greeted her ears. Plywood sawhorses, toolboxes, and sheets of plastic were everywhere, and the floors were covered with drop cloths.
“Jamie?” she called out, her eyes sliding past the painters and drywall hangers. “Where are you?”
“Back here,” he answered. “In the kitchen.”
She made her way cautiously around a wheelbarrow filled with bits of plaster and ripped-up carpet and stepped over a tangle of cables to follow the sound of Jamie’s voice down a narrow hallway.
“Here you are,” she said as she spotted him, supervising the installation of a huge, double-door stainless steel refrigerator.
“Hey, Hols.” He came over and kissed her. “What’s up?”
“Well,” she said as she stood before him and looped her arms around his neck, “you promised me lunch, remember?”
“I did, didn’t I?” He paused, one arm still around her waist, to sign for delivery of a new sink. “Thanks, mate. You can put it over there for now.” He pointed to an empty corner.
“Never mind,” Holly said, and masked her disappointment. “You’re busy. We can do lunch another day.”
“No.” Jamie handed the clipboard over and turned back to her. “I promised we’d have lunch, and we will. Let me just get my phone. Be right back.” He kissed her again and disappeared.
As she waited, one hip resting against the brand-new grill, Holly tried to visualize the kitchen as the well-oiled, gleaming stainless steel machine it would eventually become. But she couldn’t. The dust, drop cloths, and holes in the drywall made it all but impossible.
Still, Jamie would make it happen. He always did. He was a talented chef, and his staff liked and respected him. She just hoped that Gordon Scots would do as well here in New York as it had in London.
“Excuse me.”
Holly glanced up from her mobile phone. Jamie’s sous chef, her dark hair pulled back into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, regarded her with an upraised brow. She wore jeans and a T-shirt and had a carton in her hands.
Holly straightened. “Oh, sorry – Catherine, isn’t it? Am I in the way?”
Although she didn’t reply, the fact that she hefted the box she held on top of the grill in the spot Holly had just vacated made it plain she was, indeed, in the way.
“Oh, hi, Cat. I see you’ve met my fiancée, Holly James,” he said. “Holly, this is Catherine Morgan. She’s my new sous chef.”
“We’ve met. Apparently,” Holly added, “I’m in the way.”
Catherine managed a tight smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude; but New York is full of crazies, and right now, anyone can walk in off the street.” She stuck out her hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”
So, Holly thought as they warily shook hands, she’s just met me and already she’s comparing me to a crazy street person.
Catherine turned back to Jamie. “I thought I’d run out and grab a bite to eat while I have a few minutes. Can I get you anything?” Her glance flickered to Holly. “Either of you?”
“Thanks, but we’re headed to lunch ourselves. I promised,” Jamie said, and grinned as he took Holly’s hand and swung it up to his lips.
“Okay. I’ll stay and take delivery of the stove and the broiler, then. They should be here any time.”
‘Oh, shit – I forgot!” Jamie exclaimed. He turned to Holly. “Sorry, Hols, but I should probably stick around for a bit longer—”
“Don’t be silly, Catherine assured him. “I can handle it. That’s what I’m here for, after all – to have your back.”
Or to stab you in it with a nice sharp knife, Holly thought irritably.
“Catherine’s right, Jamie,” she said, and took his arm. “She’s got it covered. Come on, let’s go – I’m starving.”
But he shook his head. “I need to stay, there’s too much going on today. I can’t leave Catherine to deal with it all. Maybe tomorrow?” He drew away and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
Holly opened her mouth to protest, to tell Jamie he was being ridiculous and that Catherine was a Machiavelli in chef’s whites, but what was the use? She knew he wouldn’t listen.
“Sure,” she said, and turned to go. “Maybe tomorrow.”
But Jamie didn’t hear her. He’d already turned away to consult with Catherine about the dinner menu for opening night.
Chapter Fifteen
Natalie was sprawled on the sofa, watching the Today Show featuring Christa, the pop singer who’d nearly destroyed her best friend Gemma’s marriage, when her mobile phone rang.
She switched the TV off. “Hello?”
“Nat? Hi – Holly here. Are you free for lunch? Jamie just bailed on me. I have so much to tell you.”
“Not half as much as I have to tell you,” Natalie assured her. She glanced at her wristwatch. “Where shall we meet?”
“How about Nico’s, on Third Avenue?” Holly said. “One o’clock?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
As Natalie waited for the lift a short time later, she wondered what Rhys was doing. Perhaps they could do something together on Sunday. She’d scarcely seen him since they’d arrived in Manhattan.
With a discreet “ding,” the lift doors slid open, and she stepped in and nodded politely at the elderly gentleman standing inside.
“Good morning,” she said.
He inclined his head. “Good morning.” Although silvery-gray, his hair was thick and springy. He held a trilby in one hand and an ebony walking stick in the other.
As the lift began its descent, he tucked the hat under one arm and stretched out his hand. “Morris Holland.”
“Natalie Dashwood-Gordon.” She took his hand and noted the firmness of his grip.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Dashwood-Gordon. I’ve already met your husband, Rhys.” He smiled, and there was a twinkling in his eye. “It’s quite a mouthful, that hyphenated name of yours, isn’t it?”
“Is it a bit pretentious?” She regarded him doubtfully. “Rhys thinks so. But I like my last name. Both of them,” she added, and smiled. “And please call me Natalie.”
“It’s not pretentious in the least,” he assured her. “I’m very glad that we shall be neighbors.”
“Do you live here, too?”
He smiled, amused. “Yes, my dear. I do.”
With another discreet “ding” the lift arrived at the first floor, and he waited as she got out. “It was a great pleasure meeting you, Natalie,” he said, and lifted her hand to his lips. “I look forward to our next meeting.”
She blushed, charmed by his old-world manner. “Thank you, Mr Holland. It was lovely chatting with you.”
He left, thrusting on his trilby and touching the brim as the desk clerk called out a deferential ‘Good morning, Mr Holland,’ and as he disappeared through the front doors, Natalie walked across the lobby to the reception desk.
“Excuse me,” she said, “could you call me a taxi, please?”
“Of course.” The clerk picked up the phone and made the call. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked as he rang off.
She rested her forearm atop the polished mahogany. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “There is one thing. Can you tell me who the elderly gentleman was? The one who just left?”
“That’s Morris Holland, the art collector. He’s the head of the Dunleigh’s co-op board. In fact,” he added with a conspiratorial wink, “he owns the building.”
Natalie blinked. “Oh. I’d no idea.”
No wonder he looked amused when I asked if he lived here, Natalie thought, embarrassed. He not only lives here – he owns the bloody building
She thanked the clerk and sat down in the lobby to wait for her taxi.
“So – tell me,” Natalie said as she and Holly followed the waiter to a table at Nico’s, “how are you and Jamie getting on? Another restaurant...you must be so proud.”
“I am. He’s worked hard for this. He never stops.” She hung her handbag over the back of a chair and sat down.
“He stopped long enough to ask you to marry him.”
Holly reached for a menu and pretended to study it. She remembered the night Jamie had proposed, at a charity ball at Mansfield Hall, under a starry sky on the terrace. She’d recently broken up with Alex Barrington, a member of Parliament and her first interview assignment for BritTEEN magazine, and Jamie had been there to put the pieces of her broken heart back together.
“The truth is,” she admitted as she looked up from the menu, “Jamie’s so busy with the restaurant that we hardly see each other. He spends more time with his sous chef than he does with me. And she’s gorgeous,” she added glumly. “I barely know Catherine and I’m jealous already.”
“Well, not to worry. Jamie would never fall for someone else. He loves you, Holly. Speaking of which – have you set a date?”
She shook her head. “We agreed to wait until the new restaurant’s established.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A couple of months.” She paused as the waiter arrived to take their orders.
“Well, you’re far more patient than I am,” Natalie said. “At least he put a ring on your finger. Speaking of which – let me see it.”
Obediently, Holly complied and held out her hand. A cushion-cut diamond sparkled on her ring finger.
“Ooh, it’s gorgeous. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thanks, Nat. I just...” she sighed, and Ciaran’s face flashed across her mind. “I wish we could see more of each other while we’re here, that’s all.”
“Believe me, I understand. Rhys has been constantly busy with the launch, and most nights he doesn’t get home until late. Speaking of the launch, how’s it going?”
“It’s not bad, really, except for Coco Welch.”
“The promotions manager,” Natalie said, and made a face. “I don’t like her, either.”
“Yesterday she sent me up to the attic to inventory all the junk – in my brand-new skirt – and while I was up there, I found a portrait hidden in the eaves. A painting of a 1920s flapper.”
“Ooh, how intriguing,” Nat exclaimed, and paused as the waiter brought their drinks. After he left, she leaned forward. “Give me details, please – who is she?”
“That’s just it – I don’t know. I’m trying to find out, but there’s not much to go on. Mr Darcy’s having the painting evaluated tomorrow.”
“Mr Darcy? Isn’t he Alastair’s lawyer?”
Holly nodded. “He studied Art History at Oxford, and he knows someone who might be able to tell us a bit more about it.”
“You know, when we were in the drawing room at the pre-launch the other night,” Natalie confessed, “I couldn’t get warm, despite the fire...and I felt a breeze. Like someone walking past me – but there was no one there.”
Holly stared at her. “You felt it too?”
She nodded. “Rhys said I was imagining things. Just like he said I imagined our intruder,” she said, and frowned.
“Intruder? What intruder? What happened?”
And as Natalie filled her in on the events at the Dunleigh the night of the pre-launch party, Holly’s eyes grew wide. “You saw someone in your apartment?”
“I’m quite sure I did. Oh, I admit it was dark, and I couldn’t make out details – but I saw someone, Holly. And whoever it was had a gun.”
“And Rhys didn’t believe you?”
“Not really, no. He searched the apartment, and checked to see if someone had tried to break in, but there was nothing.”
“So he thinks you imagined it.”
“Yes. And maybe I did...but–” She leaned forward. “–there really is a cat burglar on the loose in Manhattan. So it might very well have been him.”
Chapter Sixteen
Holly’s mobile phone buzzed from the recesses of her handbag, and she reached behind her chair to grab it. “Speaking of Jamie,” she said in apology to Natalie as she glanced at the screen, “he’s calling. Hello?”
“Crikey, Hols, where’ve you been?” he asked testily. “I’ve called three times, and every time I get your voicemail.”
“Sorry, I’ve been busy. I’m having lunch with Nat.” She paused. “Why, what’s up?”
“I wanted to say sorry I couldn’t meet you for lunch. And to let you know I’ll try to get home a bit earlier tonight. Catherine wants to go over the food orders again before we leave to be sure we haven’t forgotten anything.”
“Of course she does.” A world of sarcasm undercut her words.
“Look, Hols – I know we’ve not seen each other much, and I’m sorry, but it’s a lot of work getting the restaurant ready to open. I’m all over the place at the moment. I thought you understood that.”
“I do,” she sighed, instantly regretting her criticism. “I know it’s not your fault.”
“I don’t know what I’d do if it wasn’t for Catherine,” he added. “She’s been a real lifesaver through all of this.”
Any vestiges of sympathy Holly felt for Jamie dried up on the spot and morphed into irritation. “Well, hurrah for her. So glad she’s there to save the day once again. Sorry, Jamie, but we have a bad connection. I have to go,” she said abruptly. “Talk to you later. Bye.” She rang off.
Their plates arrived, and she and Natalie tucked into their respective entrees. Nat made no mention of Holly’s brief but semi-heated conversation with Jamie. Of course she wouldn’t, Holly thought; she was far too polite.
She scowled as she took a roll from the basket and buttered it with savage motions. Catherine spent far more time with her fiancé than she did, and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair at all, in fact it was driving her absolutely bat-shit crazy—
“Something wrong, Hols?” Natalie inquired gently.
Holly looked up, startled out of her dark thoughts. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Well – you’re buttering your bread. And you never eat bread. Or butter.”
Holly forced her thoughts aside. It wasn’t fair to Nat to scowl and sulk through lunch because of Jamie’s ridiculous culinary infatuation with Catherine. “You’re right. Sorry, just thinking about that flapper and wondering who she is,” she said, and returned her bread to the basket.
Natalie nodded her understanding but said nothing more. She knows I’m lying, Holly thought.
They both knew she was lying.
“I’m done.”
Jamie took off his apron later that evening and sank wearily onto a barstool and glanced around him. Everything was nearly ready for the opening.
“It looks amazing,” Catherine said, reading his thoughts as she rested her hip against the bar. “You’ve done a great job, Jamie.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Not true. You worked your ass off for weeks to get here.”
“It’ll all be worth it when we open the doors. But now–” He stood up. “–I really should go. I might even manage to get home before midnight tonight. I promised Holly I’d try.”
Catherine went behind the bar and retrieved a bottle. “Oh, no,” she said firmly. “Not until you have at least one glass of champagne with me to celebrate. We’ve earned it.”
She popped the cork, laughing as a froth of fizz bubbled out, and filled two glasses. She handed him one. “To us. Cheers.”
“Okay. Why the hell not?” he said as he took the glass. “Cheers,” he echoed, and grinned as he sat back down. “Here’s to you, Catherine – the best damned sous chef in Manhattan.”
There was nothing that a bubble bath couldn’t cure, Natalie reflected that evening as she eased herself into the claw-footed antique tub and leaned her head back in bliss.
It was half-past seven, and Rhys wasn’t home yet. But she didn’t mind. It gave her extra time to linger in the frangipani-scented bath, spray herself with frangipani-scented perfume, and arrange herself seductively in bed to await her husband’s arrival.
Well, she thought ruefully as she rested a hand on the slight swell of her stomach, at least as seductive as one could look in the fourth (nearly fifth) month of pregnancy.
But as she sat propped against the pillows a short time later, reading a murder mystery about a man who escaped from a mental health facility and went on a killing spree in a quiet English village, Natalie wished she’d chosen something a bit more...anodyne to read.
She lifted her head from the book. What was that sound? Had she heard a floorboard creak?
She could still see that figure looming over her in the darkness the other night, and the thought sent a remembered chill down her spine.
But Rhys had searched the apartment quite thoroughly, she reminded herself. And he’d found nothing.
Because no one was here, Natalie reassured herself. And even if someone had been in the apartment, they’d left without taking anything or causing any harm.
Still, she decided uneasily as she got out of bed, it wouldn’t hurt to throw the deadbolt on the front door until Rhys got home and check the apartment again, just to be sure. She’d left a lamp on in the living room and on the hallway table, unwilling to face a dark, shadowy room while she was alone.
Her mobile phone rang, and she started. She glanced at the screen. Rhys. “Are you on your way home?” she asked shakily.
“Yes. I got us takeaway from Madame Wu’s.” He paused. “What’s wrong? You sound upset. Has something happened?”
“Everything’s fine,” she said. “I’m reading one of those English murder mysteries and scaring myself a bit, that’s all.”
“Darling, why do you do that?” he scolded her. “Never mind, I’m nearly there. I’ll see you in about ten minutes.”
“I can’t wait.” Feeling immediately better, Natalie returned to the bedroom and drew on a robe, and went in the kitchen to wait for Rhys.
As she polished off a second spring roll twenty minutes later, Nat licked her fingers. “This is really scrummy.”
Takeway containers and packets of plum sauce and Chinese mustard littered the kitchen table as she and Rhys dined on sticky chicken and dan dan noodles.
Rhys dipped a spoon in his sweet and sour soup. “We have Chaz to thank. He’s the one who told me about Madame Wu’s.”
“Of course.” Nat resisted rolling her eyes – only just – as she reached for a fortune cookie.
“He knows all of the best places to go. He even typed up a list for me.”
“How thoughtful.” She unwrapped her fortune cookie and read aloud, “‘You will meet a tall, dark stranger.’” She tossed it aside. “How original.”
“No, darling, sorry to say there’s no tall, dark stranger in your future,” Rhys said. “Unless,” he added with a gleam in his eye, “we count your intruder the other night.”
She regarded him indignantly. “I’m glad you find it so amusing, Rhys. I did see someone in the apartment. And anything might have happened if I hadn’t screamed.”
“Yes. I might’ve gotten a decent night’s sleep.”
She didn’t dignify that with a response.
Rhys sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps I can have additional security measures put in place. Chaz can look into it.”
Chaz again, Nat thought irritably. “Whatever would you do without him?”
“I honestly don’t know,” he said, completely missing her sarcasm as he leaned back in his chair. “We’ve been so busy, and there’s still so much to do – I’d never have accomplished half of what I have if it weren’t for Chaz. He’s incredibly organized. I’m really very lucky to have him on board.”
Natalie dug out the last of her sticky chicken from the carton with her chopsticks and plopped it on her plate.
I used to dress fashionably, she thought morosely. I used to have Rhys’s eye, and his undivided attention. Now all he can talk about is his personal assistant, and I’m just a...an afterthought. A fat afterthought.
“Natalie,” Rhys said gently as he took the chopsticks from her hand and laid them aside, “what’s wrong? You look like your last credit card was just turned down.”
“Yes, well, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” she retorted.
He blinked. “What?”
She stood and carried her plate to the sink and set it down with a clatter. “You hate to see me spend money. You’re always on at me about exercising restraint and thinking before I buy. It gets tiresome. I want to buy things for the baby, and I’ll need new clothes soon. I can barely fit in the old ones.”
“Then of course you should buy whatever you need. But you already have enough baby clothes to stock Piccolini—”
“Most of those were presents,” she said defensively. “And you have to admit, their ‘I Heart NY’ T-shirts and jim-jams are beyond adorable.”
“The problem is, Natalie, you think everything is ‘beyond adorable.’ And then you buy it.”
“It’s our first baby, Rhys! A baby requires a lot of...things. And I did offer to work with you,” she added, “to help out and earn a bit of extra money. I haven’t very much to do these days. But you s-said you don’t need my h-help.”
Then she erupted into tears.
Rhys stood and pulled her to her feet and into his arms. “My darling Nat,” he said into her hair, “you’re being ridiculous. I need you...and I always will. You’re my wife, my everything. And you’re having our child. So there’s no need for you to work at Dashwood and James, or anywhere. Unless you want to, of course.”
“It isn’t about having a job, Rhys. I just want to feel...needed. I feel like an afterthought where you’re concerned, like I have no place in your life.”
He took his finger and tilted her tear-blotched face up to his. “You have the first place in my life,” he told her, his words at once gruff and firm. “And you always will.”
She sniffled and blinked her tear-matted lashes. “Really?”
“Really.” He kissed her and draped his arm around her shoulders. “Now that’s settled, I’m knackered. Let’s go to bed.”
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