by Brenda Joyce
“I have no idea. But we will find out,” Ian was saying.
Claire stared, jerked back into the present painfully. “You have photos, don’t you? Of Jean-Léon, of William.” Elgin had to be someone else, someone other than her father, William, or the uncle she believed to be dead.
“I do.”
Claire grew uneasy.
“What is it?”
Claire shook her head. She was not going to tell him something that was just now striking her as strange. There were no family albums at home that predated her father’s marriage to her mother. Or were there? Perhaps they were in an attic somewhere. For surely her father had photographs of himself—and Robert—as children, as boys, as young men.
Claire smiled her best smile. “Whatever happened to Elgin’s father? I read in the file that his father disappeared in 1940.”
Ian reached out and pressed his thumb to the side of her cheek. “Don’t play brave.”
Claire froze at his touch.
He dropped his hand, turning away and slugging down the rest of the beer. “He disappeared in August 1940, and no one ever learned what really happened to him.” Ian sat and tore off his socks as if he had not just touched her face. Claire told herself that the gesture had not been intimate. It hadn’t meant a thing. He began lifting the polo shirt, revealing his navel, his hard abs.
Claire was about to protest, then decided to enjoy the show. “That was a bit convenient,” she said, staring as he pulled the polo shirt over his head. He dropped it on the floor, and she looked away.
“Very,” he said, walking over to a built-in closet. He opened it and grabbed a torn T-shirt from a shelf, as well as very faded jeans. Claire glimpsed rows of beautiful suits, dress shirts, casual slacks, and trousers. There was a rack of ties. On the floor, she glimpsed half a dozen pairs of black loafers and one pair of tan oxfords. She glimpsed shelves of sweaters, mostly in shades of beige, brown, and blue, and they looked to be cashmere. She saw ragged tees and beat-up jeans. She saw running shoes, biking shoes, a cycling helmet. She saw a tennis racket and a gym bag.
She had never before realized what a closet could tell you about a man. He was impeccably dressed and very athletic. His girlfriend did not live in.
“At the time, the elder Elgin left letters behind suggesting that he was the fascist, and that he’d fled to Germany. It was a joke, Claire. So much incriminating evidence was left be hind at Elgin Hall—I doubt any self-respecting spy would be so lackadaisical.” He faced her. His eyes glittered again. “Lionel inherited his title and his estates, his respectability and his connections, everything, upon Randolph Elgin’s death.”
“What are you saying?” Claire whispered, enthralled. “Surely you don’t think Lionel killed his own father?”
“I don’t know what to think—except that it was convenient as all hell.” He smiled grimly at her, jeans in hand, poised to enter the master bath. “Sandwich?”
“Sure.” She waited while he disappeared behind that closed door, and when he came out, barefoot, in the soft jeans and torn tee, she followed him out of the master bedroom and into the kitchen. “Ian? I need to book those flights.”
“At this hour, you’ll have to call the airline directly,” he said.
She could hardly believe it. “Really? You finally accept the fact that I’m your partner?”
“Did I say that?” He took a loaf of bread and a jar of low-fat mayo from the refrigerator. “Lady Ellen is in her eighties. Remember, I grew up surrounded by women. I know women. At least, I know women when I’m not romantically involved.” His grin was crooked. “She’ll do better with another woman than with me.”
“So now we’re officially partners,” Claire said, feeling a rush of adrenaline.
He sniffed a package of deli-sliced ham, made a face, and tossed it in the garbage. “Peanut butter okay?”
“Only if you have bananas,” Claire said. “Or even better, bacon.”
He looked at her. “You’re joking, right?”
Claire smiled. “I’m in the market for a heart attack. PB’s okay. You do have jelly?”
He smiled, and it reached his eyes. “I have a maid, Hayden. She does all the shopping.”
Claire watched him replace the mayo in the fridge and take out no-sugar-added jam. “Is your girlfriend on a diet?”
He popped bread in the toaster, not even looking at her. “Broke up almost a year ago. She wasn’t what I wanted.”
Claire felt relieved. She scolded herself for feeling so. “Why not?”
“She wasn’t too bright,” he said.
Claire liked that. “Beautiful?”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t like that. She watched him make the sandwiches, realizing she was envisioning his ex-girlfriend as a Cindy Crawford or Gisele Bündchen. It made her spirits sink to a new low.
She had to stay focused. This was not a lark or an adventure. A real killer was out there. And what if he was William? Claire couldn’t even begin to imagine how it would hurt Elizabeth.
But she would prove that Jean-Léon was not even remotely connected to Elgin. That was why she was standing in Ian Marshall’s kitchen at three A.M. There was no other reason.
He handed her a plate and a glass of skim milk and they went over to the very small kitchen table by the single window in the room. Claire realized she was famished even though she had eaten every single crumb of her two airline meals.
“You’re too thin,” Ian commented. “Want another sandwich?”
“Could I?”
He laughed and got up.
“I’ll call the airlines while you do that,” Claire said. She tried to remain focused as she went to the telephone. Ian’s ticket was business class. Claire knew she had to travel coach, but she really wanted to sit with him. That way she could make sure he remained annoyed and did not forget that she was his official partner. She smiled a little as she called the airline, calculating how many months it would take her to recoup the amount of money spent on such a fare. If she stayed under her new budget by two hundred dollars a month, for a year and a half, she could afford the fare. She booked her seats and returned to the kitchen, this time barefoot. “Done.”
His eyes slid over her and they seemed warm. “Done.” He handed her the gooey sandwich.
Claire ate more slowly this time, somewhat self-conscious, aware of Ian’s regard. When she finished, she realized she was finally tired. “You never told me how you came to suspect William and my father and even Robert Ducasse,” she said, sitting back in her chair.
“Through David. There’s been no trace of Elgin for years, Claire. And then David calls me. Frightened and able to identify him. I have a team working for me, a small team, but they did a full bio on David in less than twenty-four hours. The two significant men in his life who are in Elgin’s age range and who are both European are William and your father. And then there’s the Courbet.” He had been studying his hands as he spoke, as if his mind was racing ahead with other thoughts he did not wish to share with her.
“My father bought it in Paris,” Claire said sharply. “Clearly it had been stolen.”
“Maybe,” Ian said. “It’s fortunate he loaned the painting with several others to the Met a few years ago. One of my guys made the connection; he’d seen the Courbet there, and when he read Lady Elgin’s report in the Elgin file, a quick call revealed the painting’s provenance.”
Claire was silent. “And there’s the missing years from William’s life.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “And both men emigrated to the United States in ’forty-eight, within two months of each other. Interesting.”
She realized she was exhausted. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He stood. “You look beat. Why don’t you hit the sack?”
She looked up at him, thinking suddenly about his very large bed. It was large enough for two.
A deliciously warm feeling unfurled inside of her, and she knew what it was—des
ire.
Her body was charged with an animal attraction for Ian Marshall. It had been so long since she had felt this way. Not since the early years with David.
Ian might have sensed her thoughts, because he flushed and walked abruptly out of the kitchen. Claire stood slowly. Feeling this way just wasn’t right. Not only was it too soon, it was disloyal and far too complicated.
She took their plates and glasses to the sink and washed them, trying to rein in her wayward sexuality. When she finished, she realized he had been standing for some time in the doorway, watching her. Claire turned as she removed the rubber gloves and their eyes met.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
She shrugged. Her breathing wasn’t as even as it could be. “Habit.”
“I got you a spare quilt. I like to keep the AC high at night.”
She nodded. Would it be so terribly wrong if, after all that she’d been through—all that she was going through—she found solace in his arms? Claire had never slept around. She’d had one boyfriend before David. She’d had only that boy and David as lovers. For her, sex was anything but casual.
But this was the new millennium. Claire knew that many women took lovers as casually as experienced playboys. Many women faced the fact that they had the same physical needs as men. Today such behavior was not just heard of, it was sometimes even applauded. No one would condemn her if she went to bed with Ian Marshall in a casual way.
But Claire knew herself. She would condemn herself the morning after. Either that or she’d be head over heels in love.
“Thanks.” Claire gave him a stiff smile and hurried past him to her room. As she closed the door, she dared a glimpse of his face.
His expression seemed odd, strained, but she might have been imagining it.
Then she realized she had no pajamas. It was the devil, of course, prompting her to misbehave. Claire slipped out of her room.
Ian’s door was open and he was moving around. He sensed her and turned.
She kept her eyes wide and innocent. “May I borrow a T-shirt?”
Ian wasn’t home when Claire woke up at noon, clad only in Ian’s soft pale blue T-shirt. It was only nine in California, so there was no guilt. And amazingly, for the first time since David had died, she felt refreshed and well rested. For one moment, Claire lingered in the queen-size bed, wiggling her toes and enjoying the soft, worn cotton on her bare skin. The T-shirt had come out of the laundry, but she loved wearing it and thought she could detect a masculine scent upon it.
Claire got up and walked over to her bedroom window, which looked out over a part of the terrace that adjoined the living area and his bedroom. It was a beautiful spring day, and tonight they were on their way to Wales.
The bathroom was in the hall. Claire did not hesitate. Still in her makeshift pajamas—the T-shirt covered about four inches of thigh—she stepped out of the bedroom with her toothbrush in hand. The moment she did, she knew Ian wasn’t home. The apartment was silent, and worse, it felt empty. She sighed.
As Claire brushed her teeth, she regarded her gray-eyed reflection in the mirror. She had her father’s eyes, and they were sparkling. She did not look haggard this morning; in fact, she looked okay. Maybe she’d go on a diet of peanut butter for a while, peanut butter and Ian’s company.
Claire wandered into the kitchen after finger-combing her hair. Ian had left her a brief but nice note, telling her he’d gone into the office for a few hours and to make herself at home. He also wrote that a car would pick them up at four; their flight departed at seven P.M. Claire found herself smiling as she read the note and scooped coffee, which he’d left out on the counter, into the coffee machine. He was an awfully good host for a bachelor.
As Claire sipped, she debated calling her father and pressuring him to produce the bill of sale for the Courbet. That would do a lot to redirect Ian’s suspicions. And while Claire wasn’t a policewoman, now she was wondering if her father should volunteer to hand over a sample of DNA. If the killer had left anything behind, Claire was convinced it would not match her father’s bodily evidence.
Claire found eggs in the fridge and was scrambling them up and toasting bread when the telephone rang. She assumed it was Ian and did not hesitate. She lifted the receiver before it could ring twice.
“Hello?”
“Claire, is that you?”
Claire blinked, stunned, at the sound of Elizabeth Duke’s voice. “Elizabeth?” Guilt filled her. She had left town without calling Elizabeth or saying good-bye. Worse, she hadn’t said anything about William, and should she? William could not be Elgin, but what if she was wrong?
“Claire!” Elizabeth’s voice filled with relief. “I’m so glad I found you. Your father was so distraught, and he called me a few moments ago. Oh, Claire. Are you all right?”
Claire turned off the burner and sat down at the tiny kitchen table. “I’m okay. Much better than I’ve been, actually.” But her mind was racing. What had Jean-Léon said, exactly?
“You sound better, and for that, I’m relieved. But Claire, I am worried about you.”
“Please don’t worry. I’m in good hands,” Claire said, envisioning just that—herself in Ian Marshall’s large hands.
“Don’t worry? Your father says you’ve teamed up with Marshall to find David’s killer. He’s afraid you might be in danger, and I am, too. Claire, this isn’t like you.”
“No, it’s not.” Claire wondered what else Jean-Léon had told Elizabeth. “How did you get this number? And how did you know I was here?”
“Your father had the number, Marshall gave it to him yesterday morning. I didn’t expect to find you there, but I was hoping Marshall would tell me where you were staying.”
“It was easier to stay at his place. We got in very late last night.” Claire felt herself flush. Of course, never in a million years would Elizabeth suspect that Claire was having fantasies about jumping into bed with her host. She would never in an eternity suspect a real affair, either.
There was a pause. Then, “Claire, will you consider coming home? The police will find David’s killer. That’s their job.”
Claire hesitated. “I can’t, Elizabeth. I just have to do this.”
“But why? You were about to move into that charming house in Mill Valley. You’re in the middle of planning a fund-raiser. Why? What if, God forbid, you get hurt?”
Claire actually considered the question. “Elizabeth? I know this sounds strange, but for the first time in years—and I do mean years—I feel young and alive.”
There was absolute silence on the other end of the phone.
Now Claire blushed. She felt her cheeks burn.
“My God, Claire, you’re in a state of grief. Has Marshall taken advantage of you?”
“Have you and Jean-Léon been comparing notes?”
“We have. He doesn’t like him, Claire, and I trust your father’s judgment completely.”
“Well, I sort of do like him,” Claire said, surprised because she was actually bristling.
“Very well. You know, your mother was a very determined woman, and I have always thought you were so much like her. Now more than ever.” Elizabeth’s tone was soft but resigned.
“Wish me luck?”
“I’ll do more than that. Is there anything at all I can do to help—or see you through this safely?”
Claire thought about it. “Yes. Would you please make sure that Jean-Léon finds a bill of sale for the Courbet he gave us for David’s birthday?”
Elizabeth seemed surprised. “That’s an odd request.”
“Just please make sure he does it.” Claire felt relieved. Apparently her father had not mentioned everything she and Ian were up to. Just in case William was, somehow, a ruthless and sociopathic killer, it was best that Elizabeth did not know about their hunt for Elgin.
“Very well. Which hotel will you be in?”
Claire started. She realized that Elizabeth assumed she was staying in New York, and that
she would be more comfortable in a hotel. “Actually, I’m off to Wales. But I’ll call from the U.K. so you don’t worry.”
“Wales? Claire—” Elizabeth began in a worried and motherly protest.
“Trust me, Elizabeth. I’m a grown woman and I can handle this.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I know you can. But how can I not worry? It’s almost as if you’ve run off with an absolute stranger, and it’s just not like you.”
“Maybe I had a lobotomy in my sleep,” Claire said.
“What?”
“Bad joke. How’s William?”
“I haven’t told him yet what’s going on. He loves you so, and I hate worrying him.” She hesitated. “He hasn’t been feeling well recently, Claire, and I didn’t want to say anything. He’s going in tomorrow for tests. He’s been complaining of dizziness.”
Claire froze. “Oh, no. Please tell me he’s all right.”
“I’m sure he is,” Elizabeth said, too firmly—as if trying to convince herself. But they both knew that William was in his early eighties, and at that age, any number of medical conditions could occur.
“I’ll call you tomorrow night,” Claire said decisively, worried now about the man who had showered her with so much affection for most of her life.
“You do that, dear. And Claire? If you need anything, call.”
Claire promised that she would, and they exchanged good-byes. Then Claire stared at the phone, concerned about William. This was not the first time in her life she had faced the fact that life was so unpredictable and so fragile. She had learned that horrific lesson at the too tender age of ten.
Claire finished her breakfast. It was almost two, and she decided to shower and dress. But on her way to the shower, she found herself making a detour. The one room in Ian’s condo that she hadn’t even glimpsed was his office.
Claire walked past the bathroom and to the end of the hall. His office door was closed; she pushed it open. A room with wood floors and three walls of bookcases, all crammed with books and notes, faced her. Also facing her was a wall of windows, and his desk and PC.