by Dani Collins
The earring, he recalled, and felt his lip curl with bitter knowledge. Because even women who gave up sweet, passionate kisses could have ulterior motives.
CHAPTER THREE
THEY DINED ON the formal veranda, overlooking the walled grounds. Heat lamps took the chill off the air and added a pinkish glow to the candlelight against the white tablecloth. Frogs croaked in the pond over the subtle violin humming sweetly from unseen speakers. The only evidence of the city that surrounded them was the sky staying indigo so the stars remained faint, rather than twinkling against an ink-black sky.
It would have been even more fairy-tale perfection if a block of tension hadn’t fallen between her and her host.
She had wanted him to kiss her, to see how it would feel, but who could expect such a rolling wildfire? It had raced through her, blanking her to everything except the primal flex of his shoulders and neck, his raw, masculine scent and the lingering taste of alcohol on his tongue.
They had barely spoken in the twenty minutes since, but her butt still felt the imprint of his hand. The intimacy of kissing him refused to be forgotten as she set delicate morsels of duck soaked in orange liqueur into her mouth and chased them with a shred of clove-spiced beet and a sip of a full-bodied red wine.
It wasn’t like that had been her first kiss, for heaven’s sake. She was technically a virgin, but she’d had a couple of boyfriends. She had fooled around with them. None of that intimate wrestling had ever made her feel even close to the way she had felt with Viktor’s finger under her chin, though. His arm going around her had seemed to draw her into a different dimension from the world she had always occupied.
She had thought she was a mature, independent adult, but as she contemplated kissing him again, she felt as though she stood in the narrow space between the girl she had been and the woman she was about to become. Not that she thought one sex act could be the marker into maturity. No, it was more than that. She instinctively knew making love with him would be more than simply a sex act.
Her pact with Gisella drifted through her mind, but she was already thinking, This is different, Gizi. So different. She didn’t know how to explain it, but Viktor wasn’t the same as the men she had dated—the ones she had thought seemed nice so she had given them a chance. The ones whose kisses were like digestive biscuits and their touches clumsy as a dog’s nose going where it wasn’t wanted.
The ones who lusted after her cousin on sight, forgetting all about her.
Viktor’s kiss had been dark chocolate and whipped cream and bold, intoxicating red wine. His touch had been full of promise to lead her unerringly into the most exotic, spectacular and satisfying places.
She had always thought the word attraction meant that something or someone was appealing, but now she understood true attraction was a genuine magnetism. Viktor pulled her in a way she couldn’t fight even if she wanted to.
She didn’t want to. That was what shocked her. She wasn’t the one-nighter type, but she was sitting here contemplating a one-night stand with him. It wasn’t seduction on his part or even the spell of her surroundings. It was him.
It was the uniqueness of her reaction to him.
“Why is the earring so important to you?” he asked, breaking the silence.
It wasn’t, she realized with an almost visceral thunk of realization inside her. The earring was the furthest thing from her consciousness right now.
She sipped her wine to wet her throat. “From the time Gisella and I heard the story of them, it’s been our quest to find them and return them to our grandmother.”
“And the story you heard is that Istvan gave them to her.” Viktor’s brow went up with skepticism.
“As an engagement promise, yes. He told Grandmamma to sell the first one to get away from the unrest. He promised to meet her in America but was killed in the demonstrations before he could join her. When she ran out of money from the first earring, she went to the man who became my grandfather, Benedek Barsi. Rather than buy it from her, he asked her to marry him. He sold the earring to open the shop.”
“Such a fickle heart.”
“She loved Istvan very much!” Tears had come into her grandmother’s eyes every time she’d ever spoken of him. “But she was a single mother alone in a new country. They needed each other.”
“So they agreed to the sort of arrangement that you find so archaic. You understand that without a blood test, there’s no reason for me to believe your cousin is a Karolyi descendant? Perhaps this story was simply a pretty tale spun for a pair of curious little girls.”
She shook her head, wondering how she could feel so drawn to someone who possessed this much cynicism.
“There’s too much grief in her when she speaks of him.” Not that she’d asked her grandmother about it recently. She couldn’t even recall why Grandmamma had talked about it initially. It had been after Grandpapa’s passing. Somehow Gisella had learned that she didn’t actually share a grandfather with Rozalia. In their shock, they had asked Grandmamma about it and the tale had fed Rozalia’s hunger for stories of grand passion.
But her grandmother’s sadness had been real.
“I’ll message Gizi later, ask her to do a blood test. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. I guess I took my grandmother’s word for it.”
His faint smile dismissed her as naive.
She frowned. “Why would she pick a man of your great-uncle’s stature to claim as the father of her child?”
“To make a claim against our fortune?” he suggested dryly.
“We’re not making one. I came to make a fair and legitimate offer for the earring. All I want is for my grandmother to hold again the token given to her by her first love.”
“Does she want that?”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“Perhaps she doesn’t possess your level of sentimentality.”
“What’s wrong with being sentimental? Do you not have any special fondness for some place or thing? A sense of nostalgia for eating berries with your brother?” She nodded toward the conservatory.
His expression hardened, warning her she was treading dangerous ground.
She wasn’t trying to upset him, only demonstrate what she knew to be true.
“An object doesn’t have to be something of high value,” she continued. “Or even something that can be quantified. I could work anywhere, but I choose to work in the family shop. Part of it is loyalty to family. And yes, my uncle provided my apprenticeship so I owe him for that, but I could have pursued other placements. I want to work in that particular shop because that place is special to me. I don’t care where I live so long as I can go there every day. It’s my real home.”
He wasn’t impressed. She could see it in the flat lines of his expression.
“Okay, try this, then. It’s like when I ordered pálinka earlier. It gave me a taste of home, which helps me feel the strength of my family behind me.”
“Why did you need that?” His gaze sharpened.
“Because this is overwhelming! I’ve never traveled so far on my own. Never met anyone like you or experienced a place like this. Don’t you like to feel your family at your back sometimes?”
His mouth twitched. “I have a mother and a great-aunt. I stand at their back.”
She blinked in astonishment. “But—” She stopped herself from asking, What about when you lost your brother? “They’re your only family? You should definitely meet Aunt Alisz and Gisella, then.”
“So I might have more responsibility? Unnecessary,” he dismissed.
“So you have more family.”
“They’re not my family,” he dismissed further. “Even if we do share DNA. You really are a romantic.”
Yes, they are, she wanted to argue. She could tell he wasn’t willing to see it that way, however.
“So you don’t have any emotiona
l connections to...anything?”
“My emotions are basic. I prefer physical comfort over being too hot or cold. I like good food and the satisfaction of achieving goals. Sometimes I enjoy watching sport finals or fishing off my yacht. I like sex,” he said with such a direct look, it was an arrow into her heart. “But I have no desire for the drama of love affairs and tasting death to prove I’m alive or other nonsense like that.”
“Nonsense,” she repeated with a little choke. “If you knew how much you sound like my aunt Alisz, who sees no value in playing and having fun, you wouldn’t be able to deny that you’re related to her.” But her aunt’s notoriously blunt and aloof personality was a story for another day. She straightened in her chair. Drew a breath. “If you have no attachment to the earring, why don’t you sell it to me?”
“Because I don’t want you to have it.” He spoke like he was addressing a child. “Your grandmother stole it. She profited well off her theft. I’m still astounded you have the gall to come here and ask me for it.” He took a sip of wine, steady as a rock. “But I’m not impassioned with anger over it. Merely displeased.”
She had to wonder what would provoke him to impassioned anger.
“Will you show it to me?”
“I’m still thinking about that.”
“All right, fine,” she said, throwing her napkin beside her plate. “Let’s remove sentiment and allow me to argue on an intellectual level. As a man who occasionally likes to fish, I presume you have an interest in all the latest rods and flies—”
His expression didn’t change, but she heard the pun as soon as he did. Rods. Flies. They were right back to the ball joke.
“Stop it. I’m saying that if you had an opportunity to view unique equipment—”
He sipped, maybe to hide his smile. “I assume comedienne is another of your many professions.”
“You know what I’m driving at,” she said with exasperation. “From what I’ve been told, the craftsmanship in the earring is rare and remarkable. I’ve seen one mediocre catalogue photo of it. It may not sway you that I would consider holding it as an honor and a privilege, but I hope you would be willing to satisfy my curiosity. As an artist,” she tacked on, self-conscious now, especially because the corners of his mouth were digging in.
“If nothing else, Ms. Toth, you are entertaining.”
“Allow me to give you my professional, educated opinion on the earring and I’m sure I can come up with a few more risqué innuendos while I’m at it.”
“I have no doubt.” He was sitting back in his chair, relaxed, and threw back the last of his wine, then set aside his glass decisively. “Very well. Let’s go to my office.”
“Really?” Her heart nearly came out her throat.
“Perhaps you’ll tell me it’s a fake and we’re arguing over nothing.”
He led her to a study next to the receiving parlor. It held the smell of the ashes in the unlit fireplace and leather-bound books. The books were free of dust and arranged in severe lines on a wall of shelves. There was a door to the parlor and a small footstool to the side of the desk, closest the windows. Its placement gave her the impression he often swiveled his chair to set his feet there and contemplate his kingdom through the windows.
Over the marble mantel, an imposing portrait stared down at the pair of leather chairs that faced the desk.
“Is that your father?” The clothing didn’t seem right, but the resemblance to Viktor was undeniable.
“Istvan.”
Oh. No wonder her grandmother had fallen so hard. He seemed to project Viktor’s same aloof confidence.
“And this is Cili.” Viktor went behind the desk, drawing her gaze to the painting he pulled away from the wall to reveal the safe mounted behind it.
Rozi moved so she could get a better look at the seated woman wearing a yellow gown with a billowing skirt. She cradled a dog in her lap. The work captured beautifully the glint of light against satin and the hues in the dog’s fur.
“There’s no combination. It’s my fingerprint. You can’t break in unless you plan to dismember me.”
“I’m looking at her, wondering how people sat for so long in those days. Surely that dog got fed up and snapped at her? But she keeps that peaceful smile on her face.”
He closed the safe and swung the painting back into place. “The painter was her lover.”
“Of the dining room floorboard lovers?”
“He didn’t carve his initials into the space, so we can only assume he spent time there. Her marriage was arranged, and despite her husband’s generous wedding gift of a pair of elegant earrings, their relationship was strained. That’s why my aunt Bella was allowed to forgo marriage. Her mother refused to trap her in a situation she adamantly opposed.”
“She never married?”
“Her romantic feelings lay in a direction that was considered inappropriate. She’s had companions over the years. She lives alone now.”
“But your mother was persuaded to marry your father when your grandmother offered the earring she’d managed to recover.”
“This one, yes.” He opened a velvet box and showed her the clover of sapphires and diamonds set in granulated gold nestled on a bed of satin.
She gasped aloud, shocked by the visceral impact of seeing it for the first time. Her gaze ate up the square-cut blue sapphires and dozens of tiny diamonds, maybe a twentieth of a carat, that formed the petal patterns around the oval sapphire in the center. A gem hung from the bottom, framed in more of the intricate beadwork.
Emotive tears sprang to her eyes—the kind that overtook a marathon runner in the last sprint. She couldn’t even touch it. Could only hold her hands to her cheeks as she gazed, transfixed.
* * *
Had he expected more avarice? Yes. Instead, she wore a look of reverence. She had said she would consider holding the earring an honor and a privilege. He had thought she was exaggerating. He hadn’t even understood the concept since he had never been humbled by anything. Not by an object and certainly not by a person—the painful situation around his brother’s death notwithstanding. Responsibility had tested his mettle, of course, forcing him to prove what he was made of, but that didn’t intimidate him. He had risen to that challenge, refusing to let it make him feel small.
He had never looked on something as she did right now, as though grateful to be in the presence of something beyond her.
“What are you seeing that I don’t?” he asked, glancing at the bauble. “It’s eye-catching, I suppose, but the assessed value isn’t that high. It’s twenty-two karats. The stones are decent. Hand-cut, but not of a particularly rare quality. When it comes to sapphires, the pink ones are more valuable.”
“It’s the workmanship. The artistry. The wedding announcement said the violet blue of the stones matched her eyes.” She glanced at the painting, then touched her fingers over his, tilting the box. “Do you have a loupe? Four times twelve plus...”
“Eighty diamonds, ten sapphires. There are smaller sapphires here.”
“All bezel set,” she murmured. “Pulling the stones would mean melting this down afterward, but look at this granulation. That was a very tricky process at the time.” She launched into talk of Etruscan artifacts and how the effect was thought at first to be achieved with stamps and that ancient charcoal fires had unreliable temperatures. “The ancient Greeks were soldering these beads in place with a mixture they created by heating salt-coated copper plates with potash, soap and lard. How does someone even figure out a chemical reaction like that?”
Indeed. Chemistry was a mystery.
He watched more than listened as a kaleidoscope of emotions crossed her expression while she spoke. Awe and enthusiasm, discovery and sorrow at the tiny dent of a granule, as if the piece was a baby bird with a broken wing.
“The earrings only exist because Fulop tolerated the Sovie
t elite,” he told her. “He held dinners in their honor so he could keep this.” He waved at the ceiling and walls. “Cili wore them for all social occasions. She was famous for them. That’s why their disappearance was so notable.”
“What if Istvan did give them to my grandmother, though?” Her gaze came up, not pressing her case. More an investigation driven by curiosity.
“Stole them from his own mother?”
“Istvan was a student demonstrator, wasn’t he? Against the Soviets? He must have had a rebellious streak.”
“That was your grandmother’s influence.”
“Is that what you were told? That he was led astray by her? I heard it the other way around. He was angry with his father for cooperating with the enemy. Grandmamma was terrified for him and wanted him to stop going to the protests. She fell in love with his passion, but worried as the crackdowns began that he was taking undue risks.” She dropped her touch from his hand, chin coming up. “How does your understanding of her motive even make sense? You think she singled out a student from a rich family and enticed him to demonstrate so she could steal his mother’s earrings? How?”
He set the earring on the side of his desk, then met the spark of challenge flaring in her eyes. “I believe she aspired to marry a rich student. She likely influenced him with her proletariat politics.”
“Influenced him how? By showing herself to be of the poor and struggling class? Perhaps he was moved by her plight. She was pregnant. Maybe he wanted a better future for his child.”
“We don’t know that baby was his.”
“Why would my grandmother make that up?”
“We could debate this all night, but we have no way of arriving at the truth until your cousin takes a blood test.” He was convinced he had been in possession of the truth for years anyway.
Her mouth pouted. “I don’t like you thinking badly of my grandmother.”
“We’re strangers. What does it matter what I think? Ah,” he said as she bit her lip in consternation. “You’re concerned what I think of you.”