“I…” Caroline clasped her hands beneath her chin, peering around. “Not the porch—I don’t want to disturb your guests. And it’s a little too early for a drink,” she chuckled. “I definitely need to see the museum, but I hate for this impromptu tour to end, I must admit.”
Simon waited, content to watch her puzzle through her choices. There was something so…different about her, so disarming, he decided. Perhaps simply the result of her upbringing as a member of the Garronois nobility?
Yes, that was probably it, he decided. He was drawn to her because she was something new, something to study. To assess.
That must be it.
Caroline’s soft voice recalled him. “I can’t decide,” she said with finality. “So you’re going to have to help me. Where’s your favorite part of the house?”
He blinked at her in surprise, the answer immediately coming to mind. “That’s where you want to go?” he asked, and the color rose in her cheeks as if she’d transgressed where she shouldn’t have.
“Only if it’s not an intrusion…and if it’s not, you know, some sort of strange, inappropriate room better left to the imagination.”
“It’s neither, in my opinion,” he said, and before he thought better of it, he reached for her hand. “But as for the latter, you’ll have to judge for yourself.”
Chapter Six
Caroline sank back in her chair, staring over the nearly empty beach to the calm water beyond. A hundred other diners clinked glasses and plate ware around her, the din serving to provide the soothing backdrop she still needed, though hours had passed since her embarrassment on Pearl Island.
She’d wanted nothing more than to talk to Marguerite when she’d returned to Heron’s Point, but her sister had called to advise Prudence that she’d be pulling a late shift. Since there was no possible way Caroline could endure Prudence’s polite murmurs of concern the whole evening, she’d decamped for the Cypress Resort as soon as she could. Rob was already on the premises, waiting for Marguerite to finish out, so it was no problem to get him and his wife Cindy to shift locations to somewhere else onsite for the evening. Cindy remained close enough should there suddenly occur some reason for Caroline to be in danger, but nowhere near enough to give her the same worried glances Prudence had been leveling at her all afternoon.
She stared down at her laptop, open and glowing in front of her. As incongruous as it was to have a laptop at a luxury resort, at least she wasn’t the only one. Another machine glowed several tables over. It was in one of the secluded banquettes, however, and Caroline couldn’t tell who was busily working as the sun went down.
“Your drink, miss?” A waiter in buttery khakis and a crisp polo shirt handed her something that appeared deeply alcoholic, and Caroline blinked up at him.
“I didn’t order anything.”
He grinned, then gestured toward the bar in the center of the outdoor seating area. Under the strands of a dozen tiki lights, Marguerite waved a mixing tumbler at Caroline, her smile wide. “Compliments of the house.”
“Uh huh.” Caroline peered at the drink. It was predominantly orange and well-blended, and it sported the requisite umbrella, set at a jaunty angle next to a thick slice of orange. “What is it?”
“The Cypress’s version of the classic Rum Runner. I think you’ll like it.” He paused. “Can I get you anything to eat?”
“You can now,” Caroline grinned. She knew herself better than to drink without eating, even if she wasn’t driving. She ordered a salad with an assortment of fresh fruits and the waiter moved off, leaving her to her email. Marguerite had promised to knock off early, and the restaurant wasn’t crowded.
Given what her email held, however, Caroline was glad for the drink.
It’d been barely more than a day since Edeena had asked her to retrieve the jewels, and to her surprise, her sister had followed up, asking if she’d secured them. When Caroline had hedged, pressing to find out if it was truly necessary to steal away something from a couple who seemed to set great store by it, Edeena had gone uncharacteristically silent. Then a profusion of emails had popped up in a rush.
Except now it wasn’t only Edeena who was contacting her—and in the middle of the night, Garronia time!—ruefully apologetic for the hornet’s nest she’d kicked in asking Caroline’s question to the powers that be. It was the House of Rigoni, legal representatives for all things Saleri.
Sipping her drink, Caroline reviewed the lawyer’s email again, reviewing its several points.
The jewelry belonged to the Saleri family, having never been officially gifted, donated, nor sold to the Contos family.
The Contos family had profited unlawfully by selling the jewelry to the Pinnacle House, if in fact they had sold it, which no one seemed quite clear on.
The Pinnacle House was also unlawfully profiting from the jewelry, by virtue of the fact that they were promoting their “Island Royalty” museum on its back—and it was unlikely that there were other royal artifacts in the collection.
Which was all to state, that if Caroline didn’t succeed in retrieving the jewelry, a representative of the House of Rigoni would be happy to take on the task.
Caroline frowned as she read the list of grievances again. She hadn’t actually made it to the museum, so she had no idea how legitimate the Pinnacle House’s collection was. Edeena had seen it, but had confessed apologetically that she couldn’t remember anything about it, so startled had she been by the appearance of Saleri jewels…and then she’d been distracted by Vince, and anything she might have recalled after that was far more difficult to bring to mind.
“Hey!” Marguerite suddenly appeared beside her, carrying her own drink, before snaking her sandaled foot around a chair leg and pulling it out. She slung into the seat with the familiarity of long practice, then beamed at Caroline. “I can’t believe you came to visit me tonight! I thought you hated this place.”
“I don’t hate it—especially not this side.” Caroline waved toward the beach. “The view is stunning. Though they’re only a short distance from Heron’s Point, I can’t get over how much their beach access is different.”
“If by different you mean gorgeous, I’m right there with you,” Marguerite laughed. She lifted her own drink, and clinked it to Caroline’s glass. “I’m off work as of your arrival—slow night anyway, so you’re totally saving me. What’s up?”
Caroline lifted her brows. “Does there have to be anything up?”
“Um, for you to show up here instead of remaining cloistered away with Prudence for the twentieth night in a row, yeah, there does.” She grinned. “Don’t tell me you’ve found another boring lecture for us to go to. I’ll have to buy brass knuckles.”
“No. Definitely no more lectures,” Caroline said hurriedly. She sighed. “Um…did Edeena tell you anything about the jewelry that she found at one of the local museums here—castoffs from the Saleris back in the 1930s?”
Marguerite frowned. “That would be no. Edeena didn’t tell me anything interesting, full stop. What about them? Did Silas find out there was two hundred euros to be made, and he’s insisting you recover the family treasure?”
Caroline blinked, her alarm so transparent that Marguerite burst out laughing. In the far banquette with the laptop, the privacy curtain was drawn back and tucked to the side. But Marguerite’s voice captured Caroline’s full attention again. “I grew up in the same family you did, Caro, even if it didn’t seem like I was paying attention. So, what, you went to the little museum and they didn’t have the jewelry? Or they did but don’t want to give it up. Is it worth anything?”
“I haven’t seen it yet, but I don’t think it’s worth much, no. Edeena said it was costume jewelry—she’s sending me some replacements for it from her own collection, items that were created earlier than the jewelry the museum is currently featuring, I believe. She thought they might want something with appropriate historical heft.”
Marguerite snorted. “Whatever she’s sending is probably
smaller than today’s jewelry too, ergo Silas won’t notice it’s no longer in the family. But why not simply pay these people for the jewels? Or are they actually resisting?”
“It’s not that, exactly…” Caroline blew out a breath. “I haven’t talked to the owners yet. But I get the impression that they’re partial to the collection, and I don’t want to seem too heavy-handed.”
“Seriously? You really think they’re going to care what set of early 1900s knick-knacks they have, or whether they’re blue or green?”
Caroline considered that. “You’re probably right. I didn’t get that far today.”
“Why not?”
It sounded so ridiculous now, but Caroline forced herself to continue. “When I visited the museum, their grandson was there screening visitors.” She grimaced. “You might remember him from the lecture at the College of Charleston.”
“No way,” Marguerite breathed. “That insufferable ass who…” Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Caroline. “Caro. I know that expression. I don’t know it on you, but I know it.”
“What expression?” Caroline scowled at her, but Marguerite’s face was transformed with a broad grin.
“You’re attracted to him! The most obnoxious man I bet you’ve ever met in your life, and you think he’s hot!”
“Marguerite! I do not think he’s—” Caroline cut herself off. “It doesn’t matter what I think. He doesn’t—I mean we don’t—I mean, it’s not going to happen. It’s far too complicated.”
“You’re too complicated,” Marguerite chortled. “And the next time you see each other, if you don’t act on your less complicated instincts, I swear I’m going to make fun of you for the rest of your life.”
“Marguerite, it’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that. And that’s exactly how it should be!” Marguerite laughed again, high and bright, and Caroline noticed another shift at the far table.
“You might want to keep it down, sweetheart,” she murmured, stirring her drink. “There’s a man trying to work over there and every time you laugh it seems to distress him.”
To her surprise, Marguerite froze. “Really?”
“Miss?” The waiter had materialized at their side, and laid down Caroline’s salad with a flourish. Marguerite glanced at it and ordered the same, but her body remained too erect, too energized for strawberries and spinach to justify. As soon as the waiter left, she leaned forward.
“The last table, closest to the water, by the palm tree? Don’t look—don’t look!”
Her own smile now impossible to keep from her lips, Caroline nodded. “Yes,” she said, fixing her eyes on Marguerite. “Is that important?”
“It is,” her sister said triumphantly. “That’s Wyndham Masters the Third, and he’s started showing up in the main area of the club—not just the spicy side over the wall—since we came back. And coincidentally or otherwise, it usually seems to match up when I’m working.” She bounced happily in her seat. “I’m totally pointing this out to the guest manager. They make serious bank by being able to tout his patronage.”
“Wyndham Masters…” Caroline said, studiously restraining herself from peering over at the billionaire hotelier. “And your only interest is in how good he makes you look to your managers?”
“We-ell…” Marguerite hedged, her voice taking on a perfect facsimile of the low country drawl. “I can’t imagine what you’re insinuatin’, Caroline.”
And with that Caroline’s own laughter burst forth, the knot in her chest finally easing. She was overthinking the situation at the Pinnacle House. It was a simple conversation—one she’d be having with the owners, soon, she resolved. Very soon. She’d nabbed one of the flyers on the desk as she’d dashed through the hallway, so she had their number. All she needed to do was call.
Simon’s cell phone rang. He frowned over in its general direction, but couldn’t place it at first. It was buried under a mound of paper that he’d moved from his desk in an attempt to gain some focus.
Four days had passed since Caroline Saleri had disrupted his day at Pinnacle House, and by all accounts, he should have gotten over the interruption by now. He’d taught a class and held office hours, fielding the same questions from clamoring students that he dealt with every year at the beginning of the semester, for all that he’d officially printed off the responses and had them attached to the syllabus and taped to his office door. But students were dependable that way. His life was dependable that way.
Even the paperwork stacks were a predictable element of his existence, the evidence of a new project sweeping into his work schedule and dwindling his free time down to nothing. As usual, he welcomed it. The Royal Superstitions talk had succeeded far more than he’d expected it to. It’d been recorded and released as a podcast—after editing, of course—and was one of the university’s most downloaded offerings, if the department of anthropology’s breathless PR intern could be believed. The university was getting calls from other institutions for possible talks, and there’d been interest from local media—though why, he couldn’t imagine.
The phone fell silent, and Simon glanced outside, taking in the cloudless sky, the tops of the trees rustled by a solid breeze. In most parts of the country, the weather was a side note to whatever was going on in one’s day. It could change the course of a few hours, a few days, or sometimes several weeks of plans, though they’d been blessed over the years to very rarely experience the latter situation. Regardless, they were in prime hurricane season, and the Atlantic Ocean storms working their way toward the US created colorful pinwheels across the radar every time he checked. He’d not noticed anything untoward this morning when he’d made the usual survey, and based on what he could see outside, the beautiful weather was holding.
He dropped his gaze to his paperwork again. He had more than enough research for a paper on the societal impact of superstitions, though it was tangential to his primary research focus. He wouldn’t be able to teach a full course on it—didn’t want to, in fact. He carried a full slate as it was, and he really had gotten into academia more for the research than the classwork. But a paper—or perhaps a book—that was definitely within scope. He hadn’t published anything in a few years; it was well past time. And if the interest his hastily-assembled lecture had generated was any indication, it would be a well-received book proposal.
Turning back to his laptop, he dashed off a quick note to his vice president. There was a literary agent assigned to all professors at the school, but he could never remember the man’s name. Woman? Might be a woman. Lee something, if he recalled. That could go either way. Regardless, simply putting out the request for information would buy him several months, and possibly the approval for more field work.
His lips quirked. Fieldwork that would need to include the far eastern edge of Greece, he was nearly certain, including a sojourn across the borders into the kingdom of Garronia.
At this new direction of his thoughts, his adrenaline performed its usual stutter-step, and he rolled his eyes as he cataloged his now-routine reactions to thinking of the enigmatic Caroline Saleri. She’d not contacted him again, though his number was listed first on the Pinnacle House’s website, a simple one page affair that was almost Spartan in its information, similar to most of the establishments on Pearl Island. Though friendly to shoppers, most of the residents were already retired and in no real need of additional income. Accordingly, they didn’t try too hard to encourage tourists, preferring to while the long summer days away in silence and solitude.
Wait. Had it been Caroline who’d called just now?
Suddenly bursting into motion, Simon pushed his chair back from his desk, striding quickly over to the pile of paperwork on the side table. He shoved it aside and located the device, glowing from its last two calls. One from his grandparents at ten a.m. that morning, the more recent one from an 800-number. He rolled his eyes. Solicitors were becoming as pervasive as kudzu. It was no wonder he ignored his phone more often than not.<
br />
The device burst to life in his hand so unexpectedly that Simon nearly dropped it. Fumbling to switch it on, he recognized Belle’s phone number again, and a sudden chill sliced through him. Why hadn’t he checked his phone earlier? Was there something with her or Bobo? His grandfather wasn’t as steady as he used to be, and—
“Simon,” he said curtly as he brought the phone to his ear. “What’s happened?”
The silence on the other phone was brief, before a startled laughter sounded. “Simon!” Belle laughed, her rich, honeyed voice putting him instantly at ease. “Bless you, you sound positively frantic. I’m so sorry for calling you again, but there’s nothing wrong.”
“Oh. Good.” He drew a hand over his face.
“Bobo and I wanted to let you know we’ll be going over to the House tomorrow. You’re so dear for wanting us to check in whenever we head out there, but it’s no trouble at all. Billy Mae and her husband Frank are coming too, so we’ll make a day of it after our appointment.”
Simon’s brows pulled together. “Your appointment?”
“Why yes, didn’t you listen to your voicemail?” His grandmother’s voice held no censure. “Or did I leave one, hmmm,” she mused, with the air of a woman well-used to not remembering every detail. Belle was aging as gracefully as anyone Simon had ever met, allowing life to soften her around the edges without fighting to keep too tight a hold. She always said that as long as she had Bobo, and Simon himself, the rest was details. And when one day she lost them, well, she would handle that moment when it came.
Now she’d picked up the thread of the conversation again. “Well, no matter. It’s at two p.m. Bobo’s delighted to meet the young lady, and it’s so nice to see him excited.”
“Young…lady.” There was no question who it was, and Simon’s gaze darted to his calendar. Tomorrow he had classes until one o’clock. Then it would take him easily an hour to reach the Pinnacle House. His grandparents would beat him handily, and Caroline might be there and gone again before he arrived. Still, he couldn’t deny the way his heart pounded, so hard it almost hurt, and he whirled hastily, sending another pile of papers sliding to the floor. “You mind if I pop out and join you?”
Charmed: Gowns & Crowns, Book 6 Page 5