Amara shook her head. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind since he’s really tied up with work. My being here suddenly has only complicated his life.” She didn’t feel like filling him in on the details of who her father was. The conversation would then inevitably turn to questions about what Nicholas Rheinhardt was really like, was he really as cool as he seemed on TV. The thing of it was, she really didn’t have the foggiest idea how to answer.
“Well, in that case, why don’t I meet you back here in about fifteen minutes? I need to take a shower.” Press pointed over his shoulder to the house. It was a stately brick Georgian manor complete with towering columns and shiny black shutters. “And then we can go to the club to get some breakfast. Normally I live in a dorm on campus and eat there. But since I’m graduating from Grantham next week, and classes and exams are done, I decided to crash at home for a change.” Unconsciously he rubbed his tanned washboard stomach.
Amara’s mouth dropped open.
“You haven’t eaten yet, right?”
She snapped her jaw shut. “Ah, no.” She hadn’t even had dinner last night.
“They have scrambled eggs and bacon and stuff like that at the club. You’re not a vegetarian, are you? A lot of girls are vegetarians. I just don’t get that. There’s no way I could live without bacon.”
Amara hadn’t had a bite of meat in more than three years. It was a philosophical thing—she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting animals—not a weight thing, the way it was for some of her friends.
She was torn. She believed in standing up for her principles, but there was no way she was going to piss off this amazing guy… .
Her stomach growled loudly. She looked down, horrified.
Press laughed. “I guess bacon it is. After that I’ll take you to meet Penelope.”
She glanced up, doubly stricken. “Is she your girlfriend?”
Press laughed, this time louder.
CHAPTER SIX
PENELOPE WAS JUST FINISHING the episode that took place in some remote corner of the former Soviet Union, which seemed solely notable for its frigid temperatures, temperamental plumbing and thin potato soup. When she leaned back in her ergonomically designed desk chair and glanced out her office window, she caught sight of two men coming up the walkway.
One was short and squat, his legs doing a two-step for every long stride of the man to his right—or her left.
Technically she ceased observing Man Number One after less than a millisecond. There was nothing technical about the way Penelope bit the inside of her cheek and gazed openly at Nicholas Rheinhardt—in the flesh as opposed to on screen.
Oh, my. No amount of cyberknowledge had prepared her for the accelerated heart rate and tightness of breath that she was currently experiencing. Her agitated state made her recall the conversation she’d had with herself when she’d held the Grantham Galen several weeks earlier. Now, mentally, she did a checklist once more of the causes of these physiological effects. There was only one explanation.
Clearly Nicholas Rheinhardt was poison.
And she had no idea of the antidote.
Still, ever stalwart, she rose and walked softly on the wall-to-wall carpeting of the reading room to the front of the building. She pushed open the central glass door and waited.
It seemed like a good idea to take the offensive. Penelope gulped. Whatever she did, she refused to muss with her hair in classic female flirtatious behavior.
“Our apologies for being late,” the shorter man said. He stuck out his hand.
Penelope looked down. She noticed the man bit his nails, but they were otherwise clean. She extended her hand to shake his. “I’m Penelope Bigelow. My brother, Justin, mentioned over the phone that Nicholas Rheinhardt wanted to visit the Rare Book Library.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, well, I’m Georgie De Meglio, Nicholas’s producer. Think of me as Nick’s alter ego.” He smiled wide.
A seemingly genuinely pleasant man, Penelope thought. Then she focused on the man rocking on his heels. “And you must be the ego, then?”
For a moment—several moments actually—he stared intently. Even Georgie appeared to notice because he jabbed him in the ribs. “Nick isn’t his best in the morning, are you?”
“Mr. Rheinhardt, I presume,” she said.
“Nick, please,” he responded, his eyes locked on hers. He held out his hand.
They made contact. This time Penelope’s heart stopped beating, her jaw became slack and breathing was all but forgotten. Poison, definitely.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” he said, his hand still holding hers. He didn’t appear to be as disturbed as she felt, but Penelope could have sworn she saw his pupils dilate. He wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared to be.
“The traffic. It was murder. But then, you probably know all about that seeing as you live here.” He gave her his famous camera-ready smile.
Penelope blinked. “I usually bike.”
“Oh.” The smile dipped in wattage. He dropped his hand.
“Shall we go inside, gentlemen,” she said, recovering. Penelope held out her hand in the direction of the conference room. “From what my brother mentioned, you’re interested in seeing some of our food-related manuscripts.” She walked briskly in front of them. She was aware of the sound of her ballet flats clipping along the stone floor of the entrance hall.
She opened the second set of glass doors to the well-lit reading room and its long tables. A hushed silence enveloped the space. She continued to the conference room on the right and opened the door. “I tried to intuit what you had in mind.”
“I’ve never been intuited before,” Nick quipped.
Penelope was taken aback. Then she saw him purse his lips. Aha. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were making a joke.”
“He does that frequently. Is that a problem?” Georgie acted the mediator.
Penelope gave it some thought. “No, I don’t think so. The more you do it, the more I should be able to read your verbal and facial cues to know when you are attempting to be humorous.”
Nick raised his dark eyebrows. “Talk about being put in my place.”
Penelope saw he still had a smile. “That was another joke?”
“No, that was serious,” he said.
“Trust me, he could use being put in his place,” Georgie reassured her. He walked over to the conference table to get a better look at the works she’d chosen. “Hey, don’t tell me that the marginal notations in this are by that famous chef? You know, the one who basically introduced French cooking to America?”
Penelope joined him. “You have a good eye. This is the proof copy of her work, and those are her comments—not entirely happy, as you can tell. The head of the publishing house at the time was a Grantham alum and kindly donated the book.”
“Hey, Nick, get a look. It’s pretty interesting. I suppose we could do a short bit giving a kind of academic feel to the episode—that cuisine and scholarship go hand in hand in these hallowed halls.”
“As opposed to what’s served in the residential college dining halls?” she asked.
“Is that a joke?” Nick asked. He stood close on Penelope’s other side.
She immediately felt disconcerted. She slanted her head and eyed him askance. “I suppose so. It’s not a skill that comes naturally to me.” She quickly avoided more of his searing gaze by concentrating on material that was far more in her comfort zone—the books and manuscripts that lay displayed before them. “If you want to emphasize the richness of Grantham’s holdings, you might also be interested in an exhibition that I put together over at the main library. It showcases rare manuscripts donated by alumni.”
“That’s another way to go.” Georgie nodded as he peered more closely at a handwritten list. “W
hat’s this? I can’t read all the writing, but it looks likes a shopping list of some sort.”
Penelope sidestepped to keep up with him—and move farther away from Nick. “It’s a list of provisions needed for the Continental Congress when it met here in Grantham.”
“So now we know what John Adams and Thomas Jefferson ate for breakfast,” Nick remarked. He scratched the side of his face as he leaned over to read the items.
Penelope caught a whiff of unadulterated bar soap and strong coffee. The smells of morning. Somehow she automatically thought of sex.
He seemed to be pointing at something and saying something that might have been directed at her, but Penelope wasn’t sure. She supposed she would have to think of something quick, something informative about the nutritional preferences of eighteenth-century gentlemen or how the penmanship reflected a certain educational stature of the writer, but at the moment she was having a hard time remembering her own nutritional preferences.
The door to the conference room cracked open behind her.
Penelope felt a rush of hope. Saved by the proverbial bell. She swiveled around.
Except the action caused her to brush up against Nick’s outstretched arm, the one he’d been pointing with. And it wasn’t just her shoulder that did the brushing. Her breasts also made contact as she rotated counterclockwise, which was decidedly odd since Penelope was sure she normally turned in clockwise fashion.
Tell that to my tingling nipples, she thought—crudely. Her father would no doubt have chastised her language, although it was not as if she would ever, ever have had this particular conversation with him. Luckily the white lab coat she wore over her scoop-neck top prevented any embarrassment.
So, trying to compose herself, Penelope swallowed and applied a stiff smile to her face as she turned to face the interloper.
“Hey, Penelope, I hope it’s okay that I brought a visitor to take around the place?” Press gave her a salute. He stood at the door to the conference room, looking fresh and full of life, his hair wet from a shower, his wrinkled madras shorts hanging loosely from his narrow hips. A white T-shirt stretched across his taut chest.
Next to him was a young woman, a girl really, with shocking-pink highlights in her long black hair. She wore an oversize work shirt with black leggings. Penelope had never seen Press with a girl.
“Oh, wow.” Press stopped dead in his tracks. “I didn’t realize you had Nick Rheinhardt as a visitor. I mean, I knew you’re going to be our Class Day speaker, and I can’t tell you how excited we all are. The episode where you got that killer massage? Amazing. It went viral on YouTube.”
“It’s my pleasure to be speaking at your graduation ceremony,” Nick replied formally.
Penelope looked over at Nick, who for some unknown reason looked somewhat perturbed. “I suppose introductions are in order?” She nodded toward Press. “This is my student assistant in the Rare Book Library…”
“Press Lodge.” Press stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “It’s a pleasure.” He politely introduced himself to Georgie, as well. Then he turned around. “And this is a guest at my house, Amara.”
The girl clenched her jaw.
Strange, thought Penelope.
Then she heard Nick Rheinhardt inhale dramatically.
Even stranger.
“Hello, Amara,” he said after a beat, his voice tight.
“Hello, Daddy,” she replied without any warmth.
“Daddy?” Press asked. “You didn’t tell me you were Nick Rheinhardt’s daughter this morning.”
“And you—” Nick stared at Amara “—didn’t tell me that he was the reason you didn’t answer the phone when I called earlier.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
NICK RECOGNIZED AMARA’S obvious displeasure. Clearly, she’d been hoping to avoid her wayward father. Not to mention the other whammy of having to watch her new little buddy—this college kid flaunting his preppy testosterone and gee-whiz smile—fawn all over said dad. And having Georgie practically hopping on his toes, no doubt hoping to work unexpected encounters like this into the episode, only added to the sense that a crisis was looming. Not to forget the librarian.
Yes, let’s not forget the librarian, Nick thought. Penelope.
He closed his eyes, feeling all over again the brush of her breasts across his arm. And the thing of it was, he was simply not one of those guys who ever harbored a librarian fantasy.
Not that she looked like anybody’s idea of a librarian. That shapeless lab coat couldn’t hide her whippetlike frame that somehow had all the requisite curves. And then there were her legs…oh, boy, those legs. He’d never been a fan of skinny jeans—until now. And the way they ended just above her delicate anklebones, leaving a stretch of tantalizing bare flesh before her little slip-on flats. And not just any flats—ones with what looked like pages of an Italian newspaper covered in photos of Brigitte Bardot. A librarian wearing a sex goddess—could he ever have imagined?
Her ankles weren’t the only irresistible features. Her heart-shaped face with its pale skin, the delicately arched brows and a nose so narrow it was like something out of a painting by Vermeer. Still, the determined set of her jaw spoke of fire and passion—totally Rubens. Then there was her hair—that fairylike mass of ringlets that haloed about her head. Was it gold or russet? And then there was something else about her face that had him searching—for words, for insight.
But it wasn’t just her face. It was the way her mind worked—so orderly, so precise. Posed with a problem—such as finding manuscripts ASAP for some demanding TV host—she had analyzed the situation and come up with an imaginative yet totally logical solution. So different from the chaos that seemed to consume his own life. So refreshing. So calming… So soothing…
Perhaps he was having librarian fantasies after all… .
He shook his head. And narrowed his eyes when he focused on his daughter’s defiant face. “I tried to reach you this morning to set up a time to get together.”
“I must have been out by the pool when you called,” she shot back.
The guy—he was definitely part of the equation. Nick had no doubt. Which is why he was about to suggest—no, order—that from today onward, while Amara was under his watch, she’d be sleeping on a cot in his hotel room. But before he could do so, Georgie spoke up. Good ol’ Georgie. Ever ready to make things go smoothly.
“Well, you both found each other anyway. So no harm in the end,” Georgie chimed in. He held out his arms and approached Amara. “C’mon, you’re not too old to give your uncle George a big hug.” Troll-like, he enveloped her in his expansive arms, and Amara leaned into him naturally.
Nick felt a pang of jealousy. The two of them had barely exchanged a peck on the cheek.
When Georgie and Amara broke their hug, his librarian—yes, he was already beginning to think of her as his—spoke up.
“As long as you’re here, why don’t you come over and see what I’ve put out for your father and Mr. De Meglio to see.” She stepped to the side and indicated the conference table behind her. “I know that Press is accustomed to my little impromptu lectures on various holdings, and he has always kindly demonstrated an interest, genuine or otherwise.”
“Excuse me, when have I ever not thought something was really interesting?” Press asked, holding his hand up.
“The collected dry-cleaning bills from the last five years of Henry Ford’s life?”
“Okay, that was just weird. But that was the exception.” He motioned Amara over to the table. “So what have we got here?”
“These are all food related, as you might have guessed, given the circumstances. We’ve just finished looking at the work by a celebrity American chef and a provisions list from the Revolutionary War period, and now we’re on to something a little older and
quite unique.”
Nick stepped aside and let the two younger people shoulder their way front and center.
Amara stared intently at one of the folios on display. “Hey, cool. Look at this.” She motioned to Press.
“The Grantham Galen. You brought it over from the exhibit?” Press asked.
“Just for this meeting. It goes right back,” Penelope answered.
“So what’s a Grantham Ga-something?” Georgie asked.
“It seems to be an old Greek manual that talks about using all these cooking herbs like cinnamon and ginger and laurel.” Amara pointed toward the text. “I’m not quite sure what this one is.” She looked to Penelope. “Am I right about it being an herbal treatise?”
“Our little Amara reads ancient Greek, and you never told me?” Georgie looked to Nick.
Nick opened his eyes wide and held up his hands. “Hey, whatever she’s learned she didn’t get it from me. And as far as languages are concerned, my accomplishments beyond mangling the mother tongue extend only to restaurant French, which is heavy on the swear words.”
“And possibly very useful in certain contexts,” Penelope observed. Then she immediately turned her attention to Amara. “Yes, it does talk about herbs, which nowadays are used in cooking, but in ancient times were the mainstays of medicine. And the word you were unsure of is cardamom,” she noted.
Amara lowered her head and studied the folio some more. “Is it? Wait a minute. If this is one of Galen’s writings, like Press said, wouldn’t it be his Theriac electuary?” She was addressing Penelope.
“A Ther-i-what?” Georgie asked, coming forward to take a better look.
“It sounds like a kind of enema,” Nick suggested, feeling more and more peripheral to the discussion.
Penelope appeared to take no notice of his comment. “A Theriac electuary, also known as a Venice treacle, is a mixture of sixty-four drugs—including what today we think of as herbs and spices, such things as cinnamon, cloves, mustard seed—”
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