by July Hall
They’d kept the furnishings, though she’d brought in a new side table that matched, plus a Steuben vase, and a Dürer engraving to hang in the spot formerly occupied by a shitty watercolor Bradley had painted in high school and that Sandra had thrown in the garbage.
Yeah. It looked like the sort of thing Charles would like. She hoped. Sandra bit her lip.
There was just one space that needed to be utilized: a glass-fronted cabinet in the corner with nothing inside. She’d been thinking about it. “You know what would look good there?” she told Warrick. “That Chinese ceramic cup in the parlor. Song Dynasty, right?”
Warrick nodded but looked perturbed. “Er, yes. It belonged to a noble family that fled China during the Revolution of 1911.”
“Uh-huh,” Sandra said, only half-listening to the history lesson as her imagination worked on overdrive. She peeped through the cabinet’s glass door. “Oh good, there’s recessed lighting, that would show it off.” She began tapping swiftly on her tablet screen. “It would be a great contrast with the Hanum bowl by the window. Ultra contemporary and ultra classic, together.”
Warrick cleared his throat. “Well, maybe not.”
Sandra blinked. “Why not?”
“The parlor,” Warrick said, “is where Mr. Magister keeps things that he can’t bear to get rid of but doesn’t want to think about.”
Her eyes widened. Eleanor Magister’s portrait hung over the fireplace in the parlor. Warrick nodded in silent affirmation.
“So—what’s the story behind the cup?” Sandra asked hesitantly.
Warrick sighed. “It’s genuine Ru ware, was produced strictly for imperial use; we’ve dated that cup to about a thousand years ago.” Sandra nodded. “It’s incredibly rare. I mean, incredibly.”
“How incredibly?”
“For a long time, people thought that only forty pieces of Ru ware survived, and half of them were in British museums,” Warrick said flatly. “That’s how incredibly. We know now that there are more, but not by much. Only seven are known to be in private hands, and we’ve got one.”
He paused. Sandra prodded, “That’s amazing, but why is it painful to Cha—Mr. Magister?”
Warrick sighed. “There was a second cup.”
“Oh?”
“He and his siblings wanted a closer look.”
“Oh.”
“Mr. Magister knew where his mother kept the key…”
“Oh.”
Warrick shook his head. “He was only eight. He didn’t really understand why his mother cried for an entire day. His father mentioned it to the Taiwanese ambassador, as if he thought it was funny, and literally—literally—almost caused a diplomatic incident. They put the surviving cup in a safe, and it didn’t come out again until Eleanor Magister insisted.”
“Jesus. All that over a cup,” Sandra murmured.
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” Warrick said. “Maybe ‘over a type of cultural artifact that recently sold for $25 million at Sotheby’s.’ They’re even harder to acquire today than they were then—Chinese mainlanders have more money to spend.”
Sandra could practically hear Kristen’s shriek of outrage. For once, she was tempted to join in; $25 million for a cup that nobody would ever drink out of. And Charles owned one that sat locked up in his parlor where nobody ever even looked at it.
There would be words. But for now, she kept her game face on. “Like you said. Incredible.”
“And incredibly rare,” he repeated. He held up a finger. “Imperial use only; seventy-nine extant pieces; seven in private collections. I know it sounds crazy to you and me. But that’s the world he lives in.” Warrick folded his hands behind his back and looked at her seriously. “It takes getting used to.”
“Um, yeah.” Sandra rubbed her hand self-consciously across the back of her neck. “I’m sort of finding that out.” She looked again at the empty cabinet. “God, I’ve got to get a look at that cup. Right now.”
A few minutes later, she and Warrick stood in the parlor, their backs to Eleanor Magister’s portrait as they examined the small cup locked in a second cabinet. It was a pretty little thing in a shade of delicate blue, with barely visible crazing beneath the glaze.
“It’s hiding in plain sight,” Warrick murmured. “Very few people know its value. I don’t think anybody on the staff suspects. Please be discreet.”
Sandra nodded. Insane. A burglar could ransack this house and never look twice at a humble cup worth millions. “My lips are sealed,” she said. “But, um…it has to stay here where nobody even looks at it?”
“Nobody goes into the second study either,” Warrick pointed out.
“Well, they will now,” Sandra said huffily. “It’s going to look fantastic.” She shook her head. “Okay, okay, I’ll think of something else for that spot.”
But she knew she wouldn’t. It was going to niggle at her all day long. Maybe it was dumb—thinking about six inches’ worth of space in a cabinet in a room few people visited—but she couldn’t help thinking about…
Impossible. There was no way she could track down such a thing as Ru ware. Seven in private use, most of them in museums? Not a chance. Even if a couple of pieces were circulating in the wild, waiting for a buyer, there was no way she’d ever find them. You probably had to know where all the bodies were buried at Sotheby’s before you were allowed that kind of intel.
Besides, it wasn’t as if Charles would want her to. Whatever that cup symbolized to him—and it could symbolize a lot—it was something he’d rather forget. She should forget it, too.
As they left the parlor, Warrick’s cell phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” he said, as he looked down at the display. Then he blinked. “Oh! They’re here early.”
“Who are?”
“Mr. Stephen and Mr. Winslowe. They weren’t due to come until supper.” Sandra checked her watch. It was half past two. Shit. She really didn’t want to run into Stephen—it would be awkward on one level, considering how she’d broken up with his nephew.
And it would be unbelievably awkward on another level, considering that she was secretly sleeping with his brother. Tonight, in fact, after work. In exactly six hours.
“I’ll be as fast as I can,” she promised Warrick, her heart pounding. “And I’ll stay right here. They won’t have to run into me at all.”
But as it turned out, they didn’t want to run into her. They wanted to summon her.
Twenty minutes later, when she was packing up to go, her phone buzzed too. Warrick had texted her, saying that Stephen and Craig were asking to meet her out on the patio next to the grand dining room.
Sandra gulped and repressed her immediate urge to call Charles and warn him that something might be up. It probably wasn’t a great thing that Stephen wanted to talk to her, but it didn’t have to be an awful thing, either.
And when she saw Stephen and Craig sitting together at a lawn table on the patio, sharing a bottle of champagne and two wide smiles, Sandra dared to hope it might be a nice thing after all.
“Sandra!” Stephen said, gesturing at her and pointing at the third seat at the table. “It’s good to see you. Come and sit down.”
He and Craig were both wearing their jackets. Their hair was wind mussed and their faces were reddened. Whatever they’d been doing since their arrival, it had been outdoors.
Sandra stuffed her hands in her own jacket pockets. “Hi,” she said with a smile, approaching the table. She nodded at the bottle. “Champagne, huh? What are you celebrating?”
She already knew the answer, after Charles’s revelation. But they both looked so happy and excited that when Stephen said, “Craig has just agreed to marry me,” she grinned in real pleasure.
“That’s wonderful! Congratulations,” she said as she sat down. “I’m so happy for you.”
Craig had a slightly dazed, slightly dopey smile on his face. He was a brunet man in his mid-thirties, about ten years younger than Stephen himself. And hot. Chiseled cheekbones, muscles,
the whole package.
It would be easy to accuse him of going after a Magister for his money, but he seemed genuinely delighted when he said, “Stephen just took me for a walk on the beach and popped the question. I never saw it coming.” He gave Stephen an affectionate look. “You sneaky bastard.”
Stephen said something teasing in return, but Sandra didn’t really hear it. She and Charles had walked together on that beach, twice, two of the most intimate occasions she’d ever known. The smiles on Stephen’s and Craig’s faces brought that back forcefully—along with the knowledge that she was never going to be able to share her own memories with them. The beach was special to all three of them, and they’d never know they had it in common.
It was better that way. Sandra swallowed around the lump in her throat. This wasn’t about her. This was about Charles’s brother, who had apparently taken decades to find his own happiness. “Congratulations,” she repeated sincerely. “Have you set a date?”
“We were thinking the weekend before Christmas,” Stephen said. “Right, honey?”
“It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” Craig said. Then he winced apologetically. “Yikes. Sorry. That just slipped out.”
“He’s handsome,” Stephen said to Sandra in a confiding tone. “We overlook these things.”
Sandra made sure to keep her smile on straight. Bradley’s good looks had encouraged her to overlook a lot. Not the best moment to remember that. Instead, she thought about Christmas. Well, that was…soon. But if you were a Magister, you probably didn’t sweat so much about booking the caterer and getting a good price on a reception venue.
“Christmas weddings are lovely,” she said. “Where are you thinking of having it?”
They exchanged a glance. “Well, here, actually,” Stephen said. “The ceremony and the reception.” Sandra’s surprise must have shown on her face, because he nodded with a small smile of understanding. “This house has been a burial ground for far too long. We have something to celebrate. We’re welcoming somebody new into the family” —he reached out and squeezed Craig’s hand— “and it will start in the family home.”
Oh God, that was amazing. Sandra clasped her hands over her heart before she could stop herself. But seriously, how else was she supposed to react? “That’s fantastic,” she said.
Stephen looked pleased. “We just want everyone to have a good time. For once.”
Craig rubbed his thumb over the back of Stephen’s hand. “He even wants to find his brother a date,” he chuckled.
Sandra’s smile froze on her face.
“I am determined,” Stephen said firmly. “Come hell or high water, he’s going to spend time with a woman outside of the boardroom. And he’s going to enjoy himself whether he likes it or not.”
“I love it when you’re assertive,” Craig said fondly.
Sandra had kept her hands in her pockets. She clenched them now until they hurt. When Stephen glanced at her, she made sure to keep the smile on, no matter how forced it felt, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she glanced around at the patio, the rolling lawns beyond, the great house behind her. She didn’t really see any of it.
I’m yours, Charles had said in his note. I want no one else, he’d said in the bedroom. She had to trust him.
“Well, you’ve got the right idea about the venue,” she said when she was sure her voice wouldn’t shake. Maybe that sounded okay? Maybe her tone was suitably cheerful, but not manic or anything. She couldn’t tell. “The house would—will—be an amazing space for a wedding. Definitely.”
“Indeed,” Stephen said. He paused. “Sandra, we were hoping to ask you something.”
Her stomach knotted again. “Sorry?”
Craig put a restraining hand on Stephen’s arm. “Step by step,” he said firmly.
“Oh! Right.” Stephen gave Sandra a resolute look. “Mind if we take a look at that second study? After that, well, I might have a different sort of proposal for you.”
She figured it out within seconds. And by the time she led them into the second study, she’d pushed her worry about Charles’s hypothetical non-date to the side. Instead, she was praying with every fiber of her being that they’d approve of her work.
Being set loose on this house for Christmas? Charles would never approve any major renovations during such a short time period, but damned if Arnaud Diallo Designs couldn’t make a splash somehow. Or maybe Stephen meant his own house in the city. Either job would be a coup.
She held her breath when Craig and Stephen followed her through the door, and exhaled when they started to smile. “Wow,” Craig said.
“Christ, what an improvement,” Stephen said. “It’s no longer physically painful to stand in here.”
Sandra tried not to actually bounce up and down. Really, this hadn’t been a major renovation or anything. New wallpaper, hardwood floors, fresh curtains, new decorations, moving some furniture. Easy peasy. She hadn’t had to knock down any walls, install plumbing, or move any windows.
But she wasn’t about to sell herself short with aw-shucks modesty at a moment like this. Given the chance, she could do so much more. “I tried to stay true to the house’s overall aesthetic,” she said. “I just wanted to update it a little bit.”
Stephen nodded. “I think it’s wonderful. Did you come up with all this by yourself?” He gave Sandra a canny look. “Forgive me, but I can’t believe my brother micromanaged this one particular matter. He’s never had any interest in this sort of thing.”
Sandra blushed and hoped that didn’t seem weird. “It’s mostly been me,” she admitted. “Arnaud—I mean, my boss—has been available to consult. I send Mr. Magister updates, but he mostly says everything looks fine.” She shrugged sheepishly.
“Mm.” Stephen wandered toward the window, where Craig stood looking at the Sidsel Hanum bowl. “He was like that with Eleanor too. Very yes, dear.” He chuckled. “At least in that respect.”
Sandra’s stomach writhed. She held her tongue, glad they weren’t looking at her.
“What is this?” Craig said, peering at the bowl. “I like it. It makes me uncomfortable.”
Sandra laughed at that. “It’s porcelain,” she said, “but the artist liquidized it and layered it so that it looks like a piece of coral.”
“Very postmodern,” Craig said.
Stephen rested an affectionate hand on his fiancé’s back. “Finance genius by day, abstract artist by night.”
Charles liked abstract art. Sandra wondered if he and Craig ever talked about it. She remembered that night in Charles’s bedroom, when it seemed that he’d confided something very private to her, and couldn’t imagine it. It was almost a pity.
Almost. If she was right, then she had a little piece of Charles that nobody else did. And that felt sort of wonderful.
She cleared her throat. “I’m glad you approve. The whole project is pretty much done—there are just a couple of finishing touches left.” Please, oh please…
Stephen and Craig exchanged a look, and then Stephen turned to face Sandra. He seemed very determined. “Sandra,” he said.
Sandra held her breath.
“We would be delighted,” Stephen said, “if you would attend our wedding.”
CHAPTER NINE
“And you said yes?” Charles asked.
“What was I supposed to say?” Sandra protested. “He told me to bring Arnaud as my plus-one. Said it would be an incredible opportunity for our firm to make some contacts.” It certainly would be. Arnaud Diallo Designs had a prestigious reputation within certain Manhattan circles, but circulating among the Magisters and their ilk would raise the studio into another weight class. “How could I refuse?”
Charles looked pissed, though not as pissed as he might ordinarily have looked. This was probably because they were both still in a sweaty heap in his second guest bedroom.
She hadn’t needed any props for this one. The moment they’d entered the room and seen the bed, they couldn’t get their c
lothes off fast enough. Literally. They both still had their shirts on.
And no wonder. It had been a long week apart. Charles was still clearing the dust kicked up by firing someone important in Hong Kong last month. Sandra was juggling both his mansion and Alexios Mykoulos’s penthouse. They simply didn’t have time to meet, not even for risky encounters in his office.
And she hadn’t wanted to sound too desperate. Maybe that was strange, but last weekend had thrown her off a little. If anything, it had reminded her how intense her feelings for Charles had grown, and how quickly. In a lot of ways, that was wonderful—she’d once thought she wasn’t the sort of person who could love extravagantly, even unwisely. But in other ways…a lot of other ways…well, it was unwise, wasn’t it?
Kristen wasn’t conveniently away from home tonight. Sandra had taken a risk and invented a hot guy she’d met at the Halloween party last weekend, said that anything could happen and not to wait up. Kristen had looked at her like she’d grown an extra head.
“Why did Stephen invite me?” she asked. “I didn’t feel like I could say no, but it seems crazy. Do you have any ideas?”
Charles rubbed both hands over his face with an irritated sigh. “A few. I’d lay money that he’s doing it as a jab at Bradley.”
At her ex’s name, Sandra shivered. She’d been afraid that Bradley was connected to this somehow. “Why?”
Charles sat up, wedging a pillow between his back and the headboard. He looked down at Sandra and combed his fingers through her damp hair. “When Stephen said he was going to propose, Bradley—well, he acted like Bradley. Rolled his eyes or something. Yes,” he added in amusement, “like that.”
Sandra realized she’d rolled her eyes too. “Sorry.”
Charles shook his head. “I should have said something at the time. Reprimanded him. I didn’t, because…well, I didn’t.”
“Stephen could have said something too,” Sandra pointed out. “Or Rosalie could have. Why did it have to be up to you?”
“That’s not Stephen’s way, and Rosalie hasn’t said an unkind word to Bradley since the day he was born,” Charles said coolly. “It was up to me, I dropped the ball, and now Stephen’s rubbing Bradley’s face in his failure with you.”