Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

  He refrained from holding her elbow while walking, a natural gesture of courtesy he normally extended to any woman. An unfamiliar respect restricted him. She looked too natural and obviously too inexperienced to deal with flirtatious games.

  As she stepped in, she paused and surveyed the walls covered with expensive paintings. Her gaze rested on the maroon leather sofa and chairs and the cocktail table. Amazingly, she frowned, confusion written on her face.

  “What’s wrong?” François asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “It’s a gorgeous office. The type I’d love to have one day. But… You don’t like to read?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I thought you French enjoyed reading more than most. Yet I don’t see any…any…” She bit her lip and surveyed her surroundings. He laughed at the embarrassment that painted her cheeks a becoming pink.

  “Any books? I see. I love reading, Cheryl. My books are there.” He walked straight to a double door and opened it wide to reveal wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling oak wood shelves of books, large and small, old and new, leather and silk bound and a sliding ladder to reach the top ones. “Here. Are these books enough for your pleasure?”

  “I think I’m going to love this room.” Her enthusiastic smile dazzled him. “Would you mind if I spend my free time here?”

  “Not at all. Make yourself at home.”

  It didn’t take much effort to imagine her ensconced in a chair, her face concealed by a book and her body hidden in one of those tent-like sweatshirts she favored in Boston. But then it would be a pity to let this lovely girl fade in a dark room away from the sun and the scenic countryside.

  “On second thought, I don’t think you’ll end up with a lot of free time,” he corrected her with a furtive smile. “Tomorrow, I will explain the schedule in detail but I can already assure you that it will include work in the ruins of the chapel, visits to neighboring chateaux and field trips to several historical churches.” He improvised on the spur-of-the-moment, visualizing himself as the preferred guide for the eager student.

  “I may find interesting facts about this chateau and…the missing statue.” She tilted her head assertively. “Count François, I need to write my paper. Why does it bother you so much?”

  Damn her paper. Couldn’t she forget about it?

  “I don’t like to attract unneeded publicity to this area while studying the chapel’s ruins.”

  “But, my paper would—”

  “Cheryl, please, I insist you close this subject. I don’t want to talk about illusionary statues.” He gently squeezed her shoulder and suppressed the urge to lower his mouth over the scrumptious lips puckered in exasperation.

  Her deep sigh told him she couldn’t understand and wouldn’t accept his stubbornness. “Do you have books related to the history of the Loire Valley and this area?”

  “Yes, of course. You can dig through all of these.”

  She spun around to scan the rest of the library, then strode to the only wall devoid of bookcases. She paused, fixing her gaze on a painting and gasped. Too late, François realized the object of her curiosity. He hadn’t planned to bring the students to the library and had never removed the painting.

  “François, is this a painting of the statue. You know, the missing one you don’t like to talk about?”

  He threw her a calculating look to assess her thoughts and shrugged. “Who knows? It’s a painting of the Virgin. There are so many.”

  She stepped closer to the painting and studied it some more, then spun toward him. Her eyes shimmered in the shadows. “I studied art and religious painting. I wrote an in-depth paper on the famous and not so famous paintings of the Virgin.” She pointed an accusing finger at the frame. “This is not an original painting. It’s an image of the statue of Lourdes, or more probably of one of the small reproductions of the statue of Lourdes. So the statue did exist,” she asserted with a triumphant smile.

  He suppressed a glare. His strained voice came with an edge he immediately controlled. “As I said, it may or may not have existed.”

  Her hand patted his. He couldn’t believe his ears when her soothing voice whispered. “Don’t worry, Count François. I will keep your family secret.”

  She took a step forward. The glint of passion that flickered in the violet orbs surprised him as much as the tightness he felt in his lower body.

  His lips thinned in a menacing line meant to scare her back within safe boundaries. “Secrets can be dangerous. Don’t play with fire, Cheryl.”

  She shrugged, walked back to his office and turned toward him. “Listen, I really need to call the hospital right away.”

  As soon as he reached his desk, he looked for the hospital number, dialed and handed her the phone. She settled in the leather armchair while he perched on his desk, waiting to hear her long distance conversation.

  “Can you connect me to Professor Howard’s room?” She waited on the line for a moment and shook her head. “There’s no answer,” she said as she bit her lip. “Hello, can I talk to Dr. Brown, please… Yes, Dr. Brown. Cheryl Stewart. I’m calling about Professor Howard. How is he doing now?” Her eyes rounded like two saucers. “What… No,” she screamed. “No. There must be a mistake,” she shouted as she shook the receiver clenched against her ear. “You hear me. Please, check again. Please,” she begged, her voice breaking down in a sob.

  François yanked the phone from her hand. “This is François de Valroux, a friend of Professor Howard. Can you tell me what happened?”

  The voice muffled by the distance explained, “Mr. Howard died suddenly this afternoon. We’d been running tests before his death. Now we are proceeding with the autopsy. Is Ms. Stewart the next of kin?”

  “She is a close friend.”

  “We couldn’t find any family to notify. We’ll need to ask her some questions later on.”

  “Questions? Why, Doctor?”

  “It seems that the professor’s death was not natural.”

  “You mean, he was…” François glanced at Cheryl and let his sentence hang. Her head between her crossed arms, her shoulders shaking with soft sobs, she had crumpled on the edge of the desk.

  At the other end of the line, the medical voice explained. “Mr. Howard was killed. Poisoned. Just before he breathed his last, he mumbled, ‘Tell Cheryl…statue.’ A detective will contact you soon to talk to the young woman. I’m sorry, sir. Good night.”

  “I’m deeply sorry, Cheryl. I don’t know what to say. He was a great man. He’ll be missed.” Francois’ condolences reached her through a haze.

  “Thank you,” she stuttered as she remembered the dear old face, the kind eyes hidden behind gold-rimmed glasses, the pepper-and-salt goatee and the disarrayed hair.

  “Can I get you something? A glass of wine?”

  She shook her head.

  “Maybe a cup of tea? An aspirin?”

  “No.”

  Cheryl lifted her tear-streaked face and fumbled in her purse. He handed her a tissue. As she wiped her eyes and blew her nose, he held his hand out to her. “Come. Let me walk you to your room. I’ll send a maid to help you.”

  “No. We need to talk.” She had to know what the doctor had said when she’d collapsed unable to cope with the sudden news.

  “Now? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Now.” She sniffled. “What did the doctor say? What caused the heart attack?

  “The heart attack?”

  “Didn’t he die of heart attack?”

  François’ gaze rested on her, full of pity. He took her hands between his and squeezed them but he didn’t answer her question.

  “It wasn’t a heart attack?” she almost choked on the words. “So what was it? Tell me the truth, damn it.”

  She heard his audible intake of breath. “Cheryl, Professor Howard was poisoned.”

  She stared at him, without understanding.

  “He was murdered. I’m so sorry, Cheryl.”

  Murdered? It didn’t make sense. She stared straigh
t ahead. “Why would anyone kill him? He was a sweet, old man who’d never hurt a soul.”

  She pulled her hands from his and wrapped her arms around her chest, shivering.

  “Cheryl, there is more.”

  “More?” She had trouble grasping the situation. What could be worse than her dear mentor killed?

  “The professor mentioned your name before dying.”

  “Oh.” A surge of tears flooded her eyes.

  “Actually he said two words, Cheryl and statue.”

  Her head jerked forward. “Do you think…his death has anything to do…with…your project?”

  “I don’t know yet. I have to hear more about it from the detective when he calls.”

  “What detective?”

  François leaned toward her. “Someone is going to call you and ask questions,” he said with a soft voice as if he tried to protect her from more hurt. “Obviously there’s going to be an investigation.”

  She bit her lip and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Maybe I should go back to Boston.” Her tears had dried, while her brain jarred with the unexpected information.

  “Let’s wait and see if they request your presence there.”

  “I’d like to attend his funeral.”

  “Listen. If you insist on going, I’ll come with you. I owe it to him.”

  “Whatever you want. But then I’d like to come back here and search for the statue.” She narrowed her eyes. Was François going to take advantage of the situation to dump her in Boston?

  “Cheryl, it may be better—I mean safer—for you to stay there. It’s too early to speculate but I assume Professor Howard was killed to prevent him from coming here.”

  “I know everything about the statue. Maybe, much more than he did. I’m the one who updated him regularly.”

  “Then you are in danger.”

  She shrugged. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Ah oui?” he snorted. “Ma petite, from now on, I don’t want you to leave my side. Understood?” François straightened to his daunting height, towering above her. If he thought of intimidating her, he had another think coming.

  “I’m not your little one. And let me tell you, I plan to find the statue. Professor Howard died mumbling my name and the word statue. I feel it’s my mission now to retrieve the statue, if only to honor him.”

  “Your mission? Is it, now? Sacré Dieu.” A deep scowl knitted François’ forehead. Admiration, concern and frustration warred in his eyes as he fixed an incredulous gaze on her.

  “Yes.” She had controlled her emotion. “He’d asked me to come to France without delay, while he was lying on a hospital bed. In a way his last words, Cheryl, statue, were his wish and order for me to find the statue.” Her chin tilted in challenge as she dared François to protest. “I won’t let his death be useless. As much as it pains me not to attend his funerals, I’ll stay here and start my mission right away.”

  “Are you dense?”

  A hint of a smile played on her lips when she heard the forever courteous Count François forget his ingrained politeness.

  “I should have shoved you back in the train the moment you arrived. Can’t you understand you’re gambling your life?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m quite adept at self defense. I’m a karate black belt and a fast runner.” In spite of her bravado, her pulse quickened and her mind staggered as the horrible thought hit her with the strength of a tornado. Her dear mentor was no more.

  Oh God, Doc was dead…dead…dead. The word hammered her skull.

  “Cheryl, there is a killer on the loose. One who wouldn’t hesitate to harm you if he made the connection between you and the professor.”

  She opened her mouth and closed it.

  A killer on the loose? Where? In Boston or here, in the beautiful and so serene Loire Valley?

  Chapter 3

  Cheryl’s face hurt from the effort of controlling her tears and maintaining a blank façade. “Believe me, I’ll be fine. I’m so exhausted I’ll go right to sleep.” She drew in a deep breath, knowing her lie wouldn’t convince François.

  He’d insisted on accompanying her to her room and now stood in the doorway. Frowning with concern, he studied her face. “I’ll be downstairs, in my office, for another hour and then in my bedroom, right next to yours.”

  “Thank you.” She nodded, wishing he’d go away and leave her to grieve in the privacy of her room.

  “Please don’t be bashful. You can knock anytime if you need something.”

  “Thanks. Goodnight.” She resolutely started to close the door. He got the message and turned to leave.

  Her head lowered in dejection, she padded on the plush carpeting and dropped on the side of the bed, for once in her life depleted of energy. Guilt gnawed at her insides. How could she have left Doc alone in a hospital and traveled so far? She should have argued with him, asked him to postpone the meeting with François. Doc put everyone else ahead of himself. And there’d never been anyone to care about him. Except her.

  Too late now. Tears pooled in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She was alone and didn’t care about hiding her sorrow.

  One thing remained clear in her mind. If she’d stayed in Boston at Doc’s bedside, he wouldn’t have died so easily. She could have monitored his reactions, called for help and maybe saved him. And now she owed it to the mentor who taught her so much to continue his work, to discover the whereabouts of the missing statue and publish a fantastic article in his memory. I’ll do it, Doc. I promise. Her crying slowly subsided.

  Strengthened by her new resolution, she wiped her tear-streaked cheeks and straightened. A rush of adrenaline propelled her toward the desk and her mentor’s computer. She caressed the laptop with reverence, Doc’s gift entrusted to her. She switched it on and clicked on the internet to look at Doc’s website. His picture filled the screen of the monitor.

  Bitterness filled her heart. A new surge of tears welled in her eyes as she focused on his intense gaze and kind smile. How could anyone have harmed such a sweet man? And why? Browsing through his photo gallery, she flipped through pictures of their time together at Harvard, fond memories of hard work and exhilarating discoveries. A time that was gone forever. Unable to cope with the finality of the situation, she crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her head, her body racked with sobs.

  The knock on the door finally registered. She raised her head. Through the tears blurring her vision, she saw François coming toward her. “Oh Cheryl, I am so sorry. I know it is very hard for you to lose your professor and director of thesis.”

  “You don’t understand. He was like a father to me.” She sniffled and stood. Pulling a tissue from a box on the night table, she went to slouch on the side of the bed and closed her eyes, remembering precious moments. “He told me once I reminded him of his daughter, his only child. He lost her when she was seventeen. A car accident. Just like my folks. It brought us closer to talk about our lost loved ones.”

  “How old were you when your parents died?” he asked in a soft tone as he dropped in the chair by the desk.

  “Eighteen. It was two months after I started at Wellesley College. Campus became my home.” Eager to talk, she realized she couldn’t afford to collapse in pain and she babbled about things she’d never shared before. “I was an only child. My uncle sold my parent’s house. It was too big for me and too full of memories.” She lowered her head and swallowed a sob. “He invested the money to provide me with comfortable income as my parents would have wanted.”

  “And later, when you graduated from college?”

  “I joined the School of Architecture at Harvard and met Doc.” From the bed, she glanced at Doc’s picture still displayed on her monitor screen “I was his best student,” she said, suppressing another rush of tears “He noticed my efforts, helped me in my studies and always answered my questions. He’s the one who encouraged me to pursue graduate studies and go for a Ph.D.”

  François stood and paced t
he width of the room, then paused, his gaze straying to Cheryl. A surge of protectiveness overwhelmed him. Not only because she was mourning her dear mentor but mostly because she’d just allowed him a glimpse into her devastating loneliness. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and promise he would be her friend. Only a friend? That would be damn difficult. Seriously, he’d make an effort to ignore the stirring of his body when she opened her huge blue eyes or when she bent over her computer and offered him an unauthorized peek at her magnificent décolletage.

  “Cheryl, you mentioned you knew almost as much as Professor Howard about the chapel of my chateau and the missing statue. Do you have files related to the subjects on your laptop?”

  “Yes, I copied all my files. By the way this is Doc’s laptop.”

  “Sacrebleu.” A hint of a smile curled her lips when she heard him swear. “You brought his laptop?”

  “He asked me to and he gave me his password.”

  “Mon Dieu, this is worse than I anticipated.” A shiver of fear for her safety crawled up his spine. A killer had poisoned Professor Howard because of his intense research about the statue—maybe to learn some facts. The man would not hesitate to commit another crime if it suited him. Although he couldn’t guess how the killer had known that Professor Howard possessed specific details about the statue, François had not even an inkling of doubt that Cheryl might be in danger, just because she’d worked with the professor.

  “His own computer,” she whispered with reverence.

  “Listen to me, Cheryl. We don’t know yet why the murderer killed Professor Howard but I can bet you he was looking for information. Do not mention to anyone and I mean anyone, not even to me in public, that you have Professor Howard’s laptop here with you.”

  He studied the young woman who’d appeared in his life less than twelve hours ago. She’d suddenly become the focus of his concern. Her eyes, still wet with tears, seemed bigger and bluer than in the morning and her chestnut curls tangled around her face and lent her a fragility he hadn’t noticed earlier. She was in danger now. Because of his ruined chapel and his missing statue. Nom de Dieu, if anything happened to her…