François stiffened, a shiver slithered down his spine and his gaze flew to Cheryl. Dangerous and probably armed. That woman could have hurt Cheryl anytime if he hadn’t kept a continuous surveillance around her.
“What else do you know about Edith… About Danielle Comain? Any police record?”
“Yes. She was out of jail on probation for stealing jewelry and valuables from an antique store and without a job when she knocked on the real Edith’s door. She’d worked for her in the past.”
“Edith was probably a good hearted woman,” Marilène chimed in.
François shrugged. “Or she didn’t know all the facts.”
“Most probably.”
“How about the students? Can we trust them?” Cheryl asked.
“Roberto Cantari is clean except that… His grandfather was one of the reigning mafia dons in Sicily for many years.” The FBI agent shrugged and chuckled. “The old man has retired and is well respected now. At least in his hometown. He’s on the board of trustees of two banks.”
“Does that put Roberto above suspicion?” Cheryl asked.
“Not exactly. We’re keeping him on the list for the time being. We couldn’t find anything against Adriaan and Karl. Too good to be true. We’re still digging.”
“And Chuck?”
“He was in Amsterdam at the time one of the three statues was stolen. But he stayed with a professor who swore Chuck is clean. We are still looking for the Malaysian who poisoned Professor Howard.” The FBI agent glanced at his watch. “If you see or hear anything about Danielle Comain, let me know.”
They all nodded and he left. A sad shadow obscured Cheryl’s eyes at the mention of her dear mentor’s death.
“Danielle Comain,” François grumbled. “Disgusting.” To think he slept with her. His breath lodged in his throat. Suddenly, he hated his past, his womanizing and the vain pleasures that made him feel cheap at the moment.
He looked at Cheryl—honest, lovely Cheryl. He had some serious thinking to do about the rest of his life.
Chapter 14
The next morning, Cheryl scanned the unending rows of books lining two walls of the library. Where would she start? Before locking the door behind her, François had informed her that the books were organized according to the color of their binding leather to present an artistic effect—with no particular order as far as their content.
She climbed the wooden ladder, collected an armload of books and carefully stepped down to deposit them on the floor beside the sofa. After repeating her climbing three more times, she’d emptied the top row and gathered enough research material.
It might take forever to check each book, especially when she didn’t even know what she was looking for. But when it came to perusing books, she had the patience of an angel. She’d forget the outside world and amble through the pages for hours.
Besides, she’d promised herself she’d find the statue, if only to show François how much she cared about him—really cared in an unselfish way.
She picked the first book, Les Trois Mousqetaires by Alexandre Dumas. Cheryl had read the English version years ago. She studied the green and gold binding, flipped the pages, shook the book to search for a hidden paper and checked the last page. Nothing interesting. The whole collection by the same author—in the same colors—didn’t bring better results.
The next series surprised her, the work of Sir Walter Scott, translated into French. The whole top row apparently shelved classical adventure books. Cheryl spent half an hour stowing the books back into place.
Where was François when she needed him? He said he’d be back soon. He could have helped bringing down the books and rearranging them in place. She rubbed her back. Some of the books were heavy. Considering she carried a pile at a time, her little gymnastic jaunt, up and down the ladder, was taking its toll on her back.
The second row harbored the French poets, Victor Hugo, Lamartine, Verlaine and many others. Cheryl knew some through her advance literature class at Harvard.
A knock on the door startled her. “Mademoiselle Cheryl,” Simone’s voice sounded far away. “It’s past lunch time. Can I get you something to drink or eat?”
Cheryl opened the door. “Simone, you’re a god-send.” Cheryl massaged her back. “Why don’t you stand here and help me. I’ll hand you the books. Just pile them on the desk or on the floor in the order I give them to you.”
Soon the next four rows of books landed on the floor in neat stacks.
“Now, I can come with you for a quick lunch.”
~*~
Adriaan, Roberto, Chuck and Karl were settled around the table eating their lunch. “We haven’t seen you all day,” Adriaan exclaimed. “Did you give up on the chapel’s restoration?”
“Of course not. I was busy organizing my notes.” She strolled to the kitchen to pour herself a drink and avoid their questions.
When she came back with her plate and drink, Adriaan still lingered over his coffee. The others had left.
“Cheryl, I have to tell you something.” Adriaan lowered his voice. She threw him a lopsided glance while attacking her sandwich. “Yesterday, I overheard the butler’s confidences and your answers.”
Her head snapped up. Adriaan fidgeted with a fork and averted his gaze. He seemed quite embarrassed. She arched her eyebrows and nodded, appreciating his honesty. He was such a spontaneous, naïve young man who acted before thinking. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Have you started your search in the library?”
She wasn’t sure how much she could tell him.
He must have felt her hesitation. “I assume you’ve spent your morning there. You can be stuck in the library for a month going through each book. I just want to offer my help if you need it for your research.”
Cheryl nibbled on her lower lip, pondering the situation. In a way, Adriaan was right. Two could go through the books much faster than one. Of course, François didn’t like Adriaan anywhere near her.
As if he read her thoughts, Adriaan allowed himself a dubious smile. “I didn’t want to mention it in front of the count. He insists on surrounding the subject of the statue with silence and mystery. In addition, now I’ve fallen from grace.”
Irrational jealousy on François’ part, she mumbled inwardly. After the one and only time, Adriaan had tried to kiss her and the count had hit him, Adriaan had behaved like a perfect gentleman and a good friend. Now, he’d even admitted overhearing her conversation with Bernard when he could have kept a convenient silence.
“I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I’m examining each book, hoping to find something, a note, a map, a picture or a drawing. Who knows? Any lead. Yes, it could take forever.” She shrugged, realizing the inefficiency of her solitary search.
“I don’t have much to do this afternoon. Chuck and Roberto are in town. Karl is on his own, as usual and Juan-Pablo has vanished since last night. I could come and help. If you don’t mind of course.” He gave her a shy smile. “I won’t insist if it bothers you.”
Cheryl swallowed her last bite and pushed out her chair. François’ jealous suspicions were getting ridiculous. Where was he anyway? He left her alone, knowing she was safe in the locked library.
She could use Adriaan’s help instead of breaking her back carrying the books up and down the ladder on her own. Besides, he was a Ph.D. graduate student and a smart fellow. “Why don’t you come with me to the library now? I have tons of books to examine. We’ll work much faster together.”
Adriaan leaped from his chair. “I’ll grab a platter of cookies, a thermos of coffee and some cups. We can stay in the library for hours without having to interrupt our work.”
She unlocked François’ office with the key he’d given her earlier and strolled straight to the adjacent room, with Adriaan following her. As soon as he entered the library, he deposited his tray on the desk. Cheryl watched him survey his surroundings. “I’ll be damned if that’s not our statue.” He strode and stood in front of the p
ainting occupying the left wall.
She’d forgotten he’d never been in the library before. “It is. What difference does it make?”
“Hmm, so François was lying through his teeth when he claimed the statue may have been a legend,” Adriaan groused.
She didn’t like his judgmental tone. Scowling at his back, she felt compelled to defend the man she loved. “He’s the owner of the chateau. He has the right to protect his belonging.”
“Of course but it’s not very smart on his part. If he’d been a little more open about it, we could have helped him sooner. Remember, we’re all Ph.D. students. Researching antique art is part of our expertise.”
Adriaan studied the painting as if he was trying to memorize it.
Cheryl let out an exasperated sigh. “If you’re going to help me, come here and start flipping through these books. We’re wasting precious time.”
Adriaan settled in an armchair and started perusing the books. On and off, he glanced at the painting but didn’t offer more comments.
By dinner time they’d gone through all but the lowest two shelves of the first bookcase.
“The count has an impressive collection of classics, French, English, Russian, German, Italian… All European writers of the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries are represented. Books on literature, music, architecture, decoration…” Cheryl wished she could make time to read and enjoy some of the masterpieces.
“I was hoping to find something about architecture or decoration. Nothing so far,” Adriaan mused, his head tilted toward the painting. He inhaled loudly and leaped from the chair. His gaze glued to the painted statue, he marched to the left wall like an automated robot.
His hands reached to grab the painting and remove it from its hook. Cheryl bolted forward, shrieking. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Calm down. We’re trying to help the count, remember. I’m just checking behind the painting. Often enough these pictures hide a safe.” He deposited the frame on the floor and spread his hand on the wall, rotating the tip of his fingers, pressing and tapping.
A part of the wall snapped open to reveal a hidden cage, a safe as he’d guessed.
“I knew it,” he shouted with a triumphant sneer.
“Adriaan, don’t touch it. You have no right,” Cheryl yelled and grasped his shoulders from the back as his hand plunged inside the dark hole.
“What’s going on here?” The count’s icy voice froze Adriaan’s hand. Clad in a black polo and matching pants, like a dark avenger without a sword, François exuded power and confidence. Her eyes fluttered shut, then opened. Why hadn’t he come earlier when she needed help and could have used his bulging biceps?
Silence reigned in the cluttered room. Adriaan pulled a roll of yellowed papers out of the safe and flapped his arm. “We are only trying to help you. I’ve just discovered a safe for you. These rolls may reveal the hiding place of the statue.”
The count pulverized him with a glare. “These rolls are the original maps of the chateau, the blueprints of the time. I keep them in the safe because they have a certain value, financial and sentimental.”
“You mean you knew about this safe?” Adriaan spat out, his voice defiant.
François’ eyes narrowed with a dangerous gleam sparkling in their depths. Cheryl blinked. If he had a sword, he would have skewered Adriaan.
“For your information I know every centimeter of my estate.” His voice dropped to a sleek metallic sound that grated on Cheryl’s overstretched nerves. The tight restraint François exercised on his composure reminded her of the grim stillness preceding a storm. “Now, let’s not divert here, Mr. Van Deem. You are sneaking into my library, rummaging through my books and paintings, invading a private safe.” His scowl challenged the young Dutchman to deny his accusations but Cheryl would rather have him shouting than controlling his tone to a threatening murmur.
“For your information, Count François, Cheryl invited me here—”
“I want you off my estate, right now.” The words exploded out of François’ mouth. “You hear me?”
“I asked him to come and help,” Cheryl interjected. Actually, Adriaan had offered his help but she was trying to avoid an exchange of blows. In his state of mind, François might not hesitate to punch the gangly Adriaan and rearrange his face.
François’ eyes froze on her. “You did?”
Her chin tilted up. She’d done nothing she should apologize for. Their gazes met and held. François heaved a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Why, Cheryl? Why did you bring him here?” he murmured hoarsely.
“Just…to…help.” She enunciated every word clearly. “Nothing more. To bring the books down, go through them and haul them back in the bookcase. Nothing wrong with that,” she emphasized.
Adriaan, ignored during her exchange with François, deposited the parchment roll back in the safe and closed it. The click of the latch snapped her back toward him. He hung the painting in place and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting, his eyes narrowed to two blue slits behind the thick glasses.
“Are you convinced now, Count François?” he sputtered.
Cheryl frowned. She hated his cowardice, the way he cringed and recoiled behind her skirt. Couldn’t he stand up to the count if he felt innocent?
“I still want you out by the morning,” François insisted, the anger in his voice had subsided, replaced by a steel edge. He looked like a knight administering justice.
“Halt.” Karl’s heavy accent chimed in the room like an inopportune gong. “There was no harm done. Yavolt, Count François.” A similar blank gaze reflected in Adriaan’s and François’ gaze. When had Karl entered the library? In his fury, François had left the door of his office ajar and their voices were carrying out. “We need Adriaan around to finish the project. Don’t let your personal feelings interfere with the chapel’s restoration.”
“Well, take him and get out of here. Except for meal time, the chateau is off limit to both of you from now on.” Obviously, François had reached the limit of his patience.
“We’ll drive to Amboise for the evening,” Karl muttered and left with Adriaan in tow.
François scowled at the closed door long after they left. Cheryl tiptoed through the hills of books scattered on the floor and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Relax. Come sit here on the sofa. Let me massage your neck.”
He eased a smile through his tightened jaws. “You know me well enough. It may be the only thing that could unwind me, now.” Reaching for her hand, he kissed her fingers one by one. “I don’t mind a massage from those sweet hands. But first tell me. Did you really ask for his help?”
Her pursed lips answered his question before she said, “Nope. He offered his help and then I asked him to come. But I couldn’t let you beat him to a pulp.”
He slammed his fist on his thigh. “I knew it. This guy is a snake. And you’re too naïve, too honest to be suspicious.”
“I think Karl is the one who always shows up at the wrong time, or the right time, depending on how you look at it. Turn around.”
“First, lock the door. We don’t want an audience.”
Cheryl laughed and obeyed. “Where were you all day?” she asked, dropping on to the sofa beside him.
“At the police station. Helping our police and your FBI agent to locate Danielle Comain. We can’t understand how the woman has vanished so fast.”
“Forget about her now and relax.” Cheryl spread her hands over his upper back, kneading his muscles with more strength than he’d expected. She was so beautiful, so smart, so gentle. He could list her virtues, her talents and her assets for hours. He sighed under her ministrations, wishing he could keep her beside him forever.
“Did I hurt you?”
Sweet Cheryl. “In a way, yes.” He chuckled, turned around and pulled her on his lap. “You are torturing me.”
She wriggled out and scolded him. “I’m just helping you relax. Not seducing you. Behave, we have work to do.”
/>
“Chérie, nothing is wrong with the seduction part,” he whispered, his tongue playing with the lobe of her ear.
She squirmed out of his embrace and leapt off his lap. “Our nights are marvelous. But they can’t continue.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a woman who would settle for out-of-wedlock companionship. And we both know you loathe marriage.”
He chuckled. “I may change my mind with time and gentle persuasion. Just give it a try, something like your tender massage.”
“Go to hell, François.” She wasn’t laughing anymore and he hated himself. She’d offered him a sincere heart. He was tearing it apart with his selfishness.
She crouched on the floor and foraged through the books, her hair cascading over one shoulder, hiding her lovely face. His gaze plunged in the well of her scooped neckline and his nails dug into his palms. He longed to run his fingers along her satiny flesh. His blood raced and thumped against his pulse. He didn’t dare touch her. A lump blocked his throat. He wished he could retract his stupid comment.
“I’m sorry.” The apology sounded lame. He released a groan. Why couldn’t he take her in his arms? Tell her that he loved her, beg her to marry him?
Marriage is not for you, fool. You’ll break her heart. Remember your father. Maman cried for years over his infidelities before she forgave him on his deathbed.
Without raising her head, Cheryl shrugged. “Listen, François, it was a nice interlude. Now, we need to find the statue’s whereabouts. Then I’ll leave. I’ll go back to my books. You’ll go back to your ladies. And things will fall into place.”
He heard the quivering in her voice that she tried to suppress.
Non, ma chérie. Nothing will ever be the same again. I will never go back to my ladies. The only lady that counted now was his Cheryl. How could he spend the rest of his life without her?
Avoiding flat and tepid comments, he squatted on the floor to help her and gathered a book to look at. They worked in silence for an hour, while he pondered his fear of commitment.
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015 Page 93