Chapter 10 #3
“You know, for all I know, you’re a thug who just wants that lace,” she continued. “Maybe you stole it in the first place and this is all an elaborate ruse to get it back from the unsuspecting patsy.”
“You read too much.”
“Prove me wrong.”
He started to tell her he absolutely wouldn’t when he realized he had basically said the same thing to her. He rubbed his hands together, not because they ached, but because he was tired and needed something to eat.
“I could tell you what I do for a living.”
“How about you show me instead,” she said pointedly. “A website for your business. Maybe a business card.”
He shook his head slowly. “Don’t have either. We’re very exclusive.”
“Most high-end thieves are.”
“And you would know?”
“I can read the news, just like everyone else. And who’s we?”
He supposed he owed her that at least. He sighed lightly, then attempted a smile. “Let’s begin with introductions—”
“After all we’ve been through?” she asked. “Why bother?”
He considered. “I saw that Elizabethan ghost in the great hall at the Castle.”
Her eyes almost bulged. “You didn’t,” she breathed. “Really?”
“Really,” he said. “He did good work on your boyfriend.”
“Dory’s not my boyfriend.”
Then the wench had at least some amount of taste. He looked at her seriously.
“My name is Derrick Cameron,” he said, “and I am the, ah, owner of Cameron Antiquities, Ltd.”
“The Ah Owner? Is that something British I don’t understand?”
He was torn between scowling and smiling. “It’s a recent thing.”
“And you’re not comfortable with it yet.”
“Actually, no, I’m not,” he agreed.
“What sort of business is it you’re uncomfortable with?” she asked. “Or should I not be curious?”
He lifted an eyebrow briefly. “We deal in the very rare and hideously expensive. Antiques, mostly.”
“Would my brother know you?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I’m afraid he would, but I wouldn’t suggest you go to him for a character reference.”
“Steal something filigreed from him?”
“Salt cellars,” Derrick clarified. “And I didn’t steal them. I used my impressive powers of persuasion and vast amounts of charm to convince the owner to give them to me instead of to your brother.”
“That couldn’t have been too hard,” she said with a snort. “Gavin has no charm and a lousy personality.”
“But he drives a hard bargain,” Derrick said. “He wasn’t pleased.”
“He rarely is.” She assessed him. “Did you give this Lord Epworth the lace in the first place?”
“I sold it to him, aye,” Derrick said. “It came from a private collection.”
“How did you know it was in this private collection?”
He shrugged. “I like old things, so I accept any invitation to view antiques people are proud of. I keep those in mind, on the off chance the knowledge becomes useful. When a potential client thinks of something he or she wants, they contact me and I get it for them.”
“Always?”
“Almost always.”
“Why are you so competitive?”
“I have a brother.”
“That answers that, I suppose.”
A knock saved him from explaining that further.
He rose, swayed, then cursed silently as he made his way across the room.
He was going to have to do something about his arm, and sooner rather than later.
He opened the door, waited until room service had done its bit, accompanied of course by one of the assigned flunkies whose job it was to see that his every need was catered to, then happily collapsed in a chair in front of food that smelled thoroughly edible.
“Your shoulder is bleeding.”
He would have argued with her, but she was right. He sat back and sighed, hoping he wouldn’t bleed on the upholstered chair. Samantha frowned, then reached for a plate.
“What do you want?”
What he wanted was a very long night’s rest followed by a day where he didn’t wake with a headache and didn’t know that the bulk of his work was still in front of him, not behind him. But she was talking about food. He sighed.
“I don’t care, really. You choose.”
She filled his plate, set it down in front of him, then helped herself. Derrick ate, because there was nothing in the world that would stop him from filling his belly. He realized, though, that Samantha was spending more time watching him than she was doing the same.
“What?” he asked.
“Those were real swords.”
He considered, then nodded. No sense in not telling her the truth. She’d seen ghosts. Maybe the rest wouldn’t come as much of a surprise.
“In a street fair?”
“I don’t think that was a street fair.”
She put her fork down. That was probably wise, given that her hands were shaking. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Remember that Elizabethan ghost?”
She nodded uneasily.
“Strange happenings here in England,” he said. And Scotland, he added silently. He added it silently because he didn’t think there was any point in burdening her unduly.
“What kinds of strange happenings?”
“This part might be hard to believe.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “How hard to believe?”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “What sorts of things do you consider to be unbelievable?”
She considered. “Well, I managed to get myself to a country where my parents don’t live, which seemed pretty unbelievable at the start. Then I took a little job and wound up with a priceless piece of Elizabethan lace in my purse, which also seems pretty unbelievable. Is it worse than that?”
He nodded.
“Worse than ghosts?”
“Maybe on the same level.”
She had a sip of water, but it didn’t go all that well for her. He imagined the tablecloth would survive and her jeans would dry.
“Go ahead,” she said, her voice breaking. “Lay it on me.”
He decided there was no sense in not being honest. She would have to find out eventually.
“You left the lace in Elizabethan England.”