Chapter 19 #3
He made an odd, half-shrugging gesture, his discomfort with the question palpable. “I almost had one once,” he admitted. “But constant travel ended it before we ever reached that point of leaving clothes at each other’s apartments.”
She met his gaze and raised her eyebrows, questioning. “Could she have been the one?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No.” He wanted to tell Marcelle she could be the one, but that might terrify her. Hell, it terrified him.
Her smile, a fleeting shadow, vanished almost as soon as it appeared, her lips resuming their neutral line. “This began as a pleasant stroll around the lake, but quickly derailed. I need to regain my composure and find my equilibrium.”
“How about a long soak in the tub with a glass of wine?”
“And candles and soft jazz?”
He patted his jacket pocket. “I’ve got my mobile—hours of downloaded jazz.”
“That’ll wear down your battery.”
“I brought a solar charger.”
She smiled. “Why’d you bring that?”
“The charger?”
“No. The phone.”
He chuckled. “For the camera. I have my sketchbook, but sometimes a photograph is better for remembering particular colors.” He brushed her hair back from her neck. “Especially the subtle blonde and copper highlights when the sunlight hits your hair just right. I can’t capture that with chalk.”
She raised a brow. “So you took a picture of my hair?”
“Sure.” His smile was unapologetic. “Want to see it?”
“Not really.” She squeezed his arm. “But I’ll take you up on your offer. Music, hot water, and wine—that’s a guaranteed way to relax.”
“I want to make it easier for you, Celle,” he said. “However I can.”
She laced her arm through his, matching his stride. “I know you do.”
They reached the mansion around four. The packages they’d left behind were gone.
“Guess someone carried them to our rooms,” she said.
“That was nice.” He handed her his phone, then leaned in to murmur the passcode. “Just in case.”
She slipped the phone into her handbag. “Does this mean I can snoop like you and Remy, read your messages, and scroll through your pictures?”
“I have nothing to hide,” Clay said. “I have a twelve-year-old who likes to play games on my phone and enjoys reading my messages, so everything is G-rated. If a joke comes in that’s inappropriate for him, I delete it.”
“Isn’t he old enough to have a phone?”
“He’s saving up to buy one.”
“How long will that take?”
“Several weeks. When Rory arrived in the future, Meredith Montgomery established a trust fund for him. Still, he has to complete chores to receive disbursements. From the disbursement, he makes a charitable donation and deposits some funds into savings. The rest he can spend however he wants.”
“You’re setting him up for a lifetime of financial responsibility. You’re a wonderful role model.”
“I often have to stop myself from solving problems he needs to figure out. His first twelve years were hard, and I want to make up for that, but making it too easy isn’t the answer.”
They reached the main floor, and a maid stood there, patiently waiting for them. “I’ll take you to your room, Miss LeBlanc. I already took your packages there and hung up your dresses.” She extended her arm toward the staircase. “If you’ll follow me…”
Marcelle dampened her lips and lowered her voice, saying, “Thank you for being so supportive. If you hadn’t been there, I’d still be on the sidewalk making a scene.”
Clay kissed her cheek, drawing in a breath of her jasmine-scented perfume. “You’re a lot stronger than you think. Enjoy your bath.” Her look as she climbed the stairs triggered an involuntary physical response, which needed a mental command: Down, boy!
Sean stepped out of the reception room with a crystal glass in hand. “Join me for a glass of whisky.”
Marcelle leaned over the banister and asked, “What time are we leaving?”
“The club opens at nine o’clock for dining and dancing,” Sean said. “The floor show kicks off at midnight, and the final staged song and dance revue ends at three.”
“Before dawn breaks the spell,” Marcelle added.
“Sounds like you’ve been there before,” Sean said.
“No, I’ve just read about it.” She waved and gave Clay that look again as she continued up the stairs.
Clay nodded toward Sean’s glass. “I could use one of those.” Sean poured him a whisky, and Clay took a swallow, then another, loving the burn.
“How was the walk?”
“Good. Not good. It was enjoyable until we saw Bastien’s doppelg?nger climbing into a taxi. We tried to chase the car down. It didn’t end well.”
“How do you know it wasn’t him?”
“He wasn’t an amputee.”
Sean grimaced. The pain in his expression was a testament to the agony Marcelle endured. “That must have been hard on her.”
“It was.”
“We’ll have to ask around the club tonight. If Bastien is as talented as you say, somebody must have heard about him.”
A sharp, metallic jeeeeeeng sound jolted Clay. “Is that the phone?”
“Yes, but I’m not expecting a call.” Sean crossed the room and picked up the receiver. “Hello. Yes. Certainly.” He held the receiver out for Clay. “It’s Remy.”
Clay took the receiver. “Hello.”
“How’s it going there?”
Remy sounded tired but not worried, so Clay decided not to change that.
“We’ve had a pleasant afternoon. Sean and I are indulging in a glass of whisky before preparing for our evening out.
We’re heading to The Cotton Club for dinner and dancing, and will put out some feelers for information about Bastien.
What about you? What’s your strategy for managing the absence of two key band members? ”
“We’re staging our own Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper moment, hoping that will satisfy Capone.”
“Is Archibald singing with Skye?”
“He’s singing and playing piano, and I’m playing drums—soft and sexy.”
“Wish I could hear it. Good luck. I hope it satisfies Capone.”
“If it doesn’t, Skye and I will come to New York. We’ll have to make another trip here to find the Robertsons.”
“That works for me. Call me later and let me know about the show.”
“You do the same.”
Clay severed the connection and strode across the room to the sofa, his liquor swirling hypnotically in the glass.
“You didn’t tell Remy about seeing the man who resembled Bastien,” Sean said.
“He was worried about the show tonight and how Capone would react since Marcelle won’t be there. Capone’s unpredictable, and Remy needs to focus on what’s happening there.”
“That gangster is the last person you want to antagonize. You made the right decision.”
Clay eyed the phone. He should call Remy and urge him to abandon the show and flee immediately. But a flicker of reason stopped him. Remy would never desert Skye. And if they had to make a return trip for the Robertsons, why escalate things with Capone any further?