Torn (Deep 8, #5)

17. Harlow

SEVENTEEN

Harlow

We may be screwed and not even know it. Pippa and Peter may know more than they are letting on. My head spins with the lingering euphoria from last night with Roger in our bubble. I needed an escape, but he thinks there’s more between us.

The ghosts from my past never seem to leave, making me second-guess my decisions. Being with Roger falls under another not-good decision. The more time I spend with him, the more comfortable I become, which could jeopardize everything, including my plan to find out about my father’s death.

We linger on the balcony, letting the sun warm our skin. Stepping out of the shadows and into the light feels like a balm to my soul, a stark contrast to living in the dark. Roger truly sees me and that scares the hell out of me.

"We should probably get ready to go." I break the quiet contemplation.

Roger leans on his knees and looks out over the city. "Are you ready for tonight?"

"As ready as I’m ever going to be. To think we’re only on the second piece of this puzzle. I can’t say I’m disappointed with the company or the scenery."

He cups my face in his hand. "You’re a gift that I treasure."

My body stiffens as his hand drops. "I’m sorry." He frowns.

"It’s fine. My father used to call me his gift, his little treasure. You caught me off guard." I hold his face in my hands and kiss his lips with a mixture of passion and caution. "Give me an hour."

He grabs my hand. "You don’t need an hour, but I would give you the world. You could go the way you are now and knock them dead." As our fingers part, it feels like I’m drifting away.

The Dior dress makes the cut for this evening’s dinner wardrobe. Roger kills it in a dark gray suit and tie. I pause. "We can’t show up empty-handed."

He moves to the side to reveal a basket full of top local wines and cheeses. "This should do the trick. Did you know she was sending a car for us?"

I shake my head. "Is she the only one in the city allowed to have a car?"

"It would seem so. Let’s go, my lady." He holds out his arm. "Did you put your security dot in a secure location?" he whispers.

"Of course. You’ll have to find it later."

He laughs and squeezes my hand. "You nervous?"

"No, apprehensive and wondering where this night will lead us."

"A true agent down to the bone. We need to come up with verbal and nonverbal codes for tonight. If either of us touches our noses, it means hit the panic button. A cough will mean don’t press it. Do you have any ideas for words?" He turns to me, waiting for some epiphany.

"If I ask you about the name of the hotel by Lake Locarno that means we’re in deep shit. If I mention our apartment in New York City, we’re okay. How does that sound?" I offer.

He smiles. "Have you been to New York City?"

"If you consider a stopover visiting."

"I don’t, which means I can take you there and show you around. It’s truly amazing, like many countries in one place. You’ll love it."

There he goes planning a trip like we have a future together. Now is not the time to correct him about where we stand and where we are going, probably not to New York City.

A Mayback picks us up as we drive to the outskirts of the city. We arrive at a castle washed in a honey mustard color with four turrets that have seen better days. One spotlight illuminates one of the turrets while the others are silhouetted against the sky. The plaster is falling off the side of the building in various places and the wood is dried and splintered.

The car pulls around back where there are no lights. My hackles go up slightly as I'm not sure why this visit would be in secret. We walk up to the ancient dark-brown door and a security guard opens it before we can knock. He steps aside to let us by. Amalia floats toward us in a dusty-blue Caroline Herrera gown, looking like a princess.

She reaches her hands out to both of us. "I’m so glad you could make it. I’m excited to show you my collection." Her smile spreads across her face, but I can’t help but notice the worry in her eyes.

The interior design is old world. Each room has a different decor from parkay wood floors to Italian tile that pops with colors of yellow, blue, red, and white. Her art collection spans from room to room as we get the full tour of her house. I note which rooms might hold the key to the safe deposit box.

We enter a hallway with wallpaper painted with red and white striped magnolias. Roger stops, frowns, and mumbles, "That’s odd." I don’t ask him what he means so I don’t draw attention to him.

The duchess twirls around. "Well, what do you think?"

"Your Highness, you have impeccable taste in artwork. Each piece looks to have a special place in your home." My speech bubble includes, "and worth a friggin’ fortune."

"Thank you. Please call me Amalia. My father started this collection, and I have added to it over the years. There is more downstairs, and I rotate them out every few months."

The butler comes in. "Dinner is served, Lady Amalia."

We follow Amalia into the dining room, and I whisper to Roger, "What’s wrong?"

"I’m not sure, but the flowers in the hallway seem familiar like I’ve seen them before." He looks at me with concern.

We sit at the dining room table big enough for twenty people. The decor is French country with lots of weathered wood cabinets and a tile floor. The server brings us soup, the first course leading to a five-course meal.

"If I didn’t know better, I would say you copied this meal from your favorite French restaurant," Roger comments.

Amalia grins. "I hired the sous chef for the evening. He was thrilled to be doing a private party where he could cook his creations."

"Please give him our compliments. The flavor and presentation were magnificent. I’m sure he would do well opening his own restaurant." I pat my lips and place my napkin beside my dessert plate.

Amalia leans back with her hands in her lap. "Well, we often want things we can’t have now, don’t we?"

The hair stands up on the back of my neck as Roger’s body stiffens. "I guess it depends on how we go about getting what we want." I play along, eager to see where she is headed.

Amalia turns to Roger. "I’m surprised you don’t remember me, Roger. Your father and I were close when you visited here years ago."

Roger reaches for his water for a sip. "I believe you have me confused with someone else."

"No, I don’t. You look like your father, Lucas, when he was younger. You were only four or five when you came here. You are not Rafael Dujardin. You are Roger Bane, and if my recollection serves me correctly, ex-military." She turns to me. "You are Harlow Pierce who works for the ASIO. I ran a background check on both of you. I have a good hunch I know why you’re here, but you won’t be leaving with what you came for."

The facade of a princess drops and in its place is the face of a cold hard woman. This was calculated. She might have known Roger on sight and now we’re at her mercy.