Manolos in Manhattan (11 page)

“Really.” He kissed her and draped his arm around her shoulders. “Now that’s settled, I’m knackered. Let’s go to bed.”

Chapter Seventeen

When Holly came home that evening, Jamie was sitting on the sofa in their hotel room, waiting. His expression could only be called grim.

She dropped her handbag on a chair. “Jamie! What are you doing home? I thought you’d be working late.”

“Yeah, that much is obvious.” He turned off the TV and tossed the remote aside. “It
is
late, if you hadn’t noticed. Where’ve you been until–” He glanced at his watch. “–half-past eleven?”

“I told you, I had lunch with Nat, and then I went back to work.” She left out the bit about seeing Hugh Darcy at the copier and his unexpected invitation to join him at the tiny Korean place around the corner.

Over spicy soup and scallion pancakes they’d shared their theories about the identity of the mystery flapper in the portrait, and they’d lost track of time.

“You were working? Until nearly
midnight
?” The skepticism in his voice left no room for doubt – he didn’t believe her.

“Of course not,” Holly said. “I wasn’t working the whole time. I met up with...someone after work, and we had dinner together. That’s all.”

“Ah. And who was this ‘someone’ you had dinner with?”

“My father’s solicitor, Hugh Darcy. We talked about work.” Which wasn’t strictly true, but there was no need to share her interest in the portrait of the flapper with Jamie. He probably wouldn’t care, anyway.

“Are you sure you weren’t having dinner with Ciaran Duncan?”

“No.” A tiny but hot flare of anger ignited within her. “He’s back in London. And why is it a big deal if
I’m
late for once, anyway? You’re
always
late.”

“I told you I’d be home early tonight,” he retorted, “and I managed to get here by nine-thirty...but I came back to an empty hotel room.”

“Well, sorry, but you’re not the only one with a job and responsibilities. Speaking of which,” Holly couldn’t help adding, “how’s your sous chef?”

“Oh, shit – I knew it. You’re jealous of Catherine.”

“Only because all you do is tell me how wonderful she is, how you couldn’t peel a potato or – or caramelize a crème brûleé without her.”

“Oh, for...” he sighed. “We work together, Holly. I’m sorry if you can’t handle that. You never used to be so insecure.”

Fresh outrage coursed through her. “Insecure?
You’re
the one who’s insecure – you’re jealous of Ciaran, because we spent one day together doing publicity for the store.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” he snorted. He got up and stalked to the bathroom. “I’m not jealous of that twat of a film star. And I’m not listening to any more of this crap. I’m taking a shower, and I’m going to bed.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

And as he disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door, Holly felt her lower lip begin to wobble. How had things gone so wrong between them, so quickly?

She was weary of putting up with Jamie’s long hours, it was true; and she was tired of listening to his endless paeans to Catherine and her indispensability.

But she wasn’t about to let a silly misunderstanding come between them.

Jamie was right – she’d turned into an insecure, jealous cow lately, obsessing over dead flappers and mooning over a film star like a love-crazed sixth-former.

What had happened to the girl she used to be, she wondered, trekking fearlessly around London, befriending a homeless girl and chasing after a human trafficker, writing articles for publication, interviewing interesting people?

No wonder Jamie doesn’t want to spend time with me anymore
, Holly thought. And who could blame him?

The bathroom door opened, and a cloud of steam escaped as Jamie, hips wrapped in one of the white hotel towels, reemerged. He looked at her, his expression wary. “Coming to bed?”

She went and flung her arms around him. He was damp and smelled deliciously of soap and aftershave. “Sorry,” she apologized, “I’ve been awful. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got home. I miss you. I miss spending time with you.”

He looked at her, his blue eyes serious. “I miss you, too, Hols. I know it’s crazy right now, and I’m sorry, but it won’t always be like this.” He kissed her. “I want to do all of those touristy New York things with you. I want to squire you all over town and show you off. Once Gordon Scots is launched, we’ll do all the touristy stuff you can stand, and more.”

Holly tipped her head back and lifted her brow. “More? Like...what kind of ‘more,’ exactly?”

“Like this,” he said huskily as he began to nibble at her ear, “and this,” he added as he rested his hands on her hips and drew her closer so she could feel how much he wanted her.

“So far, I like it,” she breathed, and closed her eyes as his lips roved slowly down her neck.

“Oh, believe me,” he said as he kissed his way down her shoulder, “there’s a lot more ‘more’ where that came from.”

“I need you to go back to the attic,” Coco informed Holly first thing on Monday morning, “and bring the Tiffany lamp and Victrola downstairs. Alastair will want to sell them, or ship them back to England. They can’t stay up there.”

“But I can’t carry that stuff down by myself,” Holly objected. “It’s far too heavy.”

Coco sighed. “Hugh,” she called out as Mr Darcy passed by her office on his way to see Alastair, “would you go up to the attic with Miss James when you have a moment? She needs help carting a couple of antiques downstairs.”

He glanced at Holly. “I can’t right now, I’m busy at the moment. Give me twenty minutes and I’m all yours, Miss James.”

“Thanks.” So much for calling me ‘Holly,’ she thought irritably, and turned away.
Self-important knob.

Half an hour later, Holly – scowling at the injustice of it all – was sorting through a pile of marketing flyers Coco had dumped on her, when Hugh returned.

“I apologize for the delay,” he told her. “I had to sit in on a conference call with Alastair.”

“It’s okay,” she said, and shrugged as if it couldn’t matter less...which it couldn’t.

“You’re annoyed with me.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact.

“No, Mr Darcy,” Holly said in exasperation, “I’m not annoyed with you. I’m annoyed with Coco. The woman is a fiend. She enjoys tormenting me. I despise her.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong. At any rate, I can’t imagine it’s anything personal.”

“Oh, but it is. She hates me,” Holly said as she put the flyers aside and stood up. “She takes every opportunity she can to make my job a misery.”

He paused, and wisely changed the subject. “I took the liberty of asking a curator I know to come over this morning and take a look at the painting. Just as well, since we’re going up to the attic anyway. He also specializes in art deco and antiques. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course I don’t.” Holly blinked. Goodness, but Hugh Darcy was organized.

A few minutes later the curator, a tall, bald gentleman named Mr Gilpin joined them, and they headed up the stairs to the attic. He looked at the portrait, murmuring with interest as he examined it, and took a tiny paint sample from one corner.

“I’ll let you know what I find out,” he told them. He glanced at the Tiffany lamp. “Very nice,” he murmured. “Is it for sale?”

“Not yet. But we’ll keep you in mind.” Hugh took the card Mr Gilpin handed him, thanked him for his time, and stayed behind to help Holly. “Now, then, where’s this Victrola?” he asked as he removed his suit jacket and draped it carefully over a chair.

Holly couldn’t help but notice that his shirt was white with narrow blue stripes, and his chest and shoulders filled it out very nicely.

“Miss James?”

“Sorry,” she murmured, flustered. “It’s over here.”

The two of them grabbed the Victrola and carried it – well, mostly Hugh did – down to Alastair’s office. Holly thanked him. “I’ll go back and get the lamp now.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No need, Mr Darcy,” she said, “I can manage.”

“I’m afraid I have to go back. I left my jacket on the chair.”

“I’ll get it,” she offered. “I have to go up again anyway. Besides, I’m sure you’re far too busy to spend all morning in the attic.”

So it was agreed, and Holly returned to the attic, alone. She picked up Hugh’s jacket, and was just about to go and get the Tiffany lamp when the room grew suddenly cold.

Holly froze. The smell of lavender was strong, stronger than it had ever been. She heard a distant, silvery laugh. Although her heart was racing, she wasn’t afraid, exactly. All the same, the tiny hairs on her arms stood up, and Hugh’s jacket fell from her nerveless fingers to the floor.

Chapter Eighteen

“Who...who’s there?” she stammered, unable to move.

Of course there was no answer. Her eyes swept the attic with trepidation; but she was relieved to see nothing out of the ordinary.

Whatever she’d sensed, it was gone now.

As Holly bent down to pick up Hugh’s jacket, a folded square of paper fluttered out of the pocket. She picked it up. ‘Coco Welch’ was scrawled on the paper, in the British barracuda’s unmistakable, loopy handwriting.

And beneath it was her phone number...her
personal
cell phone number.

Holly’s eyes narrowed. What was Hugh doing with Coco’s phone number in his pocket? Was he seeing her, even though he claimed he detested her?

More importantly, why did she even care?

She thrust the paper back in his pocket. Evidently still waters ran deep with Mr Darcy. She was just reaching out to grab the lamp – damn, but it was heavy – when she heard a rustle somewhere behind her.

Holly whirled around, her heart flailing in her chest. But there was nothing there.

She turned back to grab the lamp and get the hell out of there when her eye was caught by a sheaf of papers peeking out of a nearby silver urn. Holly frowned, puzzled.

Why had she never noticed them?

Quickly, before she lost her nerve or felt another breeze or heard the sound of distant, silvery laughter, she went to the urn. After a moment’s hesitation she reached out and took the bundle of paper into her hands.

They were letters, she realized with dawning interest, tied with badly frayed ribbon. She turned the parcel over. They were yellowed, and smelled faintly of lavender. And they were obviously quite old.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Had the...presence, or whatever it was that lingered in the attic – had it led her to this parcel? Were these love letters, perhaps? Holly wondered with growing excitement. She held the packet to her nose and breathed deeply.

She sneezed.
Dust
. But she also smelled, just barely, the scent of lavender and vanilla...the same scent she’d encountered in the attic twice before.

Her heart raced. Might these letters have something to do with the girl in the painting, the mysterious flapper?

“Holly,” Coco called up irritably from the foot of the attic stairs, “whatever are you doing up there? I have a stack of photocopying I need you to take care of straightaway. Do please retrieve that lamp and come back downstairs.”

“Coming, Coco,” Holly said automatically, and thrust the bundle of letters in Hugh’s jacket pocket.

She draped the jacket over her arm, picked up the lamp, and hurried back downstairs.

Gordon Scots would launch its newest restaurant tomorrow.

Catherine leaned forward to check the reach-in, her attention focused on ensuring the refrigerator was fully stocked with things like eggs and milk, soft cheeses, and crème fraiche. Everything had to be ready for the grand opening. There was still a lot to do, and tempers were running short.

With the exception, she noted wryly, of Jamie. The chef had come in before dawn, as usual; what wasn’t usual was that, despite the early hour, he was whistling. All morning he’d been joking with everyone, even as he dealt with the suppliers and supervised the unloading of delivery trucks and answered questions about the menu and the specials and a thousand other details.

Now, he turned up the volume on the in-house satellite radio and grabbed Catherine around the waist as “Happy” by Pharrell Williams played.

“You’re crazy,” she laughed as he waltzed her around the pastry chef’s table and past the industrial dishwasher.

“No,” he corrected her, “I’m happy, like the song. I’ve got a brand-new restaurant opening in Manhattan tomorrow, my first ever in America. It’ll be great. I’m chuffed.”

“It
will
be great,” Catherine agreed as she drew back, “but only if I get the reach-in stocked and the pantry properly arranged. I’ve got dozens of crates of veggies in back to put in the bins.”

“Work, work, work,” he teased, grinning as he threw a cloth over his shoulder. “There’s more to life than work, Cath.”

“So I’ve heard.” Her words were dry. “Now let me get back to it, please.”

He snapped off a mock salute. “
Oui
, madame sous chef.”

She went in the back and began sorting through the crates of newly delivered vegetables, still smiling. She’d never seen Jamie like this; he was always so focused in the kitchen, always the consummate professional, with an even temper but no tolerance for nonsense. She loved working for him.

Her smile faded. She knew why he was in such a good mood today – and it probably had everything to do with his girlfriend, Holly.

As she tipped a crate of potatoes into one of the bins, the cell phone in her pocket buzzed. She set the empty crate aside and took it out. “Hello?”

“Ms. Morgan?”

“Yes, this is she.”

“This is Mrs Feldman at PS 18. It’s about your niece, Isabel. She’s complaining of a stomach ache, and she just threw up in the nurse’s office. You need to come to the school right away and bring her home.”

Catherine closed her eyes. Dear God. Could Izzy have chosen a worse possible time to get sick? Immediately she felt guilty. Of course the poor kid didn’t
choose
to be sick.

What a lousy substitute mother I am
, she thought, disgusted at herself for her insensitivity and selfishness.