Garden of Lies (50 page)

kid bursting with a secret, giving her those odd looks and then ordering that bottle of champagne.

Well, no wonder her head was floating away. Weren’t they both a little tipsy?

“I think it ... it has possibilities,” she said at last, fumbling to avoid saying the wrong thing.

Nikos turned his dark gaze on her, and gave a booming laugh that echoed in the decrepit vacant

chamber. “Bullshit. You hate it. What a lousy liar you are, Sylvie. You look as if you just bit into

something tasting very bad.”

“Well, it
is
going to take a lot of work.” She felt embarrassed. But why should she? “Oh,

Nikos, you aren’t serious about buying this, are you? I mean ... well, the location is good. So

close to Gramercy Park and only five blocks from your office. But just
look
at it. It’s a wonder it

hasn’t been condemned. And how big did you say it is?”

“Three stories besides this one. Come, take a look?” Before she could answer, he was taking

her arm, guiding her up another [301] steep, curving, and—Sylvie thought with alarm—quite

perilously rickety staircase.

It
was
perilous, she decided, feeling certain stairs sway from their weight, and creak like a

ship’s mast in a high wind. And boards over the risers were missing here and there. If she were

less vigilant, she could so easily fall, maybe sprain an ankle. There was a sharp, unpleasant smell,

too like rotten juniper berries. Panting as she neared the top, she saw a dark shape skate out of the

shadows and streak across the landing. Her heart lurched. Then she saw it was only a cat. So

that’s why the place stank so.

On the third floor Nikos was taking her through a large, airy room with a discolored marble

fireplace, probably a bedroom. At the soot-streaked window, looking sharply to the left, Sylvie

could just make out green grass with lovely flowerbeds and neat gravel paths. Young women

pushing baby carriages, and people on the benches, books open in their laps, splashed in leafy

sunlight.

Suddenly, oh yes, she
could
see the possibilities here. A staggering amount of work, but in the

end ...

Sylvie turned away from the window, and there was Nikos, crouching over the floor, unrolling

the plans, anchoring each corner with a chunk of chimney brick.

“You see ... here and here ... this is where I knock out the partitions, make big rooms, more

sunlight. And look, here, no more tiny kitchen. I put in a big one. On Greene Street this morning,

I saw an old butcher’s trestle, enormous, and it could be perfect for right along this wall. But this

door, I am not sure about this. I think perhaps it should be here. ...”

Before she quite realized what she was doing, Sylvie was kneeling beside him, caught up in his

enthusiasm. Michel would probably throw a fit if he saw what she was doing to the classic

eggshell linen suit he had designed for her; and Sylvie saw that there was already a black streak

on her pale, biscuit-colored silk blouse. But so what? She was having fun.

Sylvie, inhaling the acrid, fruity smell of the blueprint, followed Nikos’s blunt finger as it

moved from room to room with decisive, jabbing strokes.

“No,” she interrupted him, “I don’t think you should put a door there. It looks cluttered. Why

not open up this whole south wall, [302] put in French windows? Make this space by the garden

into a sun porch. You see, there’s plenty of room for a dining room over here, instead.”

“Yes ... I think maybe you are right.” He screwed up his eyes, as if trying to visualize the

effect. “And what about here? I should make a pantry, no? I think perhaps it’s too small for a

breakfast room.”

“No, not at all, if you take out this wall of cabinets. You see, you have enough room here to

create an island in the center. Much more efficient, I think. A counter you can use on both sides,

with cupboard space below. And a place to hang spectacular copper pots overhead.”

Nikos rocked back on his heels, and stared at her. “Amazing! Sylvie, you always surprise me.

How did you manage to hide your light under a barrel for so long?”

“A bushel,” she corrected him with a laugh. “And never mind about me. How are
you
going to

accomplish all this? You’ve never renovated an old house. It can be much more difficult than

building a new one from the ground up.” She remembered years ago when they’d first bought the

house in Deal, a century-old white elephant—but even so, not anywhere near as decrepit as this—

and all the weekends she’d spent overseeing plasterers, carpenters, painters.

“With your help,” he answered without hesitation.

“Me? What do I know about it?”

“You’ve just shown me. And—” he held out his hand, palm up, cutting off any further

argument, “you have an eye for beauty. This house is female, I can feel it, can’t you? It needs a

woman’s touch.”

“Oh, Nikos ...” Sylvie looked into his black eyes and saw that he was completely serious. She

was both flattered and dismayed. “You’re the most impossible man I’ve ever known.”

“You find it impossible to say no then?” He grinned.

“I just don’t know. ...”

“Think about it. Please.”

Then he caught her chin in his square calloused hands—she could smell the blueprint ink on

his fingers, feel the grit of plaster dust along her jaw, which he was holding—and he kissed her.

Feeling the warm shock of his mouth against hers, Sylvie [303] thought,
Dear God,
I’m
the

one who’s gone mad. Thirty years ago he kissed me like this. But now? This can’t be happening.

We’re just old friends. We’re way past this kind of nonsense.

But she found herself surrendering to the sensations, which were both wonderful and

overwhelming. And she felt warm, much too warm, as if the June sunshine spilling in through the

window were focused on her, Burning her the way she used to burn her name into pieces of wood

with a magnifying glass when she was a child.

How long since she had felt this way? Years, oh years.

Dear Lord, what made me think I was too old?

Had he waited all this time, until he thought she was ready?

She drew back, thought she saw the answer in his eyes. Yes, he had waited a long time. They

were so different now from the reckless fools who had clutched at each other in shame, so long

ago. It had taken them time, yes, many years to learn to respect and like each other. To know each

other as two people, two friends.

Now with one kiss, he had reminded her she was still a woman, and he a man. His eyes told

her,
I am here, if you want me, if you’re ready.

Not yet,
she answered him silently,
but maybe soon. Yes, I think it could be very soon.

Sylvie drew back, feeling slightly chilled. The oblong of sunlight they had been kneeling in

had crept all the way to the wall, leaving them in shadow.

A huge cat leaped out of nowhere, and stood frozen inside the doorway, glaring at them, dirty

white fur on end, tail twitching. Sylvie, startled, let out a small cry.

“It’s all right,” Nikos soothed, “he is hungry, that is all. He is wondering if we have food for

him.”

“He looks as if he’d like to eat
us.”

Then the cat was gone, melting into the shadows.

Nikos rose, extending a hand to help her up. “Come, my dear Sylvie. I shall take you home

where no wild cats will eat you. Then I will say good-bye. I will be in Boston on business until

next Monday. Perhaps when I return we will have dinner?”

“Yes, I think that can be arranged. At any rate,” she said as she rescued the blueprints, rolling

them and tucking them under her arm, “it’ll give me a chance to go over these.”

[304] He grinned, a flash of white teeth against the seamed leather of his face. She felt her

heart turn liquid once again, and the old longing grow warm and heavy as an unborn child in her

belly.

Sylvie, her hand tucked firmly in Nikos’s warm, solid grasp, thought,
Oh dear, what in

heaven’s name am I getting into?

Chapter 19

Max Griffin sipped his coffee, and looked out at the Thames, gleaming like blackened,

tarnished silver in the morning sun. A real bonus, this sunshine. Usually it drizzled nonstop here

in London. He was having his favorite breakfast at the Savoy, enjoying his favorite view. So why

did he feel so damned rotten? Hung over, as if he’d put away too much claret last night. Only he

hadn’t tasted more than a drop.

It had to be Rose. What else? Yesterday, they’d been hip to hip for hours in the airplane, then

arriving in London, they’d ducked into that jammed Chelsea restaurant for dinner, taking the only

table that was left, a tiny corner booth where they were practically on top of each other. All

evening, smelling her perfume, feeling the warm breath of her laughter, seeing the sparkle in her

eyes.

Last night, he’d wanted to reach across and take her hand, so badly. How close she’d been, her

thigh pushed up against his in the narrow booth, her arm brushing him as she gestured. And yet

they might as well have been back in the office. Which was exactly where he should have left

her. Strictly business? Hell, who was he kidding?

Well, too late now. He’d just have to make the best of it. It’d be only three days. Less, if the

uptight Brit lawyer would only accept the absurdly overgenerous settlement he’d been authorized

to offer.

Max gazed down on Victoria Park, a strip of green lawn pocketed with flowerbeds, and seamed

with neat stone paths. Below it, the Embankment was clogged with rush-hour traffic, while on the

sidewalk secretaries and clerks walked briskly without appearing to rush, tightly furled umbrellas

swinging at their sides, clocking their pace like pendulums.

God bless the Brits, he thought. The sun shining. Sky as clear as a newborn baby’s conscience.

And not one without his brolly. [306] Many wore hats, too, and carried raincoats folded neatly

over one arm.

Playing it safe,
he thought.
But then, aren’t we all?

Max saw that door in his mind. The door that connected his suite to the room next door.

Painted a pastel blue, inset panels, forged brass hardware, and no lock or key. Just a huge brass

bolt, which he or anyone easily could slide back. And yet last night for a full hour he had stood

there, hands sweating, pulse pounding, unable even to knock, much less unlatch the bolt. Wanting

so to walk through that door, take Rose in his arms, and tell her what he’d been feeling for so

long: that he was obsessed by her, that he wanted her desperately, that he loved her dearly.

And if he had dared? How would she have reacted? Shocked at first probably. Then

overflowing with sympathy. Poor old Max. She was fond of him. She’d let him down real easy.

Like an old dog who has to be kindly put out of its misery by a caring owner.

Yeah, she might even invite him into bed, out of gratitude, feeling she owed it to him. Christ,

to have her that way ... it would be a hundred times worse than not having her at all.

“Ready to order, sir?” A brisk voice broke into his thoughts.

Max blinked up at a waiter in a spotless white jacket and black bow tie, crisp damask towel

folded over his arm. His face utterly impassive, brown hair pasted to his skull, flat and shiny as an

otter’s pelt.

“Not just yet,” he answered. “I’m waiting for someone. She should be down any minute.”

“Very good, sir.” The waiter vanished as if into thin air.

Max gazed about at the other breakfasters. Seated by the sun-filled windows, immaculately

tailored City of London types sawing at their eggs and kippers. A pair of shapeless middle-aged

women, wearing tweeds, no makeup, and sensible shoes, probably two titled women, sipping tea

and nibbling on brioches. Like a scene from
Masterpiece Theatre.
He had to look hard for the

flaws, the outtakes. A trolley parked haphazardly by a pillar stacked with dirty plates and pulp-

flecked juice glasses nested in silver servers full of melting ice. A fly buzzing about the basket of

brioches on his table. A large coffee-colored stain on the carpet.

Turning toward the vast room’s interior, he caught sight of a [307] dark-haired woman making

her way past the white latticed gazebo in the center, where at high tea a pianist played softly. Tall,

leggy, voluptuous, she moved with the unstudied grace of a woman who is unaware of her own

beauty. Max, transfixed, felt something flare inside him, as if he’d just drunk his entire cup of

coffee in one scalding gulp.

God almighty, six years, and I still get hard like a teenager seeing her walk into a room.

He watched her wind her way toward his table, a Caravaggio in a room full of Sargents, olive-

coppery skin aglow, wild black hair tumbled about her shoulders. As if to offset her exotic

lushness, she was wearing a straight tweed skirt, a plain white silk blouse, open at the throat, with

a single strand of pearls. He remembered giving her those pearls, nestled inside a Mark Cross

briefcase, the day she passed her bar exam. Strange, how she wore that earring, though. Just one,

like a pirate. For years now, always that single teardrop ruby dangling from her right ear. Her

birthstone, she had told him. She said it brought her luck.