by Nina Bruhns
Margot chuckled and in that moment she knew the business side of Antonio wouldn’t get in their way. Now she needed to know if he still loved her.
* * *
“You’re saying that my particular copy of Oliver Twist was stolen and then sold to me?”
Antonio stood in the kitchen, a much quieter room, with Jackie and Margot. Two of the butlers who were catering the party stood behind the granite counter, ready to pour wine, mix a cocktail or assist anyone with the over-abundance of food.
Antonio had finally pulled the women away from the inquisitive group in the living room when Margot confessed she was starving, a sure sign she needed a break in the action. Now she sat on a barstool, listening to the conversation while enjoying the kind of food she had craved the previous day: chips, cupcakes and ice cream.
“Yes. I’m sorry, luv. As soon as I saw it, I knew by the inscription and the letter inside. It had been stolen during the Second World War by an SS officer who kept it in his personal collection. His second wife, who he tried to have killed, reported the collection to the FBI, but by then he had left the States and apparently sold his collection. I just didn’t know how you were involved. I had to be sure you were an innocent victim, luv.”
“But I bought it from a reputable source.”
“The problem occurred well before your source obtained it.”
Jackie slid the assortment of bottled wine around on the counter until she found one that she preferred. One of the butlers opened the bottle and poured the wine into a crystal glass. Jackie appeared to be calm and in her element, wearing a sleek black dress and red stiletto heels that could kill a man if she chose to use them as a weapon. Her hair was pulled back into a long ponytail, giving her a slightly more professional look. A look he’d never seen before.
Antonio took a few sips of the shot of scotch he’d been holding., then he said, “Why wasn’t it listed on any databank?”
“Some stolen books ended up in libraries and, ironically were stolen years ago from the library itself along with their index cards, so there was no way to trace them. Your book had been on a lost handwritten list that was only recently recovered and entered into the databank after your purchase.”
Antonio only wanted what was right. “I would love to be there when you return the book to the family.”
“They happen to live in New York, so yes, it should be possible.”
“But how did Margot end up with my book in her suitcase?”
Margot turned to him. “You looked in my suitcase?”
“Yes, yesterday when you asked me to find your shoes.”
“That’s why you were acting so weird. You thought I had something to do with all those books?”
“Yes, and I’m so sorry I ever doubted you . . . either of you.”
“No worries, my darling. I thought you were the book thief,” Jackie said, chuckling, then grabbing a cherry tomato off a tray and popping it in her mouth.
Margot spoke up, explaining, “That suitcase belongs to Jackie. She mistakenly picked up mine when I arrived.” Margot wiped chocolate frosting from her adorable lips. A momentary thought shot through his head of how he’d like to lick that frosting from her sweet lips, and . . . .
“Wait. That was Jackie’s suitcase, but how . . .”
“Actually, sweetie, I purposely swapped them out. I had someone following me and I didn’t want to take any chances. Unfortunately, my darling, that person managed to steal your suitcase, so you won’t be getting your things back anytime soon. They’re now evidence in a case against him. But the good news is, he didn’t get the books.”
“Hey, Jackie, some of your guests are leaving,” Philip said while standing in the doorway looking as if he’d had one too many beers.
“Don’t let them, luv. I want to say goodbye.” She turned to Margot and Antonio. “Now you two kiss and make up. I know you want to. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Antonio said.
“Margot told me all about it . . . we’re best friends, remember? Now get the heck out of here and go make love somewhere expensive. It’s what life’s all about.”
Then she gave them both air kisses and disappeared through the doorway.
Antonio was about to tell Margot how sorry he was, when the quiet kitchen erupted with guests looking for more food and drinks.
Margot stood, and made her way over to Antonio. She took his hand in hers and said, “Isn’t there someplace we can go that’s less crowded?”
* * *
Antonio awoke to a naked woman lying beside him on his bed. A delightful situation, considering Margot had admitted she preferred no blankets of any kind as long as she had a man sleeping next to her to keep her warm.
Antonio wanted nothing more than to be that man for the next hundred years.
They were facing each other, pillows scrunched under their heads, hands tucked under their faces, legs intertwined, while his thoughts lingered on the beautiful days and nights they’d spent together.
He stared at her lovely face as she slumbered next to him, wanting to touch her and taste her skin once more before they parted for the day. They’d spent the past two days in his suite at the Ritz Carlton, ordering room service and only getting out of bed to slip on a robe so one of them could tip the waiter. The rest of the time they remained deliciously naked, getting to know each other’s most intimate desires, and enjoying their moments of unconditional bliss.
Antonio felt as if his dreams of loving a woman had come true tenfold. He never wanted these feelings to end, and he found it almost impossible to believe that anything that felt so good could be this wonderful.
“Hey,” she said opening her sleepy eyes.
“Hey yourself,” he told her.
She rolled over on her back, exposing her perfect body to him, to the sunlight that engulfed the lavish room. Then she stretched like a lazy cat and he went hard watching her . . . wanting her.
“Umm, I think I need a little lovin’ to get me going this morning,” she teased.
He moved up a bit and rested his head on his hand so that his other hand was free to touch her silky skin. He ran his fingers along the curve of her breast, around her nipples then down the center of her body. She squirmed and sighed with his touch.
“Sure, but I have a question for you first.”
“Anything. I’ll do whatever you want.” She gazed over at him, smiling.
He rolled out of bed, padded over to his suitcase and pulled out the rose shaped diamond ring she’d admired at Sotheby’s on their tourist day. He’d had his sister, Isabella, make the purchase and deliver it to the room via courier. She run a thorough check on its history to reassure Antonio that the ring had come to Sotheby’s legally, which thankfully it had.
Antonio slid back in bed, stretching out on his side, while hiding the ring momentarily behind his back.
“Because we met in bed under very different circumstances, I think it’s only appropriate that I ask you this question in a bed, while we’re undressed and uncovered.”
“What’s this all about? You’re making me nervous.” She rolled on her side, shoving the pillow under her head, then flicking her silky hair off her face.
“Margot Butler, you are the love of my life. You are everything I ever dreamed of and more. Words can’t convey how I feel about you and how much I want to wake up with you every morning in my bed . . . naked. Forever.”
“That might be scary when we’re in our eighties.”
“Scary, but fun.”
“You’re weird.”
“That’s why you love me so much, and if you do love me that much, will you consider marrying me?”
He brought his arm around and presented her with the ring, hoping like hell she’d say yes.”
A big smile creased her lips as she sucked in a breath. “You bought the ring? For me?”
“Yes, just for you.”
She pulled back and furrowed her brow. “Are you sure it wa
sn’t stolen?”
“One-hundred-percent sure.”
She held out her left hand and dangled her fingers. He slipped the sparkly ring on her finger. A perfect fit. As if it was made for her.
“Is that a yes?” he asked as she admired the ring and squealed with delight.
“I already told you I’d do whatever you want me to.”
“But what do you want, Margot Butler? What’s your heart’s desire?”
“I want to marry the man I trust . . . the man I love . . . I want to marry you, Antonio Milani and for better or worse, lie naked with you every night until the day I die, hopefully in your arms.”
He reached out for her, eternally thankful for not only one stolen book, but for Jackie Silverman, the woman who would do anything for her best friend. Then he kissed his love with all the fire and passion he had within him, knowing this was truly the first day of the rest of his now perfect life. He had everything he wanted and Margot was at the very top of that list, and he intended to let her know how much he cherished her, and he would do it every day for the rest of their lives. It was his final thought as he lost himself in her kiss, pulling her close and feeling her heart beating against his own, knowing her kisses and her love would last a lifetime.
THE END
About the Author
Mary Leo
Mary Leo is the Amazon bestselling author who writes romance, paranormal romance, romantic suspense, and mystery. She escaped the harsh winters of Chicago by moving to California where you can find her on any given day tucked away in her office writing her next novel . . . unless she fled with her hubby to the nearest beach.
Web site: www.maryleo.com
Twitter: @maryleoauthor
Facebook: www.facebook.com/maryleoauthor
More books by Mary Leo:
The Spia Family Presses On
Trusting Evil
It’s In His Kiss
A GIRL, A GUY AND A GHOST
by Patricia Mason
A Girl, a Guy and a Ghost: Chapter One
It wasn’t easy hunting ghosts. Especially difficult with no psychic abilities. But coming to Savannah, Georgia should make the goal easy, right? Piece of cake? After all, hadn’t Savannah been voted America’s most haunted city by some parapsychology group? Spirits would probably be hanging from every tree like Spanish moss.
Perfect, since Giselle Hunter had less than seventy-two hours to find a ghost. Less than three days to save her job.
However, nothing was as she’d planned. The man sitting opposite her at an outdoor table in the café—her only lead on a haunting—continued to drone on without taking a breath. She could have sworn the grass had grown at least an inch in the nearby square since Giselle arrived, and the guy had said nothing of use.
She had no time for this. Leaning forward, Giselle opened her mouth to speak. “Umm.”
“I say to myself, I say, Victor—my name it is Victor then—you must create the unique way of painting, the new artistic.” The nasal voice, with a French accent, went on. “And I say to myself, the new artistic is so you. You are so new and so artistic.”
Amazing that this guy could puff on a cigarette while sipping an espresso and still not pause long enough for Giselle to get a word in. He was short in stature. Shorter even than Giselle’s five foot five inches. Black hair, with a streak of white in the center, trailed down his back from a rubber band at the nape of his neck like a tail.
This guy reminded her of someone, but who? Movie character? Cartoon character? Never mind, it would come to her.
“My artistic, it is revolution. It is not impressionistic, it is not cubism, it is cross—”
A hint of jasmine wafted on the warm evening breeze that drifted past Giselle as she perched on the edge of the wrought iron chair. The setting was perfectly serene amidst the picturesque historic antebellum row houses. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to take even a sip of the latté in front of her. No doubt it wouldn’t stay down. Her stomach churned.
During her job interview, Giselle had assured Willie Sanders of Ghosthunter Magazine she was psychically talented. Her résumé touted extensive amateur ghost hunting experience. No need to explain this consisted of a childhood of watching Scooby Doo. Hey, a twenty-five-year-old English Lit major had to get a job any way she could. They were tough to come by, even with a college degree.
Willie’s own psychic abilities must have been lacking at the time. Impressed with her embellished résumé, and curvy figure, he’d hired Giselle on the spot. Now, Willie was threatening to fire her.
It was so unfair. She’d only had two failed assignments since she was hired six months ago. They’d been small, really. Now these incidents were known around the magazine’s offices as the “Debacle in Denver” and the “Nuking of New Orleans.” How people loved to exaggerate. Just because that building in the French Quarter burned down. She hadn’t nuked it, for heaven’s sake.
Unfair or not, either Giselle produced an article on an objectively verifiable haunting, with the obligatory travel information, by Monday at 6:00 p.m. or she was out of a job.
“Bah, I say to the critic,” her ghost lead said. “They know nothing of the artistic talent.” His black eyes flashed. Nodding for emphasis set his skunk-like ponytail flapping.
A mosquito landed on her knee. She smacked it, smashing the body into tiny bug parts intermingled with a smudge of blood. Scrubbing it away, she found a reddened bump emerging underneath. Fab.
“The colors that I use in my artistic, I mix myself. I use the ingredient of nature.”
“About your…”
He spoke over her. “The other artiste, they are jaylouse. They wish they had the talent of this little finger.” He held up the allegedly talent-filled finger, and thrust it into her face for inspection.
“Yes, I see.” Catching a whiff of stale tobacco, she jerked her head back. “Very nice finger. But about your studio. I really want to know—”
“This finger it paint the more bootiful than the other artiste here,” he said, waving the appendage. “This finger, it—”
She closed her mouth again. Dammit. She’d be fired for sure. Giselle drummed her fingers on the side of the coffee cup then noticed a pattern in the drumming. Morse code. SOS.
“And so then I change my name to Vector, because it more unique and I am the unique artiste. And then I think I must use only one name. All the great artiste they use only one name. Da Vinci, Renoir, Picasso.”
“Actually, I think they each had two names.”
“So, I am Vector. Only Vector. I have no last name. Is that not unique?” He looked at her expectantly.
Startled, she jumped in. “Oh, you’re unique. That’s for sure.”
Vector beamed with pleasure at her response, not having detected the note of sarcasm in her voice. She had to do something to get this meeting on track.
“This is all fascinating, but I’d like to talk about your ghost.”
His eyes were more blank than mirrored sunglasses. Perhaps he didn’t understand the word. Giselle raked one hand through her auburn curls, struggling to recall the French word for ghost. Damn. Where was an English-French dictionary when she really needed it?
Giselle plowed on. “The ghost, you know? The spirit in your studio?”
His brows converged into one bushy brow. Confusion or constipation?
“A haunted studio. A ghost?” Vector asked.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes.”
“Wait a minute. Now I’m getting confused. Are you saying that your studio is not haunted?” Giselle asked.
Vector nodded. “I never see, I never hear. There is no ghost in studio.”
“You didn’t come here to tell me about your ghost and take me to see it?”
“No. I am here on date,” Vector said.
The last word echoed in her mind. Mary Ellen had set her up on a blind date. Giselle had relied on her former college roommate to help he
r. Mary Ellen, a native Savannahian, had assured Giselle the Frenchman had a ghost. But no.
Mary Ellen’s obsession with finding Giselle a perfect man had hit a new high…or low this time. Worse, how could Mary Ellen have imagined Giselle would make a love connection with this Vector guy?
She would definitely kill her, now-former, best friend. Giselle made a mental list of the methods by which she could do the deed. Then she stopped herself. Killing her former friend would be too kind. Torture. Yes, that was it. Torture would stretch out Mary Ellen’s suffering.
Tying Mary Ellen to her sofa and forcing her watch twenty-four hours of reality television might do it. The ones they have on that obscure cable channel. The show featuring the rap guy with the clock fetish. That would teach her. Or she could force-feed Mary Ellen spinach. No. Mary Ellen, the health nut, loved vegetables.
“I am unique artiste. I paint only the self-portraits. I am painting what I know and I see myself every day. I paint what is interest, no?”
No, definitely not. She pressed a finger to the sudden twitch at the corner of her right eye. Should she be rude and just announce the date was over, or should she be polite and make an excuse? Giselle opted for politeness.
“Listen, Vector.” She rose to her feet, gathered up her purse, and prepared to leave the café. “I really need to get back to my hotel. I have to start work very early tomorrow. It was nice meeting you.”
Was it really a lie if she was trying to be polite? She didn’t need to incur any bad karma right now.
Vector stood up and the top of his head came level with her shoulder. Giselle turned away from him and started down the sidewalk. The skunk followed.
“I walk you to hotel,” Vector said. “I am gentleman. But you understand if we are attacked, I do not protect you. I am artiste, not soldier.”
Great.
“Also, I am not attracted to you.” He shouted from behind her.
