“There, you see, it is rest you need,” her mother said. “I knew the country would be good for you.”
* * * *
What is wrong with me?
He’d been gone a week and despite the disturbing information gathered on Amelie, he dreamed of her softness underneath him every night in London.
Roman turned on his side and punched the pillow behind him. He was kidding himself if he thought to sleep. Hell, sleep wasn’t what he wanted and after tonight, he wasn’t any closer to getting what he wanted.
The LCD display lit up on the bedside table. He sat up on the edge of the bed and pressed the speakerphone. A little late for a call to the family. He had thought Amelie would be sleeping by now. Instead, she was on the phone engaged in the strangest conversation to be had between a thief and her mother. She acted as if she were innocent in all this and as much as he wanted that to be true, it didn’t seem possible.
Her inability to rest gave him perverse satisfaction, but by the time he disconnected the two-way receiver and lay back on the bed, that satisfaction was replaced with more questions, adding to all those that plagued him.
He had only known her several weeks, and she was under suspicion at that, yet he waited for the right time to make her his. This was a first; she was the most unlikely female he would ever have thought of taking to bed. Her behavior—at least around him—was just shy of being priggish, and yet he could not think about anything else but her sweet flesh.
She wanted him. He could have taken her at any time, yet he didn’t want to do it, at least not the way he had planned. He did not just want to seduce her and be done with it. He wanted her to acknowledge her desire and come to him.
When did I become the lovesick suitor?
One thing was certain—he needed to find some answers before they both went crazy and preferably, before he was killed.
Chapter 11
Koblenz, Germany – March 1988
Roman had almost begged off this charity dinner at Die Fritz Plaza in Koblenz.
Dylan, who had brought his wife Maddy along, was seated next to him and shot him a pleading glance.
His cousin thought he was being rude because he had not said one word in forty-five minutes. He had barely touched the $25,000-a-plate dinner.
He ignored Dylan because he was thinking.
It had taken a few days to iron out the details of the advertising campaign with the Hahn Group here in Germany. He was eager to return to his London headquarters where he would continue the ruination of Bijou.
Ignoring the curious glances from the other dinner guests at the table, Roman smiled. It was actually more of a rejuvenation of the company.
He had decided to rescue Bijou from its financial instability by buying out the Garamondes. This way Emil, the Garamonde heir would have plenty of time to spend with his lover. They could circle the globe on joy romps, as there would be no interfering tedium like the running of a multi-million dollar company to deal with. And he would see to it that Emil never worked in the jewelry business again.
He was acting solely out of revenge. He didn’t need this hostile takeover, but he would enjoy it. In another age, one might have called it a bride price, Bijou for Amelie.
Amelie preferred Emil Garamonde to him.
She wants me, but she won’t give in. Does she think herself in love with the Frenchman? Roman scowled, and more curious glances came his way.
He heard a name, which made him look up. Above the quiet murmurings of the philanthropists dining tonight, the name wafted over to him on jubilant feminine laughter.
Emil.
Roman stood and moved in the direction of the voice without a word to Dylan. His cousin made excuses for him to the table at large, but he only quickened his step.
He could not believe his good fortune. Emil Garamonde here in Germany, seated just several tables away next to a raven-haired beauty who looked expensive.
He did not attempt a smile but nodded in greeting. “Garamonde.”
Emil’s brown eyes held contempt. “I thought that was you with the Hahns.”
“I was sorry to hear of your father. How is he faring?” Roman asked.
“Better now, but I’m afraid he won’t be returning to the helm.”
“Pity.” He stared Emil down. The table’s occupants slipped into uncomfortable silence.
“Emil?” The woman touched Garamonde’s arm.
Emil continued to glare at him, and then finally acknowledged the lady’s request. “This is my fiancée Coty Aumoine.”
Roman glanced at her. “Is that right? Well, the very best of wishes.” He turned back to Emil. “From the Artisan Collection, right?” He gestured to Emil’s ruby cufflinks in the shape of a dragon’s head.
Emil inclined his head.
“The Artisan collection did rather well for you last year. Give my congratulations to Ms. Laurent.”
“Who?”
Roman leaned forward. “Amelie Laurent. With Penrods. Wasn’t she your collaborator?”
“Ms. Laurent was magnificent, yes.” Emil picked up his wine glass and took a sip.
“I am sure she was. Bijou was lucky to secure Ms. Laurent’s services.” She chooses this baby-faced metro-sexual over me?
“Luck had nothing to do with it. Bijou was and still is a force to be reckoned with.”
“Quite right. I wouldn’t have it any other way. How is Ms. Laurent? Are you still in touch?” Roman asked.
Emil put his glass down and stood. “Would you excuse us for a moment, chérie?”
Roman gave Coty Aumoine a genuine smile now that he had managed to goad the bastard into an impromptu meeting. “Good evening.”
He led Emil through the banquet hall. They had just stepped into a large reception area when Emil turned on him.
“What the hell do you want from me, Cardiff?”
Roman walked further into the room styled after a smoking parlor. He checked several clusters of sofas and chairs. They were alone. “I missed you at the opening this morning.”
Emil cursed. “Half of the team you stole from me was there. Besides, I’m sure you did not expect me to attend.”
“Indeed, I did.” He met Emil in the center of room. They stood under the glow of a freestanding brass lamp. “You seem to have an interest in my affairs. Your man has been keeping an eye on the new facility, but for some reason, after the warehouse fire, he was never seen again.”
Emil’s eyes narrowed. “My man?”
“Or is it woman? Surveillance could not determine even that. Bravo.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Emil sputtered.
He took a step closer to Emil. “I’ll tell you what I’m talking about. I’m talking about car wrecks and stray shots on the grounds of my home. By now you have found that I am hard to kill.” When Emil said nothing, he went on.
“Right, then. Play your game, Garamonde, but rest assured that I will play mine. Law of averages says it is a game I play a damn sight better than you. Who do you think will be the last man standing?”
“Are you craving my congratulations already, Cardiff?”
He chuckled as Emil stalked away.
* * * *
“What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“Emil, we are this close. Don’t let the man get to you.”
“Was it you?” Emil spat into the cell phone. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice, moving toward the men’s room. “Did you start the fire?”
“I don’t like your tone. It is the tone of a man who wants out, and we have come too far to stop now.”
“I did not agree to this,” Emil shouted into the phone.
“You want to ruin Cardiff. How else did you expect to accomplish that?”
“Not this way, damn you! We are still reeling from the marketing campaign you engineered,” Emil said.
“The campaign that you hired me for, let’s not forget.”
“The designs are one thing, but we cannot af
ford this kind of publicity…”
“Listen and listen well, Emil. This is no time to let your conscience guide you, if you take my meaning. I need to know now; are you in or out?”
“I will not have Bijou’s reputation sullied this way. We cannot afford it. There is still much work to be done.”
“I see. You draw the line at sabotage,” was the disgusted retort. “There was a time when you would not have been so squeamish. You have forgotten the old ways, brother. The ways of a warrior.”
“You fool. I have not forgotten anything. Would you draw and quarter him in public? These are different times, and we must use different tactics. We could have used that equipment once Cardiff Jewels was ours. You are insane.” Emil disconnected the line.
* * * *
Roman pushed past a waiter on his way back to the table.
Emil Garamonde, playboy and fiancé. Well, Emil could now add criminal to the long list of descriptors the newspapers were so fond of.
It gave Roman no small amount of satisfaction to know that the next photo Emil took for the press would be a mug shot. The bastard.
He stood at his cousin’s side. “I’m leaving.”
“I’m sorry?” Dylan’s smile was a grimace of pain.
For the first time in an hour, Roman addressed the table with an apology, of a sort. “I have to go.”
How barbaric his behavior must seem tonight to his peers in their tailored suits and designer gowns. He could not sit with these blue bloods any longer. It was anticlimactic and besides, this group would have been much better off without him tonight.
A waiter handed him a note. “Mr. Cardiff, from the gentleman at the bar.”
There were two older patrons deep in discussion at the open bar. Roman scanned the contents of the note. “Prepare for battle, Roman warrior. The Men’s Lounge. Now.”
Adrenaline pumped through his veins at the strange words even as a battlefield rose up in his mind…swords clashed…the acrid smell of fires burning…agonized screams of the dying…
“Bastard.” Roman crumpled the note in his hand and tossed it. Confusion made him angrier. Emil’s strange words meant something and he knew it was important to know what but damn it, he couldn’t grasp it. The battlefield slipped away from him, and now he just saw red.
Garamonde had a few more words for him. Well, he would not hesitate to oblige with a fist or two. “Will you excuse me?” he said through clenched teeth to the table’s occupants in general.
Dylan put his fork down with a scowl. “Of course.”
It wasn’t very smart to go charging off to start a fight in public between Bijou and Cardiff Jewels, but he had not participated in a good row since university. And he wanted to beat the meaning of those strange words out of Emil Garamonde. He had been waiting for his assailant to make another move, and now it seemed he’d been right, it was Garamonde.
Roman opened the hall door to the men’s lounge and strode to the inner door leading to the bathroom. He pushed it open, noting the lights were off inside. He felt along the wall for the light switch. It did not work.
He scanned the darkened bathroom. “All right, let’s get this over with. Show yourself.”
Adding to the murk were the black tile walls. The basins and latrines were dark marble, which would be elegant with light to illuminate the gold fixtures. However, now they were just dark shapes for him to ascertain were not Garamonde lying in wait. All the stalls were closed. He would have to check each one.
He took a vase of flowers off the table in the lounge area, and wedged it between the doors leading in to the bathroom. It wasn’t much, but a beam of light cut across from the door to the opposite mirror above a basin. At least what was behind him would be outlined. He might be able to tell the difference between something moving toward him and the stationary objects along the walls.
“Garamonde, let’s have done with this game of cat and mouse.” He kicked open the first stall door; empty. “You called, I came.” He slammed the second door back on its hinges.
“I’m here now. Will you face me like a man or hide in the dark like the slithering snake you are?” The third stall was not as close to the light, and murkier than the first two, but there was no room in it for anyone to hide. “A word of advice; you’d better kill me while you have the chance because if you don’t, when I get my hands on you I am most certainly going to kill you for involving Amelie in this.” He kicked the fourth door open.
Someone charged at him from the fifth stall.
He turned just in time to see the flash of silver coming toward him and grabbed the attacker’s wrist, stopping the knife just inches away from his chest.
At first, his assailant pushed against him in an attempt to put him off balance near the commode, but Roman held on. He could not see any facial features through the ski mask, but the black jumpsuit had a label on it. Some type of uniform.
He squeezed his assailant’s wrist and pulled, bringing it closer, and spotted a white shirt underneath the jumpsuit.
Garamonde had been dressed all in black. This was not Garamonde, and definitely not a janitor.
His assailant could not best him by pressing the forward motion advantage, and now struggled to be free of the vise-like grip.
Roman could not dodge the swift chop to the mid-section in such close quarters. It was just enough to make him loosen his grip on his assailant’s wrist when he instinctively brought down his other hand to prevent injury. The knife sliced into the soft pad of his palm when the assailant pulled away. The assailant ran from the stall.
He lunged, grabbing the knit mask off his attacker’s head.
Glass shattered. The vase by the door.
Running past the stalls, he caught a glimpse of black patent leather shoes before the inner door closed, shutting out the light. He pushed through the outer door of the lounge.
Classical music played softly in the corridor hung with rich damask. An elegantly dressed woman exited the ladies’ lounge at the opposite end of the corridor.
He nodded in passing and wrapped his bleeding hand in the knit cap. He could not walk through the banquet hall dripping blood; he needed to get his hand tended to.
Opening a service door leading to the kitchen, he summoned a worker.
“There has been an accident.” He explained what had happened. Security made a call to get the lights back on in the men’s room.
He and security went back into the men’s room where a guard cleaned and dressed the gash in the palm of his hand. “You will need to sign an incident report.”
“Call the police.”
Roman and the guard both turned from the sink at the tone in the maintenance man’s voice.
The man paled and backed away from the fifth stall.
Though the guard started ahead of him, Roman was first in reaching the stall his assailant had leaped from.
Lying on the black tile floor was Emil Garamonde in his monochromatic black silk suit, the shirt much darker now than black should ever be. His eyes were closed. One might think he was sleeping if it weren’t for the gaping wound in his chest.
* * * *
Roman told the police what he knew of his assailant, which wasn’t much. He gave them the knit cap, a generic black weave without a label. It could be found at any sporting goods store. That was their only lead in the murder of Emil Garamonde.
He rode with Dylan and Maddy back to their estate in the Rhine valley.
“A crime of passion. The man’s chest was in ribbons,” he mused.
Dylan met his gaze from across the limo. “Whoever it was made sure there was no bringing him back.”
“A terrible shame. Isn’t it?” Maddy looked up from the compact mirror to give them both a pointed look.
“How’s the construction going?” Roman said while dialing the manor on his cell.
Maddy sighed, patting a brown wisp back into her upswept hairdo.
“We’ve got the frame up,” Dylan said. “That replacement equipment
has come in. For now, were holding it in Sector B while the warehouse is re-built.”
“Is Amelie home?” Roman asked when James answered the call.
“Is that the new girlfriend?” Maddy whispered to Dylan.
“She’s French.” Dylan grinned.
He ignored them both and spoke into the phone. “No, I don’t need to speak with her. Very well, then, I’ll be home tomorrow.”
Dylan wasn’t smiling anymore. “What’s going on Roman?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
Chapter 12
North Yorkshire, England – April 1988
There was something comforting about toiling away in the quiet drafting room while thunder rumbled and lightening flashed on the other side of the casement windows.
While the awe-inspiring elements of spring raged outside, she and Roman had made great progress with the new designs. They had even begun to refurbish the older ones.
Roman was nowhere to be found at the moment. He’d given her some breathing room since his return from the grand opening of the German plant a few days ago. With Emil’s death in the news it was hard to miss a photo of Roman, his rival, in the papers and a story linking him to the incident at Diefritz Plaza. A member of his public relations team had returned to Yorkshire with him. Though his absence relieved some of the sexual tension that she constantly lived with for more than a month here in Yorkshire, she couldn’t help wondering why he had not tried to kiss her since that night in the vault.
Someone was crying.
She glanced up from the drafting board.
No, the old manor had such wide corridors. It was just the wind whipping around corners.
If that was the wind, it was crying even louder now.
She put down her mechanical pencil and walked to the drafting room door.
No one occupied Haddon Hall. The crying was coming from above.
She walked across the hall and caught a glimpse of auburn curls up above on the south wing stairs. “Hello?” She hurried after the woman but could not catch up.
The crying echoed through the hall.
The woman glided in a gown that skimmed the flagstones faster than Amelie could follow in her heels. The palest gold shimmered on the step as the woman reached the top of the second floor landing and lifted the long skirt to continue toward an alcove.
Love Entwined Page 8
