Now she had Roman and their work together, and Penrods was just no comparison to creating what you loved most with the one you loved.
Besides the designs, they were about to embark on their own investigation. While Chief Bryant and his team handled the criminal aspect, she and Roman would investigate the other less human possibilities. Upon their return to England, they would do their own research to find out who or what wanted them dead and why, and hoped to beat the killer at this game.
When they finished packing, there was a pile of suitcases and garment bags in the center of the living room floor. A few sentimental pieces of furniture she was taking with her, but everything else would be sold. St. Clair Manor had all that she wanted in the way of furnishings. It was as if the home had been decorated to her taste and she loved it. Amelie said her goodbyes to the security guard after the moving company picked up everything to be shipped to England.
“You will take good care of Ms. Laurent, won’t you, sir?” the guard asked.
Roman gave a curt nod, meeting Amelie’s eyes. “I will guard her with my life.” With a suitcase under each arm, he went out to the waiting limo.
Amelie kissed the red-faced guard on the cheek. She hadn’t really known anyone else in the building, what with the hours she kept. She had lived at work and was always coming or going. “We will send you the wedding photos. I will miss you. What is the word of the day?”
“There is only one word for a day like today, Ms. Laurent, L-O-V-E.”
A tortuous squeal of tires outside lifted the hair on her neck.
In tune to the frenetic city, she turned in slow motion, drawn to the impending crash that sound denoted.
When it came, it was the most terrifying crush of finality she had ever heard. The crunch of metal upon metal rang in her ears like a never-ending death knell, dulling her other senses and blinding her with fear.
When it was over, Amelie was clutching the edge of the granite counter. She unfurled her fingers and listened to terrifying silence after that devastating crash.
The guard sprinted past her, faster than she had ever seen the middle-aged man move.
She stood shaking, dodging thoughts she could not allow herself to think, when she heard the sirens. Everything slowed, as in a nightmare.
Go and see…
She put one foot in front of the other until she was at the revolving door. Before she could push on it, the guard came through.
“Don’t go out there, Ms. Laurent.” He tried to take hold of her arm, but with a sudden, desperate nimbleness, she slipped past him and through the door to Madison Avenue.
She pushed her way through the lunchtime crowd, which had gathered in front of the building. She could see the tops of the open ambulance doors above the wall of heads. She made it to the first line of onlookers, and must have pulled on a man’s arm because he turned, took one look at her face and moved out of the way.
There was so much blood she could not look away from it.
It was the shoes that drew her; they were not the grey loafers Roman had been wearing today. They were black dress shoes.
Terrence, the chauffeur.
Amelie sagged against a body, and someone held her up. “Roman?”
“Please, Miss Laurent, go back inside.”
The guard’s voice; he was holding her. She bolted from his arms. “Where is Roman?”
Then she saw him, sitting on the sidewalk with his back up against the apartment building wall. An attendant was examining him. She pushed past someone in uniform who was trying to stop her from coming too close to the broken body. She knelt down next to Roman.
“I am his fiancée,” she shook off a hand that took hold of her arm. After that, she did not spare a glance for anyone else.
“What is your name, miss?” the paramedic asked.
“Amelie Laurent.”
“She lives in the building.” the guard was standing next to her.
The paramedic nodded. “Well, Ms. Laurent, don’t touch him until I say it’s all right. Can you do that for me?”
She withdrew her hand from Roman’s leg.
He was not looking at her, and she did not like the way his eyes slid slowly from the man’s white jacket to the ground. Large drops of blood dripped from a cut on his forehead to make a garish pattern on his shirt.
“He got knocked out for a minute, but he is going to be okay. Mr. Cardiff, tell your fiancée not to worry.”
Roman did not answer.
Amelie bit her lip, holding in the banshee wail threatening to erupt from her throat. She could not go to pieces. He needed her. Instead, she took a breath and watched the paramedic while he tried to help Roman stay awake. “What happened?”
“He was thrown clear. He’s a strong one, got up on his own before anyone could stop him. His arm is broken.” The paramedic gestured to where yellow lines were being put in place and a canvas now covered Terrence’s body. “Witnesses say that man was a hero. The car took the sidewalk, about to barrel over Mr. Cardiff when the chauffeur shouted. Poor guy was caught on the side loading bags into the car. Your fiancé was bumped out of the way when the body landed on him. And now he’s here to tell the story, right Mr. Cardiff?”
“Amelie.” Roman’s eyes were on her now. When he tried to get up, another paramedic took his good arm to help. Roman cursed. It made him sound stronger than he looked at the moment.
Tears blurred her vision as she watched him move in pain. “Who did this?”
“Hit and run,” the paramedic answered.
She stared at him, waiting for him to say more.
The paramedic focused on Roman, whose curses were fluid enough through clenched teeth as both attendants helped him onto a stretcher.
“They say it was a black Mercedes with tinted windows,” the guard said. “No one saw the driver.”
“Mon dieu…London and New York,” she whispered.
“What was that, Ms. Laurent?”
It was just as well that the guard did not hear her. She was not talking to him. But very soon, she would be talking to Dora.
* * * *
“Damn it to hell, Amelie!” Roman shouted from the kitchen.
“I told you I would make the tea.” She came into the kitchen, buttoning her blouse.
When Roman saw that, he put the kettle down with the one hand he had use of and reached for her before she could finish.
She picked up the kettle. “You, sir, are supposed to be taking it easy.”
“I will take it any way I can get it.” One arm in a sling could not prevent Roman from arching that dark brow.
When the phone rang, she disentangled herself from his good arm.
He groaned. “Just you wait, I’m going to…”
“Yes?” she stuck her tongue out at Roman. “Would you send her up, please?” She turned to Roman. “Your assistant is here, and she will be here until I return.”
She ducked out of the kitchen, with Roman on her heels.
“I do not need Gillian. Tell her to go back to the office.”
She sat down on the sofa and put on her pumps. “She brought her work and some of yours. Remember the German plant?”
Roman’s harassed expression wavered.
She continued ruthlessly, “And the General Manager in Paris has questions.”
“I told him I was keeping everyone in place at Bijou. It is a name change for them, for now.”
He walked over to the dining room table, and started to look over the files that had been delivered yesterday.
At the knock on the door, Amelie got up and pointed a finger at him. “Be nice to her.” She opened the door and let Gillian in.
* * * *
It was strange, entering the building without her art case.
It felt like a day off, and should have been a carefree moment, one of the few in her working life at Penrods. It would have been, except for Dora.
Amelie went straight into Dora’s office, which was a few doors down from her old one.<
br />
Dora was on the phone with her back to the door.
Amelie slammed the door shut and Dora swiveled in the chair. If it was possible, she turned paler under the artifice of too much coral blush and contour.
Amelie walked over to the desk and Dora put the phone down without another word to the other person on the line.
“I thought you would be on a private jet bound for the happily-ever-after by now.”
It was not the sarcasm that incited Amelie, but the way Dora could recover so quickly from all her deceits.
Dora had always been that good. Whereas, she could feel the fire rising in her, knew it was there in her eyes. “D’accord. That is one of the reasons I came, to give you our schedule in case you would like to try again in London.”
Dora began to rise. “I have a meeting…”
Amelie put both hands on the desk, more to clear the red she saw than for a menacing affect. She leaned across the desk. “Do not get up.”
Dora’s eyes narrowed. She leaned back in her chair, hands raised in blasé surrender.
“Your family is from England. I never knew that.”
“That’s because I never told you.”
“How is poor Grandpère?”
“Dead, for years now. Besides what sparks this sudden interest in my family I would like to know what is so important that you barge into my office and interrogate me—”
“What were you doing in London?”
Dora’s brown eyes rested on the sapphire and diamond engagement ring winking on the clenched fist before her. When she spoke, her words were low in contemplation. “Ten years with Penrods and I have yet to get a cover spread, much less a commercial. But you, you always land on your feet, don’t you, little darling?”
As Dora admired her ring, Amelie scanned Dora’s earlobes, neck and fingers, searching for dragon rubies. She didn’t think Dora would be caught dead wearing her designs and didn’t have anything to worry about on that score.
“Land on my feet; very interesting choice of words. No, I do not always land on my feet, and you damn well know it!”
Dora did get up from her chair then. She moved to the glass panel and stared down at Park Avenue. “What you are talking about?”
Amelie saw her two hands spread out before her, pushing Dora through the glass, and Dora screaming all the way down to land with a muffled thump on the hood of a taxicab waiting at the corner…
Would it be so bad to spend time in prison for ridding the world of Dora?
Amelie put down her hands. It would be time away from Roman. “I had an accident in England around the time you were there.”
Dora sighed in exasperation. “What is that supposed to mean?” She turned, stiffening when she saw that they now stood only inches apart.
“And lately, Roman is prone to accidents.”
“The jewel magnate turned fiancé. You have jumped many rungs on the ladder, my little darling. Some of us have to work for what we get. And I don’t just mean lying on our backs.”
Amelie slapped Dora hard across the face.
Dora’s hand came up.
“Do it.” Control fled to safer regions. Amelie was in a place she had never been before. A wild, desolate place haunted with the memory of what it felt like to believe that Roman was lying broken and still on a New York City street, and that her world had ended.
The blonde’s eyes iced over and she raised a hand to the red handprint on her cheek. “You are right, of course. That was a terrible thing to say.”
Amelie took a step back because her fingers still itched to rip out Dora’s hair. “I do not think I can take another accident.”
She took a savage breath and turned her back on Dora. She walked out of the office and straight to the elevators.
Amelie was standing on the sidewalk in front of the office building when she realized Dora had never answered her question about what she was doing in London.
* * * *
Amelie listened to the unending moan of a mother’s grief.
Sober faces shielded from the sun by a canvas awning. The sun should not be shining on the day of such a young man’s funeral.
When she took Roman’s free hand in hers, he looked down at her. There was a stubborn set to his square jaw and a nerve working on his furrowed brow. He looked ready to kill.
He turned back to the preacher who was talking of journeys and promises, but he was not looking at the preacher. His eyes were on the sea of gravestones behind the preacher. His lips tightened as he rolled his shoulder under the black arm sling over a suit of the same color.
He was not listening. He had turned away because she had seen too much. She saw that he meant to avenge Terrence’s death.
Dora’s mocking face hovered in her mind, and was then replaced by Roman’s.
More people will die before this is over.
She shivered with the clarity of that thought, and knew it to be true.
“Next stop, Castle Zuoz.” Roman said only for her ears.
She stared at his profile. Just as she knew whoever was responsible for all this would not stop until they had achieved their goal, she knew Roman would never run from a challenge.
Chapter 11
St. Clair Manor, North Yorkshire, England – June 1, 1988
Amelie had convinced Roman to wait until his arm healed before making the trip to Michel Garamonde’s Castle Zuoz in Switzerland. They went home to Yorkshire.
She thought she would be relieved to be back at St. Clair Manor, but Roman was morose at the loss of his friend and chauffer Terrence. St. Clair Manor was in mourning.
He spent much of his time in the study with Chief Bryant, James and Lyle. She could not help but feel the manor had become a strategic headquarters, for there was surely a war brewing.
Over the next several weeks, she realized that not only had she just delayed the inevitable by insisting Roman postpone the trip, but she had also given him the much-needed time to plan whatever it was they all met in his study for on a daily basis.
She worked furiously putting the final changes on the Renaissance Collection and sent prototypes to Dylan for factory samples. Harold called one day after receiving some samples and congratulated them on the designs. She had to fight to keep the excitement in her voice.
The manor was hushed now that Jacqueline was gone, but Yorkshire was warming to the idea of summer by the first of June. On the days when the silent manor and the stress of not knowing what plans were being made in the study became too much for her, Amelie retreated to the gardens. She sat near the statue of Zeus listening to the birds and other wildlife and admiring the roses, which always calmed her. She watched in vain for a glimpse of the Arabians near the Seine, but feared they were gone forever, with Jacqueline.
Finally, Roman came to her with plans for the Switzerland trip. They traveled to Switzerland during the first week of June.
* * * *
Castle Zuoz, Graubünden, Switzerland – June 8, 1988
When they arrived, Roman chartered a helicopter to take them the rest of the way through the Lower Engadine.
Amelie scanned forests broken occasionally by hamlets, sensing that this area of Graubünden had rebuked all modern influences. She loved old countries, the awed feeling they gave her, but not this one. The land here was fertile and yet Spartan as if it took from its inhabitants instead of giving.
Why Roman wanted to confront his father’s old enemy, she could not comprehend. He had not spoken much since they’d left the airport. His poker face was impeccable. Even though she couldn’t tell what he was thinking, she knew he was in a rage.
He was calm and composed and had not even told her he was bringing the gun he carried in a holster under his jacket. She’d felt it when they embraced before he helped her into the helicopter and they soared across the Alps.
What would come of this?
Weeks ago, she’d feared losing him in front of Madison Avenue Towers. Now she was worried about losing him to a prison se
ntence.
She glanced at Chief Bryant, who was reading a report. He might be a few years older than Roman, late thirties at the most, but he seemed older in the black suit she’d come to think of as his uniform. He wore his brown hair in a crew cut, which made him look like an MI6 agent. Somehow, she blamed the security director for this vigilante stance Roman was taking. Did they think to take Castle Zuoz by siege for the last time in an age?
One hundred-meter high rocks came into view. A small lake glistened with sunshine and beyond that, the stone walls of the solitary castle rose against the backdrop of snow-covered mountain peaks. Honed from the huge boulders that lay at its feet, Castle Zuoz was a formidable fortress.
Even though the castle had its own hamlet at the base, it was virtually isolated from the rest of civilization.
They touched down in a clearing.
Without speaking, Roman helped her out and over to one of the waiting cars. Chief Bryant’s team had arrived early, dressed as businessmen in suits and now led the way in a procession around towering rocks up the long castle drive.
The gatehouse was massive, but simple. Sheer rock rose with turrets on either side. There were numerous entrances, but the front car drove through the center, which stood wide open.
The buildings of the upper castle were grouped around an inner courtyard. The wide keep towered over the other buildings and dwarfed the Romanesque chapel in the center of the courtyard.
The cars formed a semi-circle in front of the main keep. The place was deserted save for a man who pushed a steel hand truck across the courtyard. He nodded in passing.
“Garamonde spent a fortune renovating this place,” Roman said. “It’s like we stepped back into the eleventh century. Impressive.”
“Cold.” She looked up at the glistening rock, which did nothing to improve the atmosphere. There was nothing light about this place.
They mounted the stone steps. As they walked toward the double doors that towered over them, one side of the doors opened.
A middle-aged man stood in the doorway. His hair was fashioned in an outdated pageboy style. The sweater and slacks he wore seemed out of place in this setting. She half-expected him to be wearing a medieval robe. He looked at her and lifted his upper lip in a sneer that was probably meant to be a smile. With such thin lips, it was hard to tell.
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