by Ellis, Dee
Sandrine simply arched an eyebrow which Mariel took as acquiescence.
The remainder of the afternoon slid by without incident. With the exception of Jack Lucas, nobody came in and, five minutes before closing, Sandrine was packed up, the stereo and heating turned off, and she was debating what to have for dinner. As she checked her watch and wondered whether Mr Lucas would be back in time, the door opened and, with another blast of frigid air, he came in.
“Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” he said. “My meeting took a little longer than anticipated.”
The books were already packed up in branded Buckingham’s carrier bags on the counter, where they’d been sitting most of the afternoon. Her bag, coat and scarf were on the counter next to them.
“It’s been a difficult afternoon and I was planning on a drink,” he continued. “If you have nothing else planned, perhaps you’d like to join me.”
Sandrine was just about to thank him but decline when she drew herself up short. It was true she didn’t have any plans. She was going back to her apartment where Heathcliff awaited his dinner and a well-received cuddle while she reheated the previous evening’s leftovers. There were a number of new books but she had difficulty making up her mind which to start next. There was nothing urgent she needed to do that couldn’t be put off for an hour or so. And Mariel’s probing insistence that she get to know Mr Lucas better, while it hadn’t been pressing on her all afternoon, was nonetheless echoing through her mind.
Why not? He doesn’t seem dangerous or weird or socially inept. He’s attractive, smart, well-dressed. And, yes, she had to admit, he certainly was sexy in a way she’d never found attractive in a man before. Don’t think about it, don’t over-intellectualise, she heard Mariel saying. The unknown awaits. What do you have to lose?
“Thanks,” she said, smiling shyly. “I’d love to.”
Chapter Two
The bar was downstairs about a block from the bookshop; she had passed it many times without knowing it was there. It was a little too masculine for her tastes, with its dark wood panelling and diamond-button leather sofas and buttery indirect lighting, much as she imagined an exclusive old world gentleman’s club would be, but its ambience was beyond doubt. It was warm and welcoming and she immediately felt at home.
It was busy with a professional after-work crowd, carefully-groomed men and women in conservative suits. The mood was chatty rather than raucous; the deep carpeting, heavy furniture, paintings and curtains absorbed the sound, reducing it to a low murmur.
Jack led her through the bar to an unoccupied banquette at the back. While she settled in, he said he’d go to the bar and get drinks rather than waiting for a server. She ordered a glass of red, something not too heavy.
With her first sip, she realised the côtes du rhône was just what she needed. The feeling of ease was almost immediate. Kicking off her shoes, she curled her legs under her. Jack was close but not too close, relaxing as well, looking for all the world like he belonged in such surroundings. He could well be a model in a 1970s whisky ad, of the sort that would have featured in Playboy magazine. Sandrine smiled slightly at the sudden mischievous thought. If he was wearing tasselled loafers, the image would be complete.
“What do you do for a living, Mr Lucas?”
He cast his eyes upwards and his brow furrowed somewhat. Sandrine didn’t find this evasive, merely it gave the impression it was the first time he’d ever been asked the question and was concentrating on an answer. It was almost endearingly boyish.
“Firstly, it’s Jack. Not Mr Lucas. Well, I’m a consultant. Import – export. With a bit of salvage and recovery on the side.”
“That sounds mysterious. What does that mean?”
“People come to me if there is something they’re looking for. Or if they’ve lost something and want to find it.”
“Such as?” Her curiosity was well and truly aroused.
“I mainly deal with collectors. It could be a special car they’re looking to add to their collection. Or a piece of artwork, coins, stamps. Anything, really.”
“Sounds fascinating. Does it require a lot of work?”
“Of course. Each new request requires a hell of a lot of research, finding the right people to talk to, experts to verify authenticity, tracking back to discover who has the item and whether they’ll part with it and for how much.”
“What if they don’t want to part with it?”
“That’s when it can get a little sticky. It’s a complication, of course, but, in general, everybody has their price. It’s just a matter of working out what it is.”
Sandrine was surprised to find that she was beginning to enjoy Jack’s company. There was a confidence about him, the way he moved and talked, that was compelling. She was a people watcher and it was apparent he was as well. And while he appeared totally at ease, he had a relaxed intensity she found fascinating, especially in the way he would occasionally cast a casual glance around the room for she was sure he would miss few details.
“What are you trying to find at the moment?”
Jack smiled a big lop-sided smile that crinkled his eyes.
“I’m good at keeping secrets, Sandrine. I have to be in my line of work. New business comes in because my regular clients are satisfied with the job I do and how I protect their interests. If I start blabbing, my business would be in serious trouble.”
It was a rebuff but a very mild one. Sandrine could appreciate his position. But his reticence was only fuelling her desire to find out more about him.
“Jack, come on. You’ve told me so much already. Surely you don’t do this every time you meet someone new.”
His steady gaze and the lingering silence that went with it were both infuriating and electric.
After a few moments, he relented.
“OK, for example. I have a client. A collector with much more money than self-control. He has a thing for silversmiths of the late nineteenth century Russian imperial court.”
“Faberge?”
“Peter Carl Faberge was the best known but there were others who produced work that was just as amazing. At this moment, this collector is mad for kovshs, Russian drinking cups of beautifully-crafted silver and enamel. Most of this stuff comes up at the better-known auction houses on a fairly regular basis but I’m looking for unusual pieces, the sort of items that are talked about amongst collectors but very rarely see the light of day.”
“Wow, that sounds fascinating,” Sandrine exclaimed enthusiastically. He really has the most amazing life.
“Much of it disappeared following the 1917 Revolution. And that’s where the challenge begins because a regular trail just doesn’t exist anymore. Provenance gets very murky once you have to work through items that were dispersed around the world but largely throughout Europe. Factor in two world wars and it gets even more complicated. By comparison, separating the genuine items from the fakes is the easy part.
“Your turn,” he said brightly. “Tell me a little about yourself.”
Inwardly, Sandrine squirmed. Jack’s story had seemed so incredibly fascinating and reminded her how quiet her life was in comparison. However, there was also the matter that she really didn’t like to discuss her life. Part of it was because she closely guarded her privacy. She liked that, in an age where the Internet allowed everybody to share their most intimate thoughts and feelings, no matter how banal or pedestrian, she kept so low a profile it could be deemed invisible. She didn’t have a Facebook account or take to Twitter. She didn’t feel the need to blog or post opinions on other people’s websites.
She didn’t have a large circle of friends although those she had she’d known for years. If she needed to contact anybody, she phoned them or wrote notes on the exquisitely stylish stationery she collected. There was always something about receiving a letter that she found far more exciting than the robotic plink of an email notification in her in-box.
That’s not to say the Internet wasn’t a major presence in her life
. She loved the ease with which information was so readily available. Just about anything and everything was accessible via search engines and she used such tools several hours a day to research and search for books for her customers. But while Sandrine was comfortable probing the hidden crevices of the world for her own uses, she hated to think her own life could be so easily uncovered.
She wasn’t sure from where this evolved but felt the answers lay in her childhood. Her mother and father had died in a car accident when she was very young, still a baby really, barely three years old.
All she knew about her parents came from her aunt, her father’s elder sister, and even then that lacked the essential details she demanded as she grew older and so desperately wanted to know more. Aunt Bridget had been estranged from her family for several years, had not spoken to her brother in that time, but following the accident she had immediately taken steps to care for Sandrine, bringing her back to her English home and lavishing love and attention on her, as though raising her brother’s infant daughter could go some way towards repairing the rift in her own life.
All Sandrine had to remind her of her mother and father was a faded Polaroid print. In it, they looked pale and haunted, two young people, slight and good-looking, dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts, their love for each other radiantly apparent as they walked hand-in-hand towards the camera. They were in a meadow of some kind, a gentle slope of faded yellow grass, in a pale golden late afternoon light, their shadows cast long behind them. Far behind them, a hill rose and, barely peeking above its crown, was a long hard edge of terracotta roofing and a brick chimney. She had no idea where the photo was taken and neither did Bridget. The location was as much a mystery as her parents’ own lives.
Sandrine could recognise the genetic similarities with her mother who was slim and delicate with pale skin and auburn hair. Her father was just as slim with slightly darker blonde hair; her parents were quite obviously the products of a time before fast food had taken hold.
Sandrine had kept that photo in a frame on her bedside table throughout her childhood. It was the last thing she’d see at night and the first she’d see in the morning. She built up elaborate fantasies about her parents, the meadow, the golden glow and the glimpsed house beyond the hill. It permeated her waking hours and very often her dreams.
Time after time, her parents would march towards her through the swaying grass, a warm breeze stroking their hair. They would stop before her, their faces filling the photo as if it was a window from their world into Sandrine’s.
“We love you so much, darling,” her mother would say, soft and breathy. “We always have and always will.”
“Sandrine, my pretty girl, we’re so sorry we had to go away. But we’ll see you again. We love you,” her father would say in a low masculine voice she didn’t recognise but may have heard on television one day.
They would wave and smile and blow kisses. The good dreams would always start out that way. The bad dreams went darker, bleaker, and very quickly became far, far worse. Sandrine would often wake up hyperventilating, with tears stinging her eyes and soaking the pillow. They were the earliest dreams she could ever remember and she continued to have them her entire life.
Sandrine never told anyone of her dreams, least of all her aunt who, despite her warmth and fierce devotion, was essentially a down-to-earth soul. The fantasy life that Sandrine concocted around her dead parents had no real basis in fact. It was fed solely by the one photograph and the little information her aunt revealed over time. She knew nothing of the circumstances of the accident beyond that it happened in outback Australia. She knew where they were buried. One day, she was sure, she would visit their graves but she’d never felt the need. They lived on in her heart and that was all that mattered. The actual events of a quarter of a century ago mattered little.
So Sandrine grew up in the little farmhouse near Haworth in Yorkshire; her aunt often pointed out that Emily Bronte, who had lost her own mother when she was three years old, spent her early years nearby.
Over time, Sandrine and Bridget grew as close as a family could. Although an orphan, she never lacked for affection but she found it difficult to make friends and it was only after she left for London to attend university, and again to the United States for her doctorate, that she came to trust people enough to allow them into her life. Even then, not many knew much about her or the tragedy that had played such a role in her life.
To the world, she presented an image of a confident woman at ease with her own intellect and company. She attracted like-minded people and was as protective and nurturing of her friends as her aunt had been with her. But she had constructed a wall around her emotions that nothing could breach. Although devoted to her friends, she maintained a distance. And when she loved, it was with the same detachment.
She had abandonment issues, to be sure. So she chose the timing and circumstances of her affairs as well as when they would end. Intense emotional involvement rarely occurred. In many ways, she had sealed an important part of her, her heart, away with her parents’ memory and had never felt the need to release it.
Yet here she was, sitting across from a man she’d met only hours before, and feeling a very real and totally unexpected connection. Maybe it was the côtes du rhône or the soothing ambience of the surroundings. Or quite possibly it was the fact that he was different from so many of the men she had met.
This is crazy, she admitted. She knew nothing about him. He could be a con man or serial killer. He had charm aplenty, more than enough confidence and appeal to open doors – and quite probably legs, Sandrine ruefully noted – anywhere he went. She was aware that his mega-watt lop-sided grin and his deep earthy voice were melting her usual reserve. But she didn’t care in the least. She would be careful. She always was. She would hold back, at least until she had a better idea of any ulterior motive on his part.
She took a deep breath.
“I grew up in England. Both my parents died when I was young. My father was French, my mother English. I was raised by my aunt. I have a graduate degree in art history but I’m not sure what I want to do with it so I’ve been working at Buckingham’s Books while I decide. I love old books with an emphasis on Romanticism, although I think I may have told you that. I also love old movies, anything from 40s film noir and musicals onwards. And comedies. Chaplin, Buster Keaton, the Marx Brothers, up to and including early ‘70s Woody Allen. I hardly ever watch television but have loads of DVDs and they’re arranged alphabetically, not by category. I eat too much ice cream when I’m watching a sad movie. I haven’t travelled much at all, mainly Europe and I spend most of my time overseas in museums and art galleries. So far, my favourites would be the Prado, the Pompidou – although I’ve never pretended to understand modern art; give me a good figurative piece anytime – and the Tate. I love food and I’m lucky enough, so far, to be able to eat what I want and not have to count calories. I have no idea where I want to be in five years and that sort of question drives me crazy. I don’t like piña coladas or getting caught in the rain. I prefer cold weather to hot and I’d never willingly go to a beach resort. I’m told I have a good sense of humour although it might take a while to catch the punchline. I’m far too conservative in my fashion sense, all my friends have told me that over the years, but I appreciate a finely tailored garment so I buy a lot of French designers from on-line auctions because I can’t afford them retail. I don’t drive and have never been able to drink much. I find it difficult to get rid of the hiccups and it’ll often lead to a sneezing fit and then I’ll end up collapsing laughing.”
Sandrine took a breath and noticed Jack had one eyebrow raised. Well, he did ask about me.
“And I find it hard to completely trust people but I’m enjoying your company immensely and I hope we can be friends.”
Wow, where did that come from? It sounded more like something Mariel would say. The ultimate pick-up line. Maybe the wine was making its presence felt. Whatever it was, it was exactly wh
at she was thinking. It was just unfortunate it had tumbled out.
Jack was laughing hard but she didn’t feel threatened. It wasn’t like he was laughing at her. He was laughing with her. She just wasn’t laughing herself.
“Well, that pretty much covers all the bases. Are you always so forthcoming with strangers?”
“No, not at all. It just tumbled out.” She blanched suddenly. I don’t understand what’s happening. I’m becoming a chatterbox, just luridly blurting out any nonsense that rushes through my head.
“Then I appreciate your honesty. And, yes, I agree. I’m enjoying this as much as you and I’d love to get to know you better.”
A warmth spread through her and she relaxed. She wasn’t sure if she blushed, she certainly hoped not, but her face felt hot. She took her time sipping the wine to cover up any embarrassment and when she looked up again Jack was staring hard at her. His gaze was intense. Is there something wrong? Do I come across too eager? He was probably the sort of man who had women throwing themselves at him wherever he went.
Sandrine waited, wondering where the moment would go, how the discussion would progress. There was definitely some spark, a barely discernable shift in the atmosphere. He hadn’t moved and yet he suddenly appeared to be closer, so close she could feel the heat of his body and smell a subdued yet earthy and masculine smell.
She sensed at that second that he wanted to lean across and kiss her and was shocked by the realisation. She was even more shocked that she wanted to be kissed. If she was perfectly honest, she wanted a lot more. Her body felt clammy. What is wrong with me? He’s close but not that close and yet I’m aroused. I can feel myself wanting him. This is crazy.
Panic was about to grip her. She noticed her glass was empty. Waiter, more wine, please. And hurry.
“I really should go. I’m having dinner with a friend,” she hurriedly said. It was a lie and she felt bad the moment the words left her mouth but this was beginning to spiral out of control and she urgently needed some space. And the opportunity to assess whether she was being too hasty.
