“I’m very interested.”
“All right,” I began reluctantly, “but let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ll tell you the story.”
“No, tell me here. It’s so comfortable in this room.” His eyes were inscrutable. On one hand harmless, vulnerable. On the other, he exuded such an intense sexuality, I almost felt as though he were hypnotizing me.
What was this? Some kind of wrestling match? It was as though he knew he had touched an important nerve in me and decided to see how far he could push it, see who was in charge. The air in the room crackled with tension. I found myself unbelievably drawn to him, and angry, and defensive. And he knew it. Well, to hell with this. It was my room, and I wasn’t going to let some barbarian with an overload of testosterone turn me into an uncontrollable goofball.
“All right.” I took a seat in an armchair. I lit a cigarette.
“May I have one of those?”
“Surely.”
He got up off my bed and came over. I handed him a cigarette and held the lighter for him. His hand touched mine. It was like being stroked with warm velvet. And it was not an accident.
It took every ounce of self-control for me not to jump or pull away. I forced myself to be steady. I closed the lighter and set it on the table. “You aren’t actually coming on to me, are you, Owen? Because if you are, I have news for you: stop.”
He had the grace to laugh. “Sorry. That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it. I apologize. There’s just something about this room. And you. I feel like I’m talking to Princess Grace or something.”
“Get a grip, son. You’ve had too much champagne.”
“I really am interested in the Russians, Kick.”
“All right. Then sit down in that chair over there and prepare to be educated.”
He ignored me and resumed his place on the bed. All right, suit yourself, I thought. I refuse to be riled.
“According to legend, Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna— mother of Czar Nicholas, from whom she was estranged because of a dispute with Rasputin—took the lion’s share of the monarchy’s crown jewels with her to the Crimea, where she stayed for two years, theoretically under the ‘protection’ of the White Bolsheviks. She and her entourage escaped to England in April 1919, with two large leather-bound trunks, one said to contain her personal jewelry, which was substantial, and the other the treasury of crown jewels. But when she arrived, the trunk with the crown jewels had vanished. The household rumor was that she’d entrusted them to one of her guards, and he’d disappeared with her permission and instructions.”
“Where are they now?”
“Nobody knows.”
“How do you know?”
“Sir Cramner Ballantine told me. He insisted one day the man would emerge and Ballantine & Company would be auctioneers of the Romanov Treasury.”
What I didn’t tell Owen was that Sir Cramner had told me this story on that first afternoon in the suite at Claridge’s, and the thought of it was so inspirational to him, and captivating to me, we’d pulled the covers over our heads for the umpteenth time. Ballantine & Company was still waiting for that great day, and whatever secret made Sir Cramner confident it would arrive had died with him. But the possible existence of such an extraordinary stockpile waiting somewhere, in a cellar, or attic, or bank vault, lying and waiting for more than eighty-five years, just waiting for the light of day to touch it and set it ablaze, had mesmerized me from that moment forward.
“What do you think made him so sure? And why is it making you blush?”
“What?!” I couldn’t help but laugh—the memory of that afternoon so long ago still made me happy. Me in those hot pink patent leather boots amused me so much I almost blurted it all out. “I don’t know what made him so sure. Possibly he received a message from the Dowager Empress, or else he made it up. I don’t know.”
“Thanks for telling me.” He closed the book and caressed it,
“All right,” I began reluctantly, “but let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ll tell you the story.”
“No, tell me here. It’s so comfortable in this room.” His eyes were inscrutable. On one hand harmless, vulnerable. On the other, he exuded such an intense sexuality, I almost felt as though he were hypnotizing me.
What was this? Some kind of wrestling match? It was as though he knew he had touched an important nerve in me and decided to see how far he could push it, see who was in charge. The air in the room crackled with tension. I found myself unbelievably drawn to him, and angry, and defensive. And he knew it. Well, to hell with this. It was my room, and I wasn’t going to let some barbarian with an overload of testosterone turn me into an uncontrollable goofball.
“All right.” I took a seat in an armchair. I lit a cigarette.
“May I have one of those?”
“Surely.”
He got up off my bed and came over. I handed him a cigarette and held the lighter for him. His hand touched mine. It was like being stroked with warm velvet. And it was not an accident.
It took every ounce of self-control for me not to jump or pull away. I forced myself to be steady. I closed the lighter and set it on the table. “You aren’t actually coming on to me, are you, Owen? Because if you are, I have news for you: stop.”
He had the grace to laugh. “Sorry. That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it. I apologize. There’s just something about this room. And you. I feel like I’m talking to Princess Grace or something.”
“Get a grip, son. You’ve had too much champagne.”
“I really am interested in the Russians, Kick.”
“All right. Then sit down in that chair over there and prepare to be educated.”
He ignored me and resumed his place on the bed. All right, suit yourself, I thought. I refuse to be riled.
“According to legend, Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna— mother of Czar Nicholas, from whom she was estranged because of a dispute with Rasputin—took the lion’s share of the monarchy’s crown jewels with her to the Crimea, where she stayed for two years, theoretically under the ‘protection’ of the White Bolsheviks. She and her entourage escaped to England in April 1919, with two large leather-bound trunks, one said to contain her personal jewelry, which was substantial, and the other the treasury of crown jewels. But when she arrived, the trunk with the crown jewels had vanished. The household rumor was that she’d entrusted them to one of her guards, and he’d disappeared with her permission and instructions.”
“Where are they now?”
“Nobody knows.”
“How do you know?”
“Sir Cramner Ballantine told me. He insisted one day the man would emerge and Ballantine & Company would be auctioneers of the Romanov Treasury.”
What I didn’t tell Owen was that Sir Cramner had told me this story on that first afternoon in the suite at Claridge’s, and the thought of it was so inspirational to him, and captivating to me, we’d pulled the covers over our heads for the umpteenth time. Ballantine & Company was still waiting for that great day, and whatever secret made Sir Cramner confident it would arrive had died with him. But the possible existence of such an extraordinary stockpile waiting somewhere, in a cellar, or attic, or bank vault, lying and waiting for more than eighty-five years, just waiting for the light of day to touch it and set it ablaze, had mesmerized me from that moment forward.
“What do you think made him so sure? And why is it making you blush?”
“What?!” I couldn’t help but laugh—the memory of that afternoon so long ago still made me happy. Me in those hot pink patent leather boots amused me so much I almost blurted it all out. “I don’t know what made him so sure. Possibly he received a message from the Dowager Empress, or else he made it up. I don’t know.”
“Thanks for telling me.” He closed the book and caressed it,
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