James.”
“Thanks.” So much for calling me ‘Holly,’ she thought irritably, and turned away.
Self-important knob.
Half an hour later, Holly – scowling at the injustice of it all – was sorting through a pile of marketing flyers Coco had dumped on her, when Hugh returned.
“I apologize for the delay,” he told her. “I had to sit in on a conference call with Alastair.”
“It’s okay,” she said, and shrugged as if it couldn’t matter less...which it couldn’t.
“You’re annoyed with me.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact.
“No, Mr Darcy,” Holly said in exasperation, “I’m not annoyed with you. I’m annoyed with Coco. The woman is a fiend. She enjoys tormenting me. I despise her.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong. At any rate, I can’t imagine it’s anything personal.”
“Oh, but it is. She hates me,” Holly said as she put the flyers aside and stood up. “She takes every opportunity she can to make my job a misery.”
He paused, and wisely changed the subject. “I took the liberty of asking a curator I know to come over this morning and take a look at the painting. Just as well, since we’re going up to the attic anyway. He also specializes in art deco and antiques. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course I don’t.” Holly blinked. Goodness, but Hugh Darcy was organized.
A few minutes later the curator, a tall, bald gentleman named Mr Gilpin joined them, and they headed up the stairs to the attic. He looked at the portrait, murmuring with interest as he examined it, and took a tiny paint sample from one corner.
“I’ll let you know what I find out,” he told them. He glanced at the Tiffany lamp. “Very nice,” he murmured. “Is it for sale?”
“Not yet. But we’ll keep you in mind.” Hugh took the card Mr Gilpin handed him, thanked him for his time, and stayed behind to help Holly. “Now, then, where’s this Victrola?” he asked as he removed his suit jacket and draped it carefully over a chair.
Holly couldn’t help but notice that his shirt was white with narrow blue stripes, and his chest and shoulders filled it out very nicely.
“Miss James?”
“Sorry,” she murmured, flustered. “It’s over here.”
The two of them grabbed the Victrola and carried it – well, mostly Hugh did – down to Alastair’s office. Holly thanked him. “I’ll go back and get the lamp now.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No need, Mr Darcy,” she said, “I can manage.”
“I’m afraid I have to go back. I left my jacket on the chair.”
“I’ll get it,” she offered. “I have to go up again anyway. Besides, I’m sure you’re far too busy to spend all morning in the attic.”
So it was agreed, and Holly returned to the attic, alone. She picked up Hugh’s jacket, and was just about to go and get the Tiffany lamp when the room grew suddenly cold.
Holly froze. The smell of lavender was strong, stronger than it had ever been. She heard a distant, silvery laugh. Although her heart was racing, she wasn’t afraid, exactly. All the same, the tiny hairs on her arms stood up, and Hugh’s jacket fell from her nerveless fingers to the floor.
Chapter Eighteen
“Who...who’s there?” she stammered, unable to move.
Of course there was no answer. Her eyes swept the attic with trepidation; but she was relieved to see nothing out of the ordinary.
Whatever she’d sensed, it was gone now.
As Holly bent down to pick up Hugh’s jacket, a folded square of paper fluttered out of the pocket. She picked it up. ‘Coco Welch’ was scrawled on the paper, in the British barracuda’s unmistakable, loopy handwriting.
And beneath it was her phone number...her
personal
cell phone number.
Holly’s eyes narrowed. What was Hugh doing with Coco’s phone number in his pocket? Was he seeing her, even though he claimed he detested her?
More importantly, why did she even care?
She thrust the paper back in his pocket. Evidently still waters ran deep with Mr
“Thanks.” So much for calling me ‘Holly,’ she thought irritably, and turned away.
Self-important knob.
Half an hour later, Holly – scowling at the injustice of it all – was sorting through a pile of marketing flyers Coco had dumped on her, when Hugh returned.
“I apologize for the delay,” he told her. “I had to sit in on a conference call with Alastair.”
“It’s okay,” she said, and shrugged as if it couldn’t matter less...which it couldn’t.
“You’re annoyed with me.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact.
“No, Mr Darcy,” Holly said in exasperation, “I’m not annoyed with you. I’m annoyed with Coco. The woman is a fiend. She enjoys tormenting me. I despise her.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong. At any rate, I can’t imagine it’s anything personal.”
“Oh, but it is. She hates me,” Holly said as she put the flyers aside and stood up. “She takes every opportunity she can to make my job a misery.”
He paused, and wisely changed the subject. “I took the liberty of asking a curator I know to come over this morning and take a look at the painting. Just as well, since we’re going up to the attic anyway. He also specializes in art deco and antiques. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course I don’t.” Holly blinked. Goodness, but Hugh Darcy was organized.
A few minutes later the curator, a tall, bald gentleman named Mr Gilpin joined them, and they headed up the stairs to the attic. He looked at the portrait, murmuring with interest as he examined it, and took a tiny paint sample from one corner.
“I’ll let you know what I find out,” he told them. He glanced at the Tiffany lamp. “Very nice,” he murmured. “Is it for sale?”
“Not yet. But we’ll keep you in mind.” Hugh took the card Mr Gilpin handed him, thanked him for his time, and stayed behind to help Holly. “Now, then, where’s this Victrola?” he asked as he removed his suit jacket and draped it carefully over a chair.
Holly couldn’t help but notice that his shirt was white with narrow blue stripes, and his chest and shoulders filled it out very nicely.
“Miss James?”
“Sorry,” she murmured, flustered. “It’s over here.”
The two of them grabbed the Victrola and carried it – well, mostly Hugh did – down to Alastair’s office. Holly thanked him. “I’ll go back and get the lamp now.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No need, Mr Darcy,” she said, “I can manage.”
“I’m afraid I have to go back. I left my jacket on the chair.”
“I’ll get it,” she offered. “I have to go up again anyway. Besides, I’m sure you’re far too busy to spend all morning in the attic.”
So it was agreed, and Holly returned to the attic, alone. She picked up Hugh’s jacket, and was just about to go and get the Tiffany lamp when the room grew suddenly cold.
Holly froze. The smell of lavender was strong, stronger than it had ever been. She heard a distant, silvery laugh. Although her heart was racing, she wasn’t afraid, exactly. All the same, the tiny hairs on her arms stood up, and Hugh’s jacket fell from her nerveless fingers to the floor.
Chapter Eighteen
“Who...who’s there?” she stammered, unable to move.
Of course there was no answer. Her eyes swept the attic with trepidation; but she was relieved to see nothing out of the ordinary.
Whatever she’d sensed, it was gone now.
As Holly bent down to pick up Hugh’s jacket, a folded square of paper fluttered out of the pocket. She picked it up. ‘Coco Welch’ was scrawled on the paper, in the British barracuda’s unmistakable, loopy handwriting.
And beneath it was her phone number...her
personal
cell phone number.
Holly’s eyes narrowed. What was Hugh doing with Coco’s phone number in his pocket? Was he seeing her, even though he claimed he detested her?
More importantly, why did she even care?
She thrust the paper back in his pocket. Evidently still waters ran deep with Mr
Similar Books
