He lifted his wine glass. “Maybe we should call it a night.”
Casey gulped the last of her wine, both irritated and relieved that he was ending this meal. After Theo paid the bill he found her a taxi and, despite her protest, paid the driver more than enough to cover the cost. As she started to thank Theo, he planted his mouth firmly on hers. God, it felt like she was being branded. Theo’s tongue tried to pry an opening between her lips. Ugly thoughts rampaged as she pulled away and cool safety came rushing back.
“That was nice,” he murmured. “There’s something incredibly sensuous about your anxiety.”
“Thank you for dinner and the cab, but don’t kiss me again.”
Casey slid into the vehicle, fuming. It was bad enough that Theo was keeping things from her, but that gesture was infuriating. Just as irritating, and somewhat humiliating, though, was the horrible realization that she was a lousy dinner partner. Burning her mouth, yammering about her ex, and destroying her dessert was ridiculous behaviour.
Lou had seen her eat a thousand times. No wonder he’d never asked her out on a real date.
Fourteen
IN ONE TRAIN ride, Casey’s view of Dutch tulip fields and windmills had been lost to city crowds, city noise, and zillions of particles of windswept, Amsterdam dirt. So far, the only Dutch cheese she’d eaten was the processed slice drooping out of the pricey McDonald’s burger in her hand. A guy calling himself an exiled American approached her and said, “You on your own?”
“My friend will be here in about fifteen minutes.”
A total lie, actually. On the way home from dinner in Whitby, Casey had decided that much of what Theo had said was bull. If he’d wanted to avoid Detective Lalonde yet protect her in Vancouver, why hadn’t he called her at home? Also, if the Mexican guys were after the missing three million dollars, why hadn’t they contacted her?
When Theo showed up at her hotel to buy her breakfast the next morning, she’d had to act fast. No way did she want him escorting her, or even following her to London, so she’d called Daphne Reid. Predictably, Reid was pissed to learn that Theo was the stranger who’d tackled him in the maze, so he’d agreed to help keep Theo in Goathland, provided she bought a few more souvenirs. It was worth the price. After breakfast, Theo discovered that the vehicle he’d rented in Whitby wouldn’t run. Goathland was too small to have a rental agency, so Casey took off while Theo waited to have the car repaired by a local mechanic. Happily, he hadn’t found her yet as she never told him about London. She’d also given him a fake hotel name in Amsterdam.
For the most part, London had been a waste of time. She’d spent two frustrating days tracking down Dad’s contacts, who claimed to know nothing about the botulism death three years ago or the Vancouver murder. She had learned one interesting thing, though. The gallery opening Reid claimed to have attended on April twenty-fifth actually took place a week earlier.
Casey checked her watch. Eighty-thirty, time to leave. As she stood up, the American winked at her. “Enjoy your evening.”
“I will.” At least she’d try.
It had taken two and a half days to reach Gislinde Van Akker, which had given her time to sightsee and track down more names in the address book, none of them useful. Judging from the hesitancy in Gislinde’s voice on the phone, Casey had sensed that the woman was stalling. She’d only agreed to see Casey at 9:00 PM tonight.
Casey stepped outside and started to walk away when a shove from behind sent her flying into a group of tourists. As she hit the ground, someone tugged on her shoulder bag. She looked up. The American. Casey gripped the strap and kicked his shin twice. A third kick sent him running into a crowd of people. She got up, but the loser wasn’t worth chasing. After ensuring concerned tourists that she was okay, Casey continued on.
She walked down streets and over bridges illuminated with tiny white lights. The dirt-flinging wind had calmed down, and the warm temperature had obviously inspired hundreds of people to enjoy an evening stroll or bike ride. She scanned faces for the American, Theo, and two Mexican men, just in case. Music from street organs and chatter in different languages surrounded her. Occasionally, the amplified voice of a tour guide on a glass-roofed canal boat caused her to pause and take in the ambience. Lou would love it here. He liked boats and walking along busy streets at night. Too bad he wasn’t with her. She missed his calm, practical view of the world.
Minutes later, Casey stopped in front of a row of tall narrow houses facing a canal. She’d scouted the street earlier today and had been impressed by the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century houses that looked as immaculate as they did in her guidebook. Many had been taken over by commerce, so she’d been surprised that Gislinde had given this as her address.
When Casey found the right house, she hesitated. Was she ready for this? She hadn’t wanted to believe her father could betray Rhonda, not after what he’d been through with Mother. Taking a deep breath, she climbed the steps and rang a buzzer by the door. A female voice answered.
“I’m Casey Holland.”
“Yes, come in.”
Casey opened the door and found herself at the bottom of a narrow staircase leading up to a black door. She climbed slowly, quietly. As she reached the top, the door opened and Casey gazed at the same mid-twenties blonde in the photo on Dad’s nightstand, except she now looked about seven months pregnant. Casey had been taken aback by the British accent on the phone, but that was nothing compared to Gislinde’s physical condition. God, what would she tell Rhonda?
Gislinde tilted her head slightly, as if curious, or somewhat puzzled. Casey smiled, hoping she looked more genuine than she felt.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said.
“You’re very welcome. Please come inside.”
Casey entered the room and spotted an enormous man sitting by the door. His stare was guarded, unwelcoming. He might as well have “Beware of Bodyguard” stamped on his forehead.
“That’s my friend, John,” Gislinde said.
Casey greeted him and received a curt nod.
“Have a seat, Miss Holland.” Gislinde gestured toward the loveseat.
“Please, call me Casey.”
“And I’m Gislinde. May I offer you a drink?”
“Thank you, but no. I don’t want to take up much of your time.”
While Gislinde stretched her legs along the sofa and adjusted her ankle-length dress, Casey glanced at the room for evidence of Dad’s presence. Deep yellow walls were trimmed with black around windows and door frames. Floral tapestries covered chairs and sofa. Vases and potted plants filled spaces without making the room appear cluttered. Although candlelight illuminated the room, there were several lamps.
“This is a beautiful home, but I thought most of these houses were commercially owned.”
“Some, like this one, have been restored as private residences. I’m an interior designer and I’ve just finished this for a client. I’m also house-sitting for him until Marcus and I move into our new home.”
Her fixed smile looked unnatural. Did she know he was dead? If Gislinde had found out that he’d faked his death in Vancouver, or that he’d already had another fiancée plus three million dollars stashed away, would she have flown halfway across the world for an explanation? Would she have arrived on his doorstep in a sparkly blue hat and dress?
“Marcus mentioned you now and then,” Gislinde said. “He was right, you don’t look much alike.”
“True.” Was that supposed to be an icebreaker? “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you known Dad?”