Jean-Luc paced across the room. The only way to be rid of Lui was to confront him. He could keep Heather safe. He'd never leave her side. "All right. We'll plan to kill him on the night of the runway show."
Heather lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, but she didn't want to shut them. Every time she did, her mind flashed the same horrible picture—her truck ablaze with Pierre inside.
She wished she could erase the image from her memory. Or turn back time, so Pierre could still be alive. Or turn it back further, so Mrs. Bolton could be alive. How different everything would be if last Friday, she had done as Jean-Luc had asked and run away. But she had tried to be brave and rescue Jean-Luc. Now she had no choice but to be brave. The bomb had been intended for her.
She had to make sure no one else died. She needed to be brave, cautious, and smart. Why should she rely solely on Jean-Luc and his guards to keep her and Bethany safe? Obviously they were not infallible.
Fidelia had her guns, and she was prepared to use them. Heather needed to be just as tough. She would arm herself with knowledge. That's what professionals did when they were at war. They gathered intelligence.
She sat up in bed. It was time to uncover some of the secrets in this place. After all, it was her life on the line. They had no right to keep her in the dark. Fourteen eighty-five. Would those numbers get her into the cellar?
She checked the bedside clock. Three twenty-three A.M. She slipped out of bed and wondered if she should change clothes. No, it would take too long, and the noise might wake Fidelia or Bethany. She'd stay in her blue and yellow Tweety Bird pajamas from the discount store.
She peeked into the hallway. It was empty. Earlier in the evening, Phineas had stayed outside their door, and she'd heard traffic coming and going from Jean-Luc's office. Now everything was quiet.
She noted the camera over the office door. If she went past it to the backstairs, the guards might see her. They'd stop her before she could venture close to the cellar.
She squeezed through the door and tiptoed in the opposite direction. Her bare feet were silent on the thick carpet. The hallway took a sharp turn to the right, where it opened onto the catwalk across the back of the showroom.
Moonlight filtered through the tall back windows, casting long gray shadows across the showroom's marble floor. The mannequins posed, their bare arms gleaming white and stark. There were two cameras high on the walls, but they were aimed at the room below. The catwalk was bracketed on each side with a waist-high wall.
She crouched down so she wouldn't be seen and dashed across the catwalk. It ended by the back door to the design studio. She punched fourteen eighty-five on the keypad and felt a small rush when the door opened. She slipped inside.
The studio was dark except for the slashes of moonlight spilling through the French doors. She carefully descended the spiral staircase. The metal steps were icy cold against her bare feet. She crept across the studio, hugging the dark shadows along the walls and hoping she didn't show up on the cameras.
She cracked open the door and peered into the hallway. The cellar door was at the end of the hall. And at the other end, close to the showroom, there was a camera.
Damn. There was no way to avoid it. But she'd come too far to give up now. If she ran, she could be at the cellar door in six seconds.
She took a deep breath and charged. With trembling fingers, she punched in fourteen eighty-five. The door opened. Her heart lurched.
She stepped inside, shut the door, and leaned against it. A dim light overhead illuminated a plain stairwell. Bare walls, a cement landing, a metal railing in front of her. The faint sound of music echoed eerily. She breathed deeply to calm her pounding heart.
So far, so good. No bogeyman was here, brandishing his Texan chainsaw. She moved forward to the railing and saw the stairs going down. Each step was lit by a red light. She descended the cement steps to a landing, then turned to go down another short flight of stairs. The concrete was cold and gritty beneath her feet. She reached a plain wooden door. It inched open easily, and the volume of the music increased.
It was the piano and harpsichord again. The melody was slow, beautiful, and terribly sad. They were mourning, she realized. Mourning for Pierre.
She suddenly felt too intrusive. Of course they were mourning for Pierre. They'd known him for years. She'd known him only a few days. She considered going back, but caught a glimpse of the hallway and stopped.
She opened the door further, and her mouth fell open. After the bare stairwell, she'd expected a more spartan environment, but this was…opulent. The hallway was wide enough for five people to walk down at once, and the floor was covered with a beautiful hand-carved rug. It felt thick and woolen to her feet. It was a rich ruby-red with golden fleur-de-lis scattered across it in a trellis pattern. Another pattern of gold and ivory roses formed a wide border around the rug.
The hall was illuminated with golden sconces along the walls, each sconce dripping lead crystal teardrops. Even the ceiling was beautiful—ivory with fancy moldings painted gold. The doors were also ivory with gilt woodwork. Interspersed between the doors were bombe chests and ornate armoires. Antiques, Heather guessed, and incredibly expensive.
She padded silently down the hall, past oil paintings that looked like they belonged in a castle. The music grew louder. It emanated from a room where the double doors were ajar, jutting into the hallway.
She eased behind a door and peered through the crack by the doorframe. She saw the piano. It was an old baby grand decorated with gold scrollwork. A woman was playing, her long blond hair loose down her back. Inga.
A woman moved across the room, blocking Heather's view. It was Simone, doing some sort of dance. A minuet? She glided out of the way, and Heather glimpsed the harpsichord. Jean-Luc?
She caught her breath and turned away, pressing her back against the wall.
Jean-Luc was the one playing the harpsichord! She stood there, listening to the melancholy music.
He was quite good, actually. But why would a modern man play such an old instrument? The more she learned about him, the more the immortal theory made sense.
He was hurting, she realized, as the sad strains tugged at her heart. She should have talked to him earlier. She should have comforted him. She knew him well enough to know he would blame himself. He was an honorable man with a deep sense of responsibility. An old-fashioned guy. And he might have a very good reason for being old-fashioned.
But she'd refused to see him. She'd reached a point where one more emotional stimulus would have sent her over the edge. She had to withdraw and be alone for a while.
The music brought tears to her eyes. He was such an amazing man. How could she not fall in love with him? Fencing champion, fashion designer, musician. One hell of a kisser. Of course, if he was immortal, he'd had centuries to develop his talents.
She tiptoed down the hall, wondering what to do next. Should she confront him? Maybe. But not with Simone and Inga around.
The music stopped. She turned, suddenly afraid that she'd been spotted. But no, the hallway was still empty. She heard a clicking sound at the other end of the hallway. The door was opening.
She dashed behind a tall armoire and plastered herself against the wall. Footsteps approached, muffled by the thick carpet.
"Robby!" the ladies exclaimed. "You must stay and dance with us."
He was in the music room, Heather realized. Could she make it to the other exit before he came out? He was talking so softly, she couldn't make out his words.
Her attention was snagged by the oil painting right across from her. Definitely an antique. The guy was wearing black leather bucket boots, maroon knee breeches and waistcoat, and a white shirt with a wide lace collar. A short velvet cape was slung nonchalantly over one shoulder. His foil was by his side, the tip planted on the floor, his hand resting lightly on the ornate hilt.