Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind

“I can drive my own car,” I said in protest.

“Why bother?” he asked. “I’ll drive you to your class, and afterward we’ll go out to dinner. Do you like Italian?”

I gazed at him across my shoulder. “Is the pope Catholic?”

“Italian it is,” he said, patting my butt. “Now get in the car.”

I laughed lightly and climbed into the butter-soft leather seat of the Bentley and buckled my seat belt. The car smelled new. And sexy. Or maybe that was just the mood I was in.

Derek hopped in and started the engine. “I need to make one stop. Do you mind?”

“No, we have time.”

“Good.” Within minutes, he’d driven over the bumpy streetcar tracks running down Market Street and continued up Kearny to Pine. We talked of normal things, the weather, my family, Gunther’s brilliant lithographs. He drove two more narrow blocks to Stockton, then pulled into the elegant porte cochere of the Ritz-Carlton.

“We’re stopping at your hotel?” I said, a tad incredulous, though I shouldn’t have been. He was, after all, just a man. “We don’t really have time for this.”

Although, if pressed, I would be more than willing to comply. I was learning quickly that I was that kind of girl.

He checked his watch, then pierced me with a look. “You’re right. You have to be at work in one hour, and I intend to take a lot more time than that.”

I broke out in a sweat and started to whistle.

He laughed. “I simply forgot my wallet, darling. We’ll only be a moment.”

“Okay.” Because really, how often did I get a chance to go to the Ritz?

“It’s not like you to forget your wallet,” I said as we entered the hushed lobby.

“I was in a rush to see you.”

I smiled at him. As excuses went, that was a good one.

We rode the elevator up to the penthouse. I thought about it. The penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton went for what, ten thousand a night? The guy had an expense account that didn’t quit.

Derek stopped at room 919, slipped his key card into the slot, and opened the door. “You can look at the view while I find my-”

He halted abruptly and I almost slammed into him. “Find your what?”

“Shit.”

Derek rarely swore.

“What’s wrong?”

“Stay here,” he said, reaching behind his back to grip my arm.

“What is it, Derek?”

He turned and put a finger to his lips “Shh. Somebody’s been in here.”

I whispered, “Maybe just the maid?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

He looked at me over his shoulder. “A man knows when his fortress has been breached.”

My heart stammered. Now, why did I find his words so sexy when they should’ve been just plain ridiculous? Maybe it was something in the British accent that gave them gravitas.

It was my turn to grab his arm as I glanced around anxiously. “They might still be here.”

“You’re to stay right here,” he said with an urgency that I’d rarely heard from him.

I nodded briskly. “All right.”

He didn’t have to tell me again. I’d been accosted in a hotel room recently and didn’t relish a repeat experience. I watched from the safety of the elegant foyer as he conducted a swift but professional sweep of the room.

After shifting all the pillows and checking under the couch, he moved to the dining table and chairs and on to the coffee table. Finally, he approached the small Regency-style desk next to the wall of windows. He checked the drawers, pulling each one out completely and turning it over to see if anything was attached underneath. He ran his hands smoothly over the top surface, then squatted down and felt under the desk.

“Ah,” he whispered, and crouched on his hands and knees to get a good look at whatever it was he’d felt. After prying it from beneath the desk, he stood.

“Is it a bomb?” I asked, cowering closer to the wall of the entryway.

“No,” he said, bemused. “It’s a book.” He ripped duct tape off a Ziploc freezer-strength Baggie as he walked toward me. I ventured into the room and met him halfway, watching as he undid the plastic zipper and pulled a book out of the Baggie. He appeared lost in thought as he studied it. Then he looked up.

“I suppose this is your bailiwick,” he said, handing the book to me. “Any thoughts?”

I frowned. “My first thought is that this is really weird.”

The book was crimson morocco leather, in near perfect condition. The spine was elaborately gilded with The Legend of Sleepy Hollow written in gold between the raised bands. The paper was heavily gilded on all three edges. I opened it to check the date of publication: 1905.

On the inside flyleaf, facing the title page, was a full-color Arthur Rackham illustration of Ichabod Crane and a pretty woman dressed in pink frills, walking under a gnarly tree. Hiding among the branches of the tree were a band of evil-looking pixies, grinning maniacally.

“Oh, it’s charming,” I whispered, turning it over to check out the back joint along the spine. It was strong, in mint condition.

“Yes, it’s lovely, I suppose,” Derek said grudgingly. “Why it was left here, hidden, I have no idea.”

“No.” It was indeed lovely and extremely rare; of that, I had no doubt. I imagined a collector would be willing to pay twenty or thirty thousand dollars, if not more.

“What in the world was this doing in a Baggie under your desk?”

He bristled. “I didn’t put it there.”

“Of course you didn’t,” I said. “I’m just wondering who did. And why.”

I could feel the tension radiating off him. While I studied the book, he paced back and forth in front of me, visibly furious. It made me wonder how someone like him, with his legendary self-control and fervent belief in the order of law, could stand to be put in a position of having to defend himself to the police.

He probably felt upside down and discombobulated, although he might describe it in less whimsical terms. Whatever you called it, I knew the feeling. I felt his pain.

“If I knew who did it,” he said tersely, “they’d be in jail by now.”

Baffled, I shook my head. “What were they trying to prove?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He took the book from me and studied it for a few seconds, then handed it back. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find that it’s one of Layla’s books. Clearly, someone put it here to frame me.”

“How would they get in?” I waved away the question. “Never mind. Housekeeping.” I had intimate knowledge of the ease of slipping a key off the housekeeping trolley.

“Exactly.”

“But who? Naomi again?”

“I don’t know.” His fists clenched as he paced. “Is she smart enough to carry out such an elaborate scheme?”

“She’s smart enough, but this would take more than mere smarts. It’s so brazen, it’s almost… diabolical.”

“Yes, it is.” He gritted his teeth. “And I’m determined to find out who did it.”

“I’ll help,” I said immediately.

He tilted his head to study me.

“What?” I demanded finally. “I’m going to help. I don’t care what-”

“Yes, I can use your help.”

“-you think, I’m… what? I mean, it’s not like you can stop me, but… really?”

He flashed me a sexy, lopsided grin. I wondered if he could hear my little heart pitter-patter as I returned his smile.

“Yes, really.” His grin faded and he reached out to touch my cheek. “Because whoever tried to frame me has also hurt you, darling. And that is one thing I cannot forgive.”

En route to BABA to confront Naomi, I called the police to report the break-in of Derek’s hotel suite. They transferred me to Inspector Lee’s voice mail, where I gave her the rundown on Derek’s hotel room, the book, and where we were headed now.