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When she opened the front door to leave, with enough time to walk into town but not enough time to stop at Starbucks on the way, she almost tripped over a cardboard box on the front stoop. It must have been left in the last ten minutes if Melissa hadn’t brought it inside. Her name was scrawled on the top. She recognised the peculiar little curlicue on the ‘S’ from the gift-labelled vase that Mick had found in her office. She’d thought at the time that it reminded her of an illuminated manuscript she’d once seen during her semester abroad in Paris.
Biting down on her lip, Sophy’s gaze moved from the box to the street, scanning up and down the pavement. It was probably ridiculous to be creeped out about this and certainly she had read too many suspense thrillers in her life. But she had also just received a legal summons to identify a failed bomber. Feeling melodramatic and absurd did not prevent her from bending to put her ear to the box before she touched it. She couldn’t hear audible ticking, but it was the technological era, for goodness’ sake, not a Saturday morning cartoon. Bombs were presumably digital these days like everything else.
Gingerly, she slid one finger under the tape securing the lid and lifted it. She could see tissue paper, which softly yielded when she prodded it. Hoping it didn’t contain anything that was going to make her late due to having to shower with a bottle of disinfectant, she unwrapped it and found herself kneeling on the ground with a beautiful blue-grey mohair shawl. It was hand-knitted by her favourite local textiles artist.
Rising to her feet, she stood stroking the baby-soft wool, a frown pinching her brows together.
What on earth?
She hadn’t so much as casually dated anybody in six months. Nobody had asked her out recently or shown any overt interest in her.
Well…
No. Mick would never hide behind coy gifts. Especially not this kind of gift. Frankly, his idea of a present would probably be more along the lines of a pocket organiser or a spare inhaler. He would never do something that would make a woman uncomfortable either, and he would have the sensitivity and the common sense to realise that leaving anonymous gifts at her home would not necessarily be welcome.
Oh God, there wasn’t enough time to worry about this now. She opened the door and put the scarf and box inside the hallway, then locked up and made a dash for the street.
She felt slightly overdressed walking on the wharf at nine o’clock in the morning in her favourite silk dress and a pair of heels, especially when every second person she passed was wearing a bathing suit and the dregs of a weekend hangover. By the time she stood under a chandelier, however, shaking hands with a multimillionaire, she wished she had worn her diamond earrings as well.
Ryland was a dauntingly charismatic man with a sharply hooked nose and slightly bulging forehead, who reminded her of Albrecht Dürer’s portrait of Philipp Melanchthon. He was gracious and grateful, and obviously putting himself out to be welcoming to her.
She was so miserably shy of him that she could barely manage the initial greeting.
They were standing in front of a small Monet, which he claimed as a personal favourite in the collection, and Sophy was doing a lot of foolish nodding, unhappily aware of her lengthy silences and the interested eyes of the public around them, when a tall, extremely handsome security officer approached.
She could feel herself scuttling further back in her shell like a spooked turtle. This was hopeless. She was hopeless.
“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt,” the newcomer said crisply, giving Sophy a polite, professional nod, followed by a second glance that was decidedly masculine and appreciative. “Palmer is on a conference call from London. There’s a small issue with the Knightsbridge contract.”
“I see.” Ryland looked annoyed. He was full of extravagant apologies as he excused himself to Sophy, although she couldn’t imagine that he was finding the visit any less painful than she was. Unless he was such an egoist that he didn’t mind carrying the entire conversation, which on reflection was quite probable. He asked if she would meet him in his private office for coffee in half an hour and without resorting to another asthma attack on his premises, she couldn’t think of a politic reason to refuse.
“Excellent. Excellent,” he said, clasping her hand again. “Then I’ll leave you in Sean’s capable care in the meantime. Mitchell, please extend every courtesy to Miss James.”
“Of course, sir.” The guard nodded once, his face blank until his boss had departed the display hall in short, purposeful strides, when he turned a wide smile on her and put out his hand.
“Sean Mitchell,” he said. His fingers were dry and warm; his light blue eyes twinkled. “And you’re our damsel in distress.”
Fabulous.
“Sophy James,” she muttered, at the approximate vocal pitch of a reticent mouse. Sean took a step forward in order to better hear her. She had noticed that people often did that, which didn’t help her personal space issues with strangers. They also had a tendency to increase the volume of their own words, as if she was hard of hearing and could learn by example.
He was making a determined effort to be flirty; she had to give him credit for persistence. Her return comments and smiles were perfunctory at best. She was well aware of the rudeness of her inattention, but she couldn’t keep her eyes from tracking the perimeter of the hall, looking for a familiar muscular frame. The only other security personnel in the hall were two women, one the tall statuesque blonde that she noticed on the day of the incident, the other an attractive brunette. Both looked to be in their late twenties and walked with a shoulders-back near-strut that suggested a good deal of confidence. She would bet her chances in the sculpture competition that ten years ago they would have been the sort of girls who intimidated the hell out of her in the dormitory.
“I understand you’re an artist?” Sean was trying again, his Ken Doll smile unflagging. She could imagine it didn’t often let him down. “You were sketching here the day of the grenade assault, weren’t you? Do you mostly draw people?”
“I – ” Sophy’s belated attempt to retrieve her scattered manners was felled by the appearance of Mick in the archway that led to the archaeological artefacts. He was wearing crisp grey pants and a white shirt jerked open at the collar, the most formal attire she had seen him in yet, and his gaze came to hers like a missile locating its target. He didn’t look happy, although she wasn’t sure whether that was due to her presence or her company.
Sean turned to locate the subject of her absorbed stare.
“Oh, don’t let that ugly bastard put you off,” he said lightly, raising two fingers to give Mick a teasing salute. “I know he looks like he just went five rounds too many with Mike Tyson, but he’s all bark, I promise you.”
“Mick’s not ugly,” she snapped, and wasn’t sure which of them was more astonished by the outburst.
The words had been affectionate rather than malicious. The fact that Sean was so obviously joking did nothing to appease Sophy’s unexpected flare of temper. It was casual banter, spoken by a man who was clearly his good friend, and Mick probably couldn’t care less. She did. She was ten times more annoyed on his behalf than she would have been by a slur to her own appearance.
Did he get that kind of comment all the time?
Too late, she realised that Sean was looking at her with the dawning incredulous delight of a tabloid reporter who had just stumbled over the scoop of the season in his own backyard.
