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“Oh, honey, you’re so handsome in your tux, I only hear every other note,” Darcy gushed. If they hadn’t been in such a fix, she would have enjoyed teasing him.
Griffin shot her a skeptical glance in a clear warning not to go overboard. “I’ll set the program after speaking with Monsieur Jordan, but I’ll try to include at least one of your favorites.”
Darcy’s smile froze, but she was relieved not to be forced to name one. She played his CD all the time, but she hadn’t memorized the names of the pieces. Then she realized she did have a request.
“I love your own compositions best. Will you play one of them?”
Griffin rewarded that bit of flattery with an enthusiastic kiss. “That’s my girl.”
Darcy wished that were enough, but she was so anxious it was all she could do not to bounce on the seat like a toddler. When Antoine at last slowed the limousine and turned into a long, curving road, she was so desperate to get out of the car, she feared she might leap out the moment the door was opened and run off into the woods, or whatever terrain lay beyond the road. She would never leave Griffin, though, so she quickly erased a quick escape from her list of options.
Griffin gripped her knee as the luxurious car slowed to a halt. “Just let me run this show,” he whispered. As soon as Antoine opened the rear door, he burst through it.
“Where’s Jordan?” he shouted. “I was invited here, but I won’t tolerate the shocking lack of respect you’ve shown me thus far.”
He reached back into the rear seat to help Darcy out beside him. He laced his fingers in hers and pulled her close.
Antoine appeared to be unconcerned by Griffin’s reproach, while his companion, a big, bear-like man in a matching uniform, came around the front of the car and fixed them with a malevolent stare.
They were parked in front of an enormous chateau whose huge central structure was flanked by generous wings. It was well-lit, and the soft, dove-gray exterior had been freshly painted. The flowerbeds on either side of the driveway contained a splendid array of roses in a variety of hues.
The magnificent estate had the pristine beauty of a movie set, but when the front door opened and a man came toward them, Darcy recognized him instantly from Griffin’s description of Lyman Vaughn. Only rather than affect the confident swagger she’d expected, he moved slowly, as though he hadn’t slept in days. He was dressed in a white silk shirt and gray slacks rather than a suit, and his preoccupied frown failed to lift as he greeted them.
“Please forgive my impatience, Mr. Moore. It was so good of you to accept my invitation, and I apologize for whatever inconvenience I may have caused you.” His hushed voice contained a slight lilt, as though he might possess Scandinavian roots. “My only child is desperately ill. She has been attended by the world’s finest physicians, but they can do nothing more. While she cannot escape the inevitable, her fondest wish is to meet you.”
Griffin nodded slightly. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea you even had a daughter. I wish Miss LeMer had spoken of her illness when we met in Chicago.”
“Yes, I should have directed her to do so, but none of us realized how little time Astrid had left.”
When he included Darcy in his glance, Griffin provided the introductions, and she extended her hand. “I hadn’t expected to be here tonight, Mr. Jordan. I hope I won’t be in the way.”
“Of course not, my dear. I wish there were time for you both to rest after your long flight, but it would be best if you were to warm up a bit on our piano, Griffin, and play for us before we shared a late supper.”
“Is Astrid strong enough to make requests?” Griffin inquired. “I’ll tailor my performance to suit her tastes.”
“Chopin is one of her favorites,” Jordan replied. “But come, let me introduce you to her. She’d hoped to one day be a concert pianist herself, but sadly, that is not to be.”
Griffin kept hold of Darcy’s hand as they followed Jordan up the walk. He had only enough time to shoot her a dark glance, but the defiant tilt to his chin warned her far more was required than a tender show of sympathy.
She pressed his fingers quickly. They might be unable to confer for hours, but she understood this was Lyman Vaughn. That a man who dealt in death on such a vast scale should lose his daughter in so tragic a manner was a form of justice, but she prayed they would be safely back in Paris before he unleashed the full force of his grief.
Chapter Seventeen
If she got her way Astrid’s hospital bed was placed in the center of the cavernous living room. Her head was swathed in bandages, her skin as pale as her crisp white sheets and her eyes as clear a green as her father’s. Fluid from an IV bottle dripped into the needle in her left hand. She raised her right gracefully in greeting.
“Griffin, this is such a thrill.” Her hushed voice held only a faint trace of a French accent.
Griffin introduced Darcy, then took Astrid’s hand and brought it to his lips. “The pleasure is mine, mademoiselle. What may I play for you tonight?”
Darcy stood back as Astrid requested several favorites, and then just as quickly changed her mind and mentioned others. She had a great many favorites it seemed, and Griffin approved of each one.
The exquisitely furnished room was decorated in shades of misty blue. There was a concert grand at the end of the room, but the focal point was a large painting of dancing nudes which Darcy thought was probably an original Matisse. She wasn’t surprised Lyman Vaughn lived in such splendor, but she doubted he’d done more than hand over a suitcase filled with his ill-gotten gains to an interior designer.
In contrast, Astrid was touchingly innocent, and also completely unable to make up her mind as to what she wished to hear. She looked no more than sixteen and was so terribly thin, her eyes were huge and now glistened with a sheen of tears.
“I’ve made so many lists,” she apologized, “but then Papa brought me your latest CD, and I love it so, that became the music I wanted to hear you perform. But then, there are all my former favorites as well. How does anyone choose?”
“Perhaps Astrid would enjoy one of your own compositions,” Darcy suggested softly. “Why don’t you begin with the one you debuted in Seattle?”
