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“I’ve no name for this yet,” Griffin announced, “and it may yet prove to be part of a longer work.”
As he began to play, Darcy hastily retook her seat, but she could scarcely breathe. Griffin hadn’t mentioned her profession when he’d introduced her, and yet Lyman Vaughn had commented on her area of expertise as though he were intimately acquainted with her background. She doubted that he’d stumbled upon the information about her in his effort to contact Griffin either.
If he knew so much about her, was he also aware of Griffin’s link to Interpol? If he were, then this wasn’t simply a risky performance for a man who wouldn’t blink at murder. It was a carefully laid trap.
She struck a more relaxed pose as though her only concern was to fully appreciate the brilliance of Griffin’s artistry, but she hadn’t truly drawn a relaxed breath since they’d left home. The setting was elegant and Griffin’s performance bold perfection, but their host sickened her. She didn’t understand how Griffin could lose himself so completely in his music that the danger surrounding them simply faded away.
She envied him his detachment and glanced toward Astrid. Her heart ached for the frail girl. She didn’t appear to be in any pain, but even without any specific details, Darcy imagined her suffering from the fright of an original diagnosis, through delicate brain surgery, and perhaps several bouts of excruciating chemotherapy. Apparently all to no avail.
By the time Griffin reached the melancholy strain which signaled the close of the magnificent piece, Darcy deeply regretted requesting such a moving selection. She reached for the tissue in her pocket. Astrid was blotting away her tears on a lace handkerchief, while her father’s expression remained unchanged.
Griffin held the final note, and Lyman Vaughn began to applaud enthusiastically. “I’m not surprised you’ve begun to compose, but I had no idea you’d be so extraordinarily gifted in that regard. Have you recorded that piece?”
“No, I plan to wait until I’ve enough original music to fill a CD. What did you think, Astrid?”
“It’s lovely, but so poignant. Not that music shouldn’t evoke sorrow, but I can’t help but be curious as to your thoughts when you wrote it. Were you nursing a broken heart?”
Griffin glanced toward Darcy. “No, I was inspired by the changing seasons and the rhythms of life.”
Astrid considered his comment a long moment. “Then perhaps it isn’t sad at all, but merely flows like the tides.”
“Yes, but I need a title which won’t be confused with Debussy’s ‘Le Mer’. Now, you mentioned Chopin.”
Astrid murmured her delight as Griffin continued with his usual effortless grace. He looked up frequently to smile at her, and her face filled with a pretty blush. When he completed the piece, she made a request, and he continued without pause.
He played for an hour before Vaughn rose. “I can’t thank you enough for coming here, but you must be hungry. Perhaps you could play for us again after supper.”
“It’s always a pleasure to play for such an appreciative audience.” Griffin stood and came forward. “May we dine here so Astrid and I may continue to discuss her favorite music?”
“I can’t eat real food,” she explained regretfully. “But I would love your company.”
“Of course,” her father exclaimed. “We’ll dine right here. Excuse me while I inform my staff of our change in plan.”
Astrid was such a charming girl, and clearly infatuated with Griffin. Darcy got up to walk around but stayed clear of the hospital bed so as not to intrude on their conversation. She tried to appear interested rather than simply snoop when she approached the dancing nudes, but Matisse’s bold signature could be read from several feet away.
She kept her eye on the doorway to prevent Lyman Vaughn from sneaking up on her again. Other than the remark on her profession, he’d done nothing untoward, but she didn’t expect him to show his true colors until he’d gotten everything he wanted. Still, she felt as though she were calling upon an executioner who just hadn’t bothered to don his black hood.
Regardless of how talented a cook Vaughn might employ, she doubted she would be able to chew a single bite. She decided to cut up the food and slide it around her plate to rearrange it, then scolded herself silently for worrying about hurting the feelings of an arms dealer or his cook.
A tall gray-haired man in a dark suit, who could have been the housekeeper’s twin, carried in a set of decoratively painted gold stacking tables. Lyman Vaughn followed and directed him to place them around Astrid’s bed. The servant made several trips to set their places, then returned carrying side chairs with pale blue tapestry seats which appeared to be from the dining room.
Darcy chose a chair on the opposite side of the bed from Griffin and Lyman Vaughn. When both concentrated on Astrid, she was grateful to be forgotten. She’d been well-aware that wives and girlfriends of celebrities were often pushed aside by adoring fans, but this was her first experience with anything even remotely approaching that predicament.
Prior to their arrival, Griffin had wisely insisted she occupy herself elsewhere, but despite the tragedy of Astrid’s situation, this was still a valuable preview of what traveling with him would be. People would be courteous—even master criminals had manners, apparently—but in any gathering of Griffin’s fa
ns, she would be shunted aside.
To think of her own comfort while Griffin charmed a terminally ill fan was more self-centered than she cared to be. But what were her choices? She could sit there like a lump and hope the time passed quickly. She might pretend they were at the home of some legitimate businessman, where eventually her presence might be noticed. Or she could concentrate on plotting their escape from this well-decorated chamber of horrors. The third option held the most appeal.
Their first course was served by a young man in a white chef’s jacket. He mumbled something in French to Vaughn, then served them bowls of lobster bisque. Darcy meant to take only a polite sip, not that anyone would have noticed had she lapped it up like a cat, but the soup was so creamy and delicious she left only a spoonful pooling at the bottom of her bowl.
The china had a gold rim and a pale blue band. Their utensils were heavy sterling silver, and the crystal was delicate perfection. That they each had their own small table was unavoidable that night, but Darcy imagined Vaughn’s dining table must be at least twenty feet long and lit with highly polished antique candelabra.
She glanced up at Griffin, and he looked her way and winked. She didn’t understand how he could be in such high spirits. The dark-suited man, the butler, perhaps, returned to pour wine, but she took only water. Her hand shook so badly she could barely bring the goblet to her lips, alcohol would have undone her. Griffin, however, entered into a lengthy conversation with Vaughn and his daughter on the merits of various French wines as opposed to their California counterparts.
Their next course was Dover sole amandine. Vaughn assured them the fish had been flown fresh from England that morning. Now expecting a huge meal, Darcy limited herself to two bites, but the sole was also delicious. She rested her fork on the side of her plate and tried to breathe deeply rather than continue to obsess over their dangerously bizarre situation.
The conversation again turned to music, and Darcy was relieved no one expected her to contribute anything. She made a mental note to study the lives of Griffin’s favorite composers in an effort to become more knowledgeable. Of course, if they didn’t make it home, her ignorance would no longer be a problem.
