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None shaped like a castle. She looked at the mansion, and then glanced at Rick. “I’m impressed. You have the castle...were you looking for your fairy-tale princess?”
Rick’s lips curved. “Only you can answer that, Snow.”
He put his hand at her elbow. “Come on, let’s look inside. It’s done except for minor details, and is sparsely furnished.”
Rick’s house—castle—made her home look like a small and cute cottage.
Chiara gasped when they entered the foyer. She’d seen this house in her mind’s eye.
The double-height entry was airy and sunny but also warm and inviting. Done in light colors, it belied the imposing exterior. A curving staircase led to the upper levels, and various open doorways offered glimpses of other parts of the house.
She followed Rick in a circuit of the ground floor. A warm, country-style kitchen with beige cabinetry and a large island connected to a spacious dining room. An immense living room was bifurcated by a two-way fireplace and was made cozy by coffered ceilings in a warm mahogany wood. A library, den, two bathrooms and a couple of storage rooms for staff rounded out most of the lower level. The only thing missing was furnishings for a family...
When they came full circle back to the entry, Chiara’s gaze went to the staircase leading to the upper floors.
Rick adopted a teasing expression. “In case you are wondering, a home office with a built-in desk sits at the top of the principal turret. I haven’t stashed a fairy-tale princess there.”
“Rapunzel?” She tapped her chest. “Wrong fairy tale. I’m Snow, remember?”
Despite her joking, she felt comfortable here—too at home. It was almost enough to make her forget she was about to have one of the most significant meetings of her life.
She was an actress, she reminded herself sternly. She needed to adopt a persona—a shield—and get what she wanted out of this meeting.
As if reading her thoughts, Rick said, “You and your father can meet in the library. It has two club chairs and a coffee table at the moment.”
“Okay.” Why had she let Rick talk her into this? She knew he had a good point—dragons must be faced—but she wasn’t relishing the chance to slay one of hers. She almost gave a nervous laugh at the thought of Rick cast as her knight in shining armor...
Except of course, she didn’t believe in such knights or in Prince Charming—or in fairy tales, for that matter. Though she was having a hard time remembering that these days.
At the sound of a car pulling up, Rick said, “That must be him. I had a driver pick him up from the hotel where he stayed last night after his flight from Vegas.”
“Oh, good,” she managed, and then cleared her throat.
Rick looked at her searchingly, and then cupped her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
She gave him a blinding smile—one she usually reserved for the cameras. “Never better.”
“Remember, you’re in charge here. You hold the cards.”
“Playing cards are what I intend to take out of his hands.”
Rick lifted one side of his mouth. “Sorry, bad choice of words. I’ll meet him outside and show him into the library.”
“Of course.” She’d dressed in a navy shirt dress—something she’d pulled out of the closet herself. Because even if Emery hadn’t headed off to start her own fashion line, Chiara couldn’t imagine asking a stylist about what to wear to a meeting with her estranged father. For some occasions in life, there was no fashion rule book.
Rick shoved his hands into his front pockets and nodded, the hair on his forearms revealed by rolled-up shirtsleeves. “Back soon.”
When Rick turned away, Chiara walked into the library. And then, because she couldn’t think of what else to do, she faced the partially open doorway...and waited.
The sound of quiet voices reached her. Greetings were exchanged...and then moments later, she heard footsteps.
Someone stepped into the library, and she immediately recognized Michael Feran—her father.
Her heart beat a thick, steady rhythm. She hadn’t expected to feel this nervous. She hated that she did. He was the one who should be tense. After all, he’d walked out on her.
She hadn’t seen him in person in years, but the media had made sure she hadn’t forgotten what he looked like. She wished she could dismiss him as a gaunt and lonely gambling addict wallowing in his misery, but he looked...good.
She silently cursed the Feran genes. They’d graced her with the looks and figure that had propelled her to the top in Hollywood, but they also hadn’t skipped a generation with Michael Feran. His salt-and-pepper hair made him look distinguished—a candidate for the father role in any big studio blockbuster.
