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As they mounted the stairs she looked up at an enormous tapestry hung on the left wall. “How old is your house?”
“It isn’t old at all. It was built in the seventies by one of the Middle-Eastern oil billionaires. When the price of oil dropped, he needed to raise cash, and I was in a position to provide it.”
Upstairs, the marble stairs gave way to dove-gray carpeting so thick her feet sank into it. Light streamed through Palladian windows; walking over to look out, she saw an enormous swimming pool in the courtyard below, the pool was irregularly shaped so that it resembled a lake, exquisitely landscaped, with a small waterfall sparkling over rocks before cascading back into the transparent turquoise water.
“The pool must be spectacular at night, like another world,” she said.
“It’s one of my pleasures. A long swim is relaxing after a difficult day.”
He led her along the hallway, turned left down a secondary hallway, then opened a door on the right. “Here is the Garden room. I hope you will be comfortable.”
Niema stepped inside, and her eyes lit with pleasure. “It’s beautiful.”
The reason it was called the Garden room was obvious: It was filled with greenery. Besides the lovely arrangements of cut flowers, there were eight-foot tall areca palms in strategic locations, succulent jade, rhododendrons. They were in a small sitting room; double doors to the right were opened to reveal a sumptuous bedroom. Straight ahead, glass doors opened onto a private balcony that was lush with potted trees and flowers. The balcony was the width of both the sitting room and bedroom, perhaps forty feet wide.
Ronsard was watching her move around the suite, touching the plants, smelling the flowers. “This is a peaceful place. I thought you would enjoy it; an escape from the social whirl.”
“Thank you,” she said sincerely. His thoughtful-ness in providing this retreat was touching. He was correct in thinking she enjoyed occasional solitude and serenity in which to recharge, but as she looked around she realized that the balcony would also provide an excellent means of clandestine entry, à la Medina. She would make certain the glass doors were always unlocked—not that they would provide much difficulty to someone as adept at breaking and entering as John was.
Her luggage had already been deposited on a padded bench at the foot of the bed. Ronsard took her arm. “A maid will unpack for you. If you aren’t too tired, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
“No, I’m not tired,” she said, remembering he had mentioned in Paris that he wanted her to meet someone. The electronic supplies she had brought were safely locked in her jewelry case, so she wasn’t worried about the maid seeing them and reporting to Ronsard that one of his guests had brought some interesting equipment with her.
“My private wing is on the other side of the house,” he said and smiled. “I wasn’t lying when I said your suite wasn’t next door to mine. I wish it was, but I deliberately remodeled so that the guest rooms were somewhat distant.”
“For privacy, or protection?”
“Both.” A tender look swept his face, an expression all the more astonishing because it seemed to be directed elsewhere. “But not my privacy, and not my protection. Come. I told her I was bringing someone to see her, and she has been excited all day, waiting.”
“She?”
“My daughter. Laure.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
His daughter? John hadn’t men tioned that Ronsard had a daughter. Niema tried to hide her surprise. “You’ve never mentioned her before,” she said. “I thought your sister was your only family.”
“Ah, well, perhaps I’m paranoid. I do everything I can to safeguard her. As you pointed out, I’m an unsavory character; I have enemies.”
“I said Eleanor thinks you’re an unsavory character,” she corrected.
“She’s right, you know. I’m far too unsavory for woman like you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Smooth, Ronsard. Women probably fall all over you when you warn them than you’re too dangerous for them.”
“Have I ever mentioned you have this annoying tabit of seeing through my ploys?” he asked converationally, and they both laughed.
They weren’t the only people in the hallway. They passed several guests, all of whom had to speak to their host. One gentleman looked familiar, and he swept her with a knowing look. It took her a moment to place him as the horse-racing afficionado she had met at the prime minister’s ball. She smiled at him and asked how his horse had finished in the weekend’s race.
“You have a slave for life,” Ronsard said as they continued down the hall. “He bores everyone with his talk of horses and racing.”
“I like horses,” she replied serenely. “And it doesn’t take any more effort to be nice to someone than it does to be nasty.”
Getting from one side of the huge villa to the other took some time, especially when he was continually stopped. At last, however, they passed into his private wing, which was guarded by heavy wooden double doors. “My suite is here,” he said, indicating another set of double doors on the left. He showed her a family dining room, a den that surprised her with its coziness, a small movie theater, an enormous playroom filled with all manner of toys and games, a library so packed with books she doubted he could get another volume on the shelves. The titles were both fiction and nonfiction, with an amazing variety of children’s books mixed in.
“This is one of Laure’s favorite rooms,” he said. “She loves to read. Of course, she has outgrown fairy tales and Dr. Seuss, but I make certain there is always a selection of reading material appropriate to her age.”
