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“I’m here to pick up a book,” I tell him, relieved to deal with someone rational.
“We aren’t holding anything for a Cress Taylor.” Alex continues his grump. Is this the good cop/bad cop bookstore?
“It’s not for me, it’s for Max Grant. He said it’s a birthday gift for his father, Brian.”
“How do you know Max?” Alex sounds incredulous.
“I. Uh. He. We’re together…”
Serge turns to his brother. “Idiot. Max wrote to us about his girl. She writes historical novels.” Alex’s muscles go from bunched to relaxed as he lowers his shoulders and shakes out his arms.
I start to relax, although his snarky anti-American comments still needle me.
“Forgive my brother.” Serge’s eyes crinkle as he throws me a flirtatious grin. “We are frequently besieged by tourists who assume we’re a full-service bookshop and ask for guidebooks, Harry Potter paperbacks, and the latest thrillers. They are not best pleased that we only offer rare books. A lot of Americans come to Cecil Court because they think it was J. K. Rowling’s inspiration for Diagon Alley, although there are other candidates for the honor.”
Alex growls. “Let them go visit the Shambles in York if they’re offended we don’t carry a complete line of Harry Potter books and knickknacks.”
Serge’s smile is merely a shadow. “Well, we have several first British editions of the first book—Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Good little moneymaker if you can find a copy. ”
A gravelly bass voice booms into the room. “We have Max’s book order.” An older man limps slightly as he walks toward us with a thick stack of books. “Here they are.”
Alex takes the books and sets them on the table, and the third man holds out a large hand with neatly manicured nails. He grips my hand lightly, the calloused palm scratching against my fingers. “Yevgeny Sheremetov, Viktoria Grant’s cousin. ”
I watch JL lean in at the door. “Everything bien in there?”
All three men look at him. I wave my now-freed hand. “Everything’s fine, JL.” I turn back to the Sheremetovs. “Max’s colleague, JL Martin.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” They are a Greek chorus, perfectly sync’d. JL waves and goes back to his chair.
Yevgeny spreads the books out on the table where Alex has been working. “My father founded this bookshop when the family fled Russia in 1920. We were nobility in a world where nobility was hardly worth a kopek. Everyone scattered—Paris, London, the Far East, even America.” He bestows a glower on his younger son. “We came to London and became shopkeepers.” His Russian accent is much more pronounced than his sons.
Shorter than his sons, Yevgeny has a wrestler’s physique. I would estimate him to be close to seventy, with thick gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. In contrast, Serge and Alex are both clean-shaven.
He points to the four books, bound in well-preserved red leather stamped with gold crowns. “The Rulers of Strathspeyby Archibald Kennedy, 1911. First edition, excellent condition. And all three volumes ofThe Chiefs of Grantby William Fraser, 1883. Privately printed, only 150 copies, so very rare. Also excellent condition.”
“Max wouldn’t accept anything less.” Alex’s comment is in a warmer tone.
Perhaps they’re close, even though Max has never mentioned him. I suddenly realize when Alex mentioned the cousin who was good at languages, he meant Max.
“Do you want to check them before I wrap them up?”
“Sure.” My fingers itch to fondle the beautifully bound volumes.
Alex lays the quarto-sized volumes out on the table. “Do I need to show you how best to handle them?”
I can’t help the glare I send in his direction. “I have a DPhil in history from Oxford.” My tone could cut glass.
“Of course you do.” Alex sounds unconvinced.
I’m shocked at his continuing hostility. Guess my being with Max hasn’t really softened his attitude. My temper gets the better of me. “Why would I lie?”
Serge puts a restraining hand on his brother’s arm. “Alex, where are your manners? Apologize to Dr. Taylor.”
Alex scowls, then mutters sorry with bad grace. His father shoots icicles in his direction.
“I’m so sorry.’”
“ You don’t need to apologize,” I tell Yevgeny as I glare at Alex.
