One Way or Another(45)

“Buggie-wuggie,” Lucy whispered, staring, horrified. “It’s the Hammer House of Horror.”

Martha pulled herself together, opened the door, stepped out of the car. “That’s why we’re here,” she said briskly, grabbing her bag and the batches of samples from the backseat. “Come on, Lucy, give me some help here.”

“If you insist, but I don’t like it. I mean, look at those windows, little panes gleaming at us like eyes or something. Don’t you feel it, Marthie, like it’s watching us?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Martha said, but she knew exactly what Lucy meant. To say the house did not have a welcoming feel was an understatement. It seemed to give off waves of animosity, something she had never previously encountered in any home she had been in.

“Just look at those beautiful birds,” she said brightly as she walked up the front steps, followed reluctantly by Lucy clutching swatches of sample fabrics to her chest. “Now, Lucy, think what you and I can do with this, bring it to life, fill it with love.…”

“You need the right people to fill a place with love,” Lucy said. Since she had been brought up in a place of love she knew about such things, and so did Martha, though now she was working, she had to look at things differently, think about what she could bring to a place, like this, that might give it “love.”

“Love” was what Ahmet believed he felt when he opened the door and stood at the top of the wide flight of four worn stone steps leading into the hallway of his house, which soon was to be made into “a home,” and saw Lucy again. He had already thought out a code of behavior for himself that would be suitable for the occasion, which was to be the perfect gentleman, allow Martha access only to the downstairs of his house, with Mehitabel to keep an eye on her, and Lucy as well, and to make sure they did not venture upstairs, where Angie was.

“That’s for next time,” he told Martha when she admired the heavy mahogany balustrade while frowning at the red-patterned stair carpet with the huge brass clips holding it in place. “Today, I would like you to start on the main downstairs rooms. Mehitabel will show you round, give you any information you need. And please remember, Martha, you have free rein. Mi casa es su casa. And Lucy, dear little Lucy, welcome.”

But Lucy’s absent mind was on the pizza guy. She was wondering when she’d get a chance to call the pizza place and ask to speak to him, though not knowing his name was a problem. She grinned, thinking about him. She’d had worse problems.

The huge house seemed deserted, no maids bustling, no smiling help welcoming them. Lucy remembered Patrons and the butler and the Mrs. who were part of the family all those years. Patrons could not have existed without them, and was the reason it barely did now they were gone.

“But how do you manage this big place?” she asked Ahmet.

“Well, of course, I have Mehitabel, she takes care of everything for me, hires the help and all that sort of thing. I assure you, Lucy, Marshmallows runs perfectly. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Lucy could see he would not. Ahmet was fastidious to the point of persnickety; always immaculately turned out, always with the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. She couldn’t imagine Ahmet in a T-shirt, hair ruffled by the wind, in jeans and the sort of thing her friends wore, but of course he was an “older” man and being a billionaire she supposed he had to present a certain image. Not knowing any other billionaires, or even anyone who had millions, which she guessed might seem like small change to him, she wasn’t too sure of her facts. But what she did know about, because everybody had heard about it, seen pictures of it in newspapers and magazines, was his yacht, the Lady Marina, which had cost a fortune. Ahmet himself had told her so.

Two hundred million was the price of that luxury, he’d said, adding that the boat was 250 feet long.

“Expensive,” Lucy said, shocked by such numbers, but she had read somewhere that Ahmet’s worth was reputed to be more than six billion, and to him the cost of the boat was probably small change, and certainly a long way from wondering if you could afford to order the spaghetti in the local Italian. Someone had told her Ahmet had made his money in metal trading; Lucy wasn’t sure what that was but it was certainly lucrative. And the boat supposedly was spectacular; they said the dance floor had a swimming pool above it so you almost felt you were floating, and the cabins had quilted silk walls, or beautiful wood paneling, with the softest terry bathrobes, and every possible lotion and cream and powder from Paris. But his house was intimidating.

She sank into a too-deep burgundy brocade sofa which made her legs stick out in front of her like a child’s, still clutching the batches of fabric samples to her chest. She glanced round under her lashes, checking it out, hoping Ahmet would not notice, but of course he did. He also noticed the stunned expression that flitted briefly across her face as she took in the heavy wood furniture, the oversized cushions, the crystal chandelier—three, actually, all in one room—and the Tiffany lamps that did not go with anything else. And those bloody awful weighty dark green curtains looped back with gold tassels.

Shit. Lucy thought this place looked like a bordello, or anyway, her idea of what bordellos looked like.

She felt Ahmet’s eyes on her, forced herself to look back at him, smiling.

“You don’t like it,” he said.

She had been taught always to be honest. “Not much,” she admitted carefully. To her surprise, he laughed.