The Lion's Den(116)

“Douze Chemin de la Pommière,” she confirms.

We stop next to a bubbling fountain, and I give her all my cash, thanking her again.

She drives away in a cloud of dust as I climb the flagstone steps, for the first time reading the inscription etched in curling iron above the entryway. GRANDVIEW MANOR. I recognize the name immediately as Eric and Dylan’s grandmother’s estate. So this is where Vinny was leading me.

Your sister is headed to your grandmother’s.

Of course. It makes perfect sense. I stare at the blue double doors, butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

Now or never.

I raise the heavy ornate knocker and rap three times.

A plump older woman in a traditional maid’s black dress and white apron opens the door and looks me up and down. I’m less dirty than I’d been before I cleaned myself up on the train, but still, I can only imagine the image I must cut in my ragged dress and shoes with my wild hair and bloody knees. “Mademoiselle,” she says politely. “Puis-je vous aider?”

My mind blanks. I guess they weren’t formally expecting me. I never considered the door might be opened by a housekeeper wanting to know my intentions. It’s the most elementary question, and I have no idea how to answer it. Is Vinny here? Is Eric here? I seem to have traveled halfway across Europe only to turn up at his grandmother’s doorstep without even knowing her name, for heaven’s sake.

I smile dumbly, reaching for the one name that’s still safe to use. “Um, I’m a friend of Dylan’s?”

I hope he’s the kind of guy who extends invitations to friends far and wide to visit him if they’re passing through France. I have no idea whether he’s home, but maybe that won’t matter. All I need is to get inside for a few minutes, long enough for the handoff with Vinny. Please, God, let Vinny be here…or Eric.

The housekeeper moves aside, and I step into the quiet house, smoothing my hair. Iron chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling; a muted Oriental rug stretches across the flagstone floor. At one end of the room, a giant stone fireplace presides over a set of slate velvet couches that face each other across a wide reclaimed-wood coffee table. But what draws my eye is the art. The walls are lined with countless paintings and photographs of every different size and style, hardly an inch of wall between them.

“Suivez moi,” she says, beckoning to me.

My heart thuds so hard I’m surprised she can’t hear it as I follow her down a hallway and into a deep-blue parlor. On the far wall, a large flat-screen television is mounted between two white bookshelves that stretch the length of the room. A glass coffee table divides two barrel-backed white chairs and a white couch.

Oh. I guess this is why she didn’t hesitate when I mentioned his name: one of the chairs is indeed occupied by Dylan, staring at me with astonishment. I give him what I hope is a friendly but not too friendly nod. I still have no idea what he knows, or doesn’t, or whose side he’s on. Clearly this isn’t the moment to find out.

In the other chair is a small, stylish woman who looks to be in her eighties. She wears a black sweater with white pants, a long strand of pearls around her neck. Her hair is pure white, and watchful eyes peer out from behind black-framed round glasses, taking me in. My most polite smile evaporates when my eyes land on the other two people in the room: John and Summer are perched uncomfortably on the edge of the low couch with their legs at odd angles, as though they might leave at any minute.

My blood turns to ice. No. No, no. It was a trap, after all.

Clearly upset by the sight of me, Summer starts to speak, but John silences her with a small movement of his hand, his countenance absent its usual charm. If he’s surprised to see me, he covers it well.

I stand very still, feeling all their eyes on me. Every reflex in my body is screaming at me to run, but that would do me no good. I have to think like a predator, not prey.

“Isabelle,” John says evenly.

Ignoring him, I step over the little white dog curled up asleep on the rug and extend my hand to the woman I can only assume is Dylan and Eric’s grandmother. An ally, I pray. “Je m’appelle Isabelle Carter,” I say as blithely as I can muster in my best French. “Votre maison est magnifique.”

Dylan stares at me like I’m speaking in tongues, but the woman smiles. “Grace.” She takes my hand between hers. “Enchantée.”

Behind me, Dylan sneezes. “Sorry,” he says automatically.

“God bless, Dylan.” I turn to catch his eye, but he drops his gaze to the floor, suddenly intensely interested in the little dog that continues to snore like it’s her job. To his credit, he looks as lost as I feel right now.

Grace’s vigilant eyes follow me, her face inscrutable as I scan the room for a place to sit and, finding none, remain standing. My heart is beating a mile a minute, but I control my breath. “Summer, John. Fancy seeing you here,” I say with false bravado. “Where are the girls?”

“On the boat, where you should be,” Summer blurts. “What are you doing here?”

John gives her a sharp glance and lays a hand on her knee, then returns his unblinking gaze to me. “Why are you here?”

I strain to sound casual. “I need my passport.”

The bottom half of John’s face smiles, but the eyes don’t get the message. “We don’t have it here with us,” he says. “But if you come back to the boat—”