Page 17 of Her Dark Lies
Be patient. Listen. Follow Jack’s lead.
I nod.
“Good. This takes us to the west wing, where our rooms are. Many of the pieces here are ancestral, from the Comptons who lived in England. I know you’ll enjoy familiarizing yourself with everything. There’s a catalog in the library, too, if you want to check it out.”
An austere white-haired man with a dark Mona Lisa smile and Jack’s eyes hangs in a lit niche of honor. Jack stops in front of it. “That’s my great-grandfather William. Lucian Freud painted that of him.”
Normally I would be examining every brushstroke—Freud is a favorite of mine—but I’m too tired. Everything feels so wrong. Strange. I am uncomfortable, and feel a wellspring of anxiety hovering, ready to pounce.
Maybe it’s the concussion. Or the scopolamine patch. They said that might make me dizzy. That must be it.
We wind down another hall, and Jack finally stops in front of a tall wooden door. It would look like any sixteenth-century castle door except for the biometric keypad to the right of the heavy iron handle.
Jack puts his fingers on the black screen, and there is an almost instantaneous click. He flings open the door to our bridal suite with a grin. “Welcome to our rooms, my darling.”
Staggeringly lovely, spacious, and decorated to perfection, “our rooms” is more of an apartment, consisting of three connected spaces—an expansive sitting area with couches, an office with a huge, battered wooden desk, and a master bedroom the size of our living room back home. We wander through and I see there is a half-naked statue in front of a long tapestry opposite the sumptuous bed. When will I ever stop being surprised by the Comptons’ earthiness?
He interrupts my thoughts with a gentle squeeze of my hand. “Darling? Do you like it?”
“I do, Jack. It’s perfect.”
“Legend has it one of the emperors had his lovers brought to this chamber. There used to be some sort of passageway down to the grotto. They would bring in the women by boat, then into the Villa through the tunnels. But the passageways have been walled off for centuries, now.”
I stop in front of the sculpture, similar in nature toVenus de Milo.
“Is this Venus?”
“It is. Venus Genetrix. Goddess of love, sex, beauty, and fertility.” He grins at that last, pats the sculpture on her truncated shoulder. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
The statue is missing a head, and arms, but yes, she is quite beautiful. The carving is impressive, you can tell how diaphanous her robes are, how they cling to her curves. Seduction. She is seduction personified.
“A replica, I hope?”
Jack glances at me oddly. “Goodness, no. My great-grandfather was friends with Paul Getty, he gave this to him in appreciation of some good deed. I would assume the Getty Museum has the replica, or whatever museum she’s currently been loaned to. Come see the view.”
Oh, great. Just what we need, a centuries-old sculpture in our bedroom. I’ll probably knock her over in the middle of the night on my way to the bathroom and shatter her into a million pieces.
I step around the statue cautiously and obediently follow him to the French doors leading to the terrace, which stretches around the corner to the living room access.
The terrace is remarkable; slate and wrought iron, it stretches across the width of the suite and curves around to the living room. A pergola provides shade and shelter to one quarter of the space. It even has a dining table and a stone fireplace on the western edge. The chairs and longues have deep cushions with gaily striped pillows. It’s meant for sunning, for reading, for loving. For us.
The vista is impressive. The steeple of the church rises to my left, and to my right...water, water everywhere. The sun peeking over the edge of the cliff casts gloriously long shadows across the beach, as if someone’s hand is perched above the island, open-fisted, fingers outstretched. The storm still lingers over the mainland as if it hasn’t made up its mind to advance across the water to the island yet.
I feel suddenly claustrophobic, isolated. All this water, the land too far away to reach.
I am still alone, despite Jack’s presence beside me. I still am not sure about what happened. Who broke in? Why? Who did we kill?
There are things happening that are out of my control, and the thought sends a tight shiver through my body. I pretend to stifle a yawn as cover for lurching away from Jack’s hand, but if he notices, he laughs it off.
“Do you want to take a nap before the meeting?”
“It’s tempting. You need to rest, too.”
“No, I’m fine. I was in Europe all last week, remember? My body clock is already adjusted. Seriously, if you want to lie down, I can go check in with my parents and let you rest.”
My silence worries him, because Jack folds me into his arms again. “I’m sorry this has been such a strange couple of days.”
“Yes,” I murmur, pushing away my concerns, letting myself be comforted. Now that we’ve stopped moving, the adrenaline rush of our arrival is fading fast. I am suddenly so tired. I just want to crawl into the bed and sleep for a year.
