Elizabeth laughed. She spotted a photograph on the chest ofdrawers, a family grouping with everyone in ski clothes, at the top of a ski run surrounded by white snow-covered mountains. “Your grandparents and parents, and in the middle that’s you, what, maybe ten?”
Rome nodded. “I don’t remember how old I was when another skier took that photo. I do remember we were at the Lost Boy run at Aspen, still my favorite run. My mom gave it to me when I turned twenty-one.”
“A lovely memory.” When she’d first met this tough-looking FBI agent, seen his opinion of her clear on his face, she’d dismissed him as a typical American macho tosser, full of himself, maybe a sexist. What was she to think now?
Elizabeth followed him to the end of the hall, to a large, empty, light-flooded corner room. Rome said, “I’m still thinking about what to do with this room. Well, I bought some art, but that’s it so far.”
She walked to the middle of the large rectangular room and looked around. “This is like my workroom at home, where I paint. Look at how beautifully the light glistens off the pale gold walls, and the dark gold accent wall sets it all off.”
She painted? Yesterday he’d have guessed she spent her days going to fancy teas, shopping endlessly, and dancing in the evenings with the right people at the right places. Painted what? He watched her wander around the room now, touch her long thin fingers to the frame of a watercolor of an ancient sailing ship. She said, “I’ve always admired watercolors but found what I produced didn’t speak to me—or to anyone, for that matter—so I’ve stayed with acrylics, a perfect medium for me.”
He wondered if she’d had any success, but since her daddy was a bloody earl, it probably didn’t matter to her. “What do you paint?”
“I guess you could call me mainly a neo-impressionist.Before this started, I was painting a portrait of my mother for her birthday. She was twenty-two in the photo I’m basing it on, and newly married to my father.”
“Do you show your work in a gallery?”
“Yes, in Belgravia.”
So she wasn’t a dilettante. Interesting. “That’s the snooty part of London, right?”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Snooty enough.” She stopped at the large windows looking over his well-manicured front yard, unframed by curtains or blinds.
Rome realized he’d been throwing enough stereotypical assumptions at her to drown her in. He cleared his throat. “Sherlock is lobbying to make this a music room, with a Steinway. She’s quite a pianist, could have been a concert pianist, but she opted instead for the FBI.”
A concert pianist? She’d seen the Steinway in the Savich living room, but hadn’t asked about who played it. She grinned at him. “Nah. Not a music room. I vote for a gym where you could work up a sweat—weights, benches, mats, elliptical, maybe a boxing bag.”
“I keep forgetting you’ve been indoctrinated by Hurley.”
She looked startled, nodded. “You’re right. Three months ago such a thing would have never occurred to me.” She wondered how much of Hurley would go back with her to London, if she survived.
Rome looked down at his Apple Watch. “I guess we’d best continue on if we’re going to get to Hurley’s camp in good time. You sure you still want to go?”
“Of course. He’ll want to hear all about what’s happened. You’ve never met him, have you?”
He cocked his head at her, still wondering why she wanted to make the trip, but all he said was, “No, but I’ve heard tall tales over beers with other agents. I’ll enjoy meeting him.”
It took them close to an hour to get clear of the always-snarled Washington traffic and pull onto I-95. Rome said, “You really think that room should be a gym?”
“Good question. Since I did sweat my eyebrows off with Hurley, so maybe it’s a part of who I am now.”
“Nah, you’re an aristocrat, you don’t do sweat, it’s not in your blue blood. Why doesn’t your father get your brother into rehab?”
“Jumping around from subject to subject, is that something that works with criminals?”
“Probably not.”
“Yes, we’ve all tried countless times with Tommy, but finally last year my father had enough, he disowned him. He does provide him a monthly allowance, but Tommy’s always short. I admit I add money to the pot when it’s time to pay Carlos, his drug dealer. When my father dies, Tommy will still be the next Earl of Camden, my father can’t do anything about it, primogeniture and all that. Now, when anyone speaks of him to my father, even me, he stiffens, gets cold and silent. I have a feeling my mother also supplements, but neither of us ever talks about it.”
“Since you live in London, you’re Tommy’s main caregiver, right?”
“Yes. As I said, I guess I had to admit to being his main, front-and-center enabler.” She sighed, but said nothing more.
“So stop it. Get him into rehab, whether he wants it or not.”
“Been there, done that, as you guys say, countless times.” She turned to look out the window at the line of cars beside them on the highway. “They’re going to come, aren’t they?”
“They might.” He glanced at her, saw she had tensed up. “If they do find you, we’ll be ready.”
