The FBI said no comment because it was an ongoing investigation. Were they looking at anyone else, or was he the only one with the bull’s-eye on his chest? He imagined cops everywhere were on the lookout for him. What about Carla? No, he was the prime suspect. He’d read speculation in the financial columnsabout whether she could keep the fund operating, or whether it would end in receivership. He was being compared to Madoff, arrogant and indifferent.
He spent hours walking through La Sagrada Família, mostly to distract himself, but still he felt alone even with the thousands of tourists visiting daily. Like them, he marveled that a structure so unique and bizarre and moving actually existed. He tried to lose himself in the crowds, always alert for anyone staring at him, listened to the drone of the English tour guides until he thought he could lead a group tour himself. He studied the incredible stained-glass windows, memorized the patterns, marveled at the colors, mostly to escape for a little while. But always in the back of his mind was Tash, how he missed him, how he prayed he was all right. He thought of Celia, dead over two years now, but still in his thoughts every day. What would she think he should do? But he knew. Celia would tell him to go back and fight. He was innocent.
It was Sasha’s reaction to his returning to Philadelphia that had persuaded him to come to Barcelona. She’d panicked, been on the verge of falling apart. She said she couldn’t face seeing him hauled away, and what about Tash? How could she take care of him herself, with all the paparazzi and the press and the scammers who’d be harassing them? She begged him to stay with her and hope that in the meantime the authorities would find out who it was who really did this. Sasha was as much a victim of what had happened as he and Tash, as much as everyone who’d depended on the fund and on him, whose financial lives had taken a nosedive. She was still on an emotional cliff. He knew he had to protect Sasha now, until she was ready to face what would have to come.
But during the long starlit nights lying in a chaise longue in the yard, or in the bungalow with Sasha, he could think of nothing else but the mess he’d left behind in Philadelphia and all the people who’d put their trust in him and cursed himnow. Was he still in Barcelona for Sasha’s sake, or because he was a coward?
He walked to the bungalow’s front door, past the yards of tangled roses threaded through the once white fence. It was a lovely Sunday night, not so hot now since the sun had nearly set. The yard always smelled of sweet oranges, and their scent wafted into the bungalow through the open windows. He breathed in their scent and held it. A little thing, but it gave him a moment’s pleasure.
He walked into the small living room and saw Sasha sitting on the old green leather sofa, reading. She was always reading, usually a murder mystery. Her delicate bare feet were propped up on an old coffee table, a glass of fruity sangria at her elbow. She was wearing her white capri pants and a snug white top that showed off her perfect young body. They’d been married only six months, so little time to know happiness again before the world had fallen on their heads. Only Sasha could distract him, but never for long. He felt a familiar pang of guilt for leaving her alone so much.
She looked up, smiled at him, put her novel down, and patted the seat beside her. “You were at the basilica again?”
He nodded, sat down beside her, sinking deep. He leaned over, kissed her ear. “It was more crowded than usual, so many summer visitors. I can’t blame them. Gaudí’s mind, his vision, always captures me too. Whenever I’m there I spot yet another shape I hadn’t seen before. I wonder if Gaudí lived now whether he’d ever find the money to bring that incredible fantasy to life.”
Sasha took a small sip of her sangria and said, her voice thoughtful, “Maybe not on this extraordinary scale. I imagine if he did live today, he’d produce something very different, but whatever it would be, it would be as fantastical and as moving. I’m glad it’s here for you.”
Archer marveled at how Sasha seemed to see to the heartof his feelings. She’d accepted his claim of innocence without question. He hated what this mess was doing to her, hated that she was afraid. He dreaded her pleas to him when he talked about going home.
“Turn your back to me, Archer, and let me give you a neck rub. Your shoulders are in your ears.”
Her strong fingers began to knead his shoulders and neck. It felt incredible. He had to try again, he had to. “We should go home soon, Sasha. Our staying here doesn’t make it more likely I’ll be cleared, but less likely, each day. At least if I was there, I could tell them the truth, correct any mistaken notions they have, take a lie detector test, and surely that would have to mean something. I would make sure my lawyer would protect you until I’m freed. And Tash. I know he’ll be fine with Rebel until this is all over.”
Her hands stopped moving. He heard her draw in her breath. He turned to look into her exquisite face, framed by blond curling hair, so unlike Celia’s pale blond hair, gone down the shower drain in gobs after the chemo started. He remembered Celia laughing as she modeled a curly blond wig for him. He saw her bone-white face, so thin at the end, her beautiful eyes half-open in death, saw Tash pressed against her side, sobbing. He remembered how in the last moment of her life she’d said Tash’s name and told him she loved him. Tash had said he’d sung to her with his mind, a lullaby she’d sung to him when he was younger. Archer had wanted to believe him, wanted to think he’d shared that last moment with Celia, but he couldn’t. Still, it was always there in the back of his mind, always a question. Now it didn’t seem to matter much.
She finally answered him. He supposed he’d expected tears, more pleas to stay put, to wait, but she said, “I know how hard this is for you, Archer. I know you want to go home and the only reason you’re staying is for me. You know I’m scared, scared for both of us. I don’t know how I could stand seeing you draggedaway from me in handcuffs. Please, just a few more days together before we go. I promise to stop being a coward and a wuss. You and I, we’re an unbeatable team. Maybe something will happen, maybe the FBI will figure it out.” She pressed her cheek against him, kissed him.
“All right, a few more days. Thank you, Sasha.” He sighed. “Of course it’s all about the damned passcodes. I’m the only one who has them, the only one who could strip money out of the accounts. So it only makes sense they’d believe me guilty. Only me. But somehow, someone managed it, and maybe you don’t want to hear this, but I’m convinced that someone had to be Carla. I’ve always told you I admired her skills, and I realize now, somehow, some way, she got hold of my passcodes. I can see her setting this all up, timing it perfectly to be discovered just after we left the country.” He laughed. “What we wanted to be a magical honeymoon the FBI saw as a criminal running, a sure sign of my guilt. And all the while—well, enough of that, I’m talking myself in circles.” He looked at Sasha, prayed no one suspected she was his accomplice. He touched his forehead to hers. “No matter what happens to me, sweetheart, I’ll make sure you’ll be all right.”
She kissed his cheek, laid her hand on his forearm. “I know you’ve always been close to Carla, Archer, always believed her to be your closest friend, your ally. You were the one who brought in the clients, and she managed the tech side. The truth is I didn’t want to believe she’d betray you, but now I realize she probably did, she’s the only one who could. I can actually see her doing it, gloating, preening at how smart she is. I guess it’s time I told you the truth. I’ll say it straight out. I never liked Carla, particularly when she was my boss. She was demanding, impatient, cutting—a stone-cold bitch to me. She was all honey coating to you, but to everyone else she was mean spirited. I was happy when I finally managed to slither out of being her assistant and head over to accounting, because otherwise, I wouldhave quit. You were always so nice, not only to me, but to everyone. And then you and I became we.
“Now, how can I help you prove you’re innocent?”
He felt a load of guilt lift off his head. He hadn’t realized Sasha disliked Carla. Did she now really believe he was innocent? Would she really go with him soon? He could see Tash again, toss a football with him. “I’m not sure what either of us can do, Sasha, but I do know I can’t do it from here. A few days, then.”
She looked out the living room window to the small garden with its wildly blooming roses and orange trees, looked back at him and laid her palm against his cheek, and nodded. “We’ve talked about this before, and I agree, you know that. I don’t know how Carla pulled it off, but let’s try this. I’ll make a list of those in the firm I think could be helping her. You make a list and we’ll compare them.”
He hugged her close. She whispered against his neck, “You’re a man who’s honest to his bones. I’ll never forget that, ever again.”
He stroked her smooth cheek. “I don’t know what I would have done these past weeks without you.” He picked up her sangria and took a deep drink, gave her a blazing smile. “When we go back, Sasha, with you by my side, together I know we can do anything.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Darlington Hall
Country home of the Earl of Camden
Near Brighton, England
Sunday evening
When Rome drove their rented Vauxhall Corsa through the massive gates of Darlington Hall, Elizabeth was surprised she saw the huge edifice in the distance with different eyes. Even though she’d been raised here, knew every inch of the grand mansion like the back of her hand and every tree in the home woods, after only three months in the States, the huge Palladian mansion, home to generations of Palmers, suddenly looked like a relic from the past, frozen in time. The closest the modern world intruded was five kilometers away, the Davy Clink Pub, built in the 1860s.
Rome stopped the car, stared. “If I put my feet up in there, drank a beer, and asked to watch football, would I be hauled off to the Old Bailey?”
She grinned at him. “Buck up, Rome. My parents enjoy all the modern comforts of home, including a telly and a fridge. They might try to impress you, though—a Yank—and offer you the full aristocratic experience, replete with a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old brandy after dinner in a gold snifter, of course.” She nodded toward the huge windows set behind the whitecolumns along the façade. “See those tall central Palladian windows flanked by narrow ones on each side? I used to draw on the glass. Drove them crazy.”
“Do I say my lord and my lady?”
