“Mrs. Vandermeer,” Lauren greeted her warmly upon reaching her. “Thank you so much for the invitation. You remember Joseph Caravello from the gala?”
“Ah yes, nice to see you again.”
Joe wondered if she knew he’d been hounding her secretary for weeks. He was about to ask when Lauren shot him a cautioning look.
“We’d like to pay you a visit in a few days,” she told her hosts, “once you’ve had time to recover from tonight’s event. If that’s all right with you.”
As if by magic, Miles Vandermeer assured her it was and gave them a time to call. “Now please,” he added, “enjoy yourselves.” He motioned toward the ballroom.
Joe turned to Lauren, returning her smile. “Shall we?” Only when he held out his hand did he realize how much he hoped she’d say yes.
———
Joe didn’t have to do that. Now that they’d secured the appointment with Miles, they could easily blend into the crowd and then slip out to the Morettis’. But he had always been like this, Lauren realized, ever since they’d met. Surrounded by turned backs, Joe was an outstretched hand, an invitation to companionship. When they’d lost touch these past several years, the drifting away had been her doing, not his. But here he was again, offering closeness when she’d been the one to create distance.
She placed her hand in his, relishing the strength that wrapped her fingers.
They waltzed, and the chill she’d felt earlier melted away. His eyes arrested hers, sending a wave of heat right through her.
“I haven’t told you what else I found this week.” She hoped the change of subject would stem the tide of a rising blush.
“Tell me.”
“Remember the box of letters my aunt gave me for my birthday?”
Joe winced. “You didn’t tell me that was for your birthday! I completely forgot. I’m sorry.”
He shouldn’t be. Lauren hadn’t expected him to remember it after all these years. “And is it police policy to celebrate the birthdays of their unpaid consultants?” she teased.
“Lauren,” he said, his voice low, “you know that’s not all you are to me. Don’t you?”
She did. Of course she did, but just now she couldn’t seem to speak. Not with him looking at her so intently, as if his question was of the utmost importance.
When she didn’t reply, he drew her nearer. The change was fractional, and yet enough for her to imagine being held even closer. Theidea fell like warm water down her back. Like relief and quickening all at once.
The corner of his lips curved upward, and she realized her gaze had slipped to rest there too long, giving her away. She marveled that her feet still moved in time with his, considering she had to remind herself to breathe.
“Okay, tell me what else you found,” he said, releasing the tension between them. “Some other useful insight from the letter, I take it?”
Lauren nodded. “Remember Theodore Clarke?”
“Of course. He’s the Newport millionaire who gifted Mr. St. John a forged ointment jar.”
“My father worked with him in Egypt. According to the letters, it was my father who told Clarke where to dig.”
Under the chandeliers, Joe’s hair gleamed almost blue. “I don’t remember seeing Lawrence Westlake mentioned in any news or publications I read about Clarke.”
“Exactly,” Lauren said. “Apparently there had been some kind of falling out between them, and my father didn’t receive the credit he felt was his due. That matches up with something Dr. Breasted wrote in a letter I received on Monday.”
“Your graduate school professor?”
“Right. I’d asked him what he knew about the Napoleon Society. He doesn’t know much, but he did say that years ago, he was working in the same location in Egypt as my father and Theodore Clarke. From what Dr. Breasted observed, he said my father is ‘best suited to entrepreneurial pursuits where he can be in a leadership position of his own.’”
“That sounds like a nice way of saying that Lawrence wants more control,” Joe said. “Or maybe he just didn’t play well with the others.”
Lauren agreed. Whatever happened—or didn’t happen—between him and Clarke must have been significant.
Joe fell quiet, and Lauren was content to follow his lead as they danced. “Interesting that he’s building the Napoleon House in thesame town where his rival—or former rival—lives. Is he the type of person to bear a grudge, even for years?”
