“I can drive my own car,” I said in protest.
“Why bother?” he asked. “I’ll drive you to your class, and afterward we’ll go out to dinner. Do you like Italian?”
I gazed at him across my shoulder. “Is the pope Catholic?”
“Italian it is,” he said, patting my butt. “Now get in the car.”
I laughed lightly and climbed into the butter-soft leather seat of the Bentley and buckled my seat belt. The car smelled new. And sexy. Or maybe that was just the mood I was in.
Derek hopped in and started the engine. “I need to make one stop. Do you mind?”
“No, we have time.”
“Good.” Within minutes, he’d driven over the bumpy streetcar tracks running down Market Street and continued up Kearny to Pine. We talked of normal things, the weather, my family, Gunther’s brilliant lithographs. He drove two more narrow blocks to Stockton, then pulled into the elegant porte cochere of the Ritz-Carlton.
“We’re stopping at your hotel?” I said, a tad incredulous, though I shouldn’t have been. He was, after all, just a man. “We don’t really have time for this.”
Although, if pressed, I would be more than willing to comply. I was learning quickly that I was that kind of girl.
He checked his watch, then pierced me with a look. “You’re right. You have to be at work in one hour, and I intend to take a lot more time than that.”
I broke out in a sweat and started to whistle.
He laughed. “I simply forgot my wallet, darling. We’ll only be a moment.”
“Okay.” Because really, how often did I get a chance to go to the Ritz?
“It’s not like you to forget your wallet,” I said as we entered the hushed lobby.
“I was in a rush to see you.”
I smiled at him. As excuses went, that was a good one.
We rode the elevator up to the penthouse. I thought about it. The penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton went for what, ten thousand a night? The guy had an expense account that didn’t quit.
Derek stopped at room 919, slipped his key card into the slot, and opened the door. “You can look at the view while I find my—”
He halted abruptly and I almost slammed into him. “Find your what?”
“Shit.”
Derek rarely swore.
“What’s wrong?”
“Stay here,” he said, reaching behind his back to grip my arm.
“What is it, Derek?”
He turned and put a finger to his lips “Shh. Somebody’s been in here.”
I whispered, “Maybe just the maid?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
He looked at me over his shoulder. “A man knows when his fortress has been breached.”
My heart stammered. Now, why did I find his words so sexy when they should’ve been just plain ridiculous? Maybe it was something in the British accent that gave them gravitas.
It was my turn to grab his arm as I glanced around anxiously. “They might still be here.”
“You’re to stay right here,” he said with an urgency that I’d rarely heard from him.
I nodded briskly. “All right.”
He didn’t have to tell me again. I’d been accosted in a hotel room recently and didn’t relish a repeat experience. I watched from the safety of the elegant foyer as he conducted a swift but professional sweep of the room.
After shifting all the pillows and checking under the couch, he moved to the dining table and chairs and on to the coffee table. Finally, he approached the small Regency-style desk next to the wall of windows. He checked the drawers, pulling each one out completely and turning it over to see if anything was attached underneath. He ran his hands smoothly over the top surface, then squatted down and felt under the desk.
“Ah,” he whispered, and crouched on his hands and knees to get a good look at whatever it was he’d felt. After prying it from beneath the desk, he stood.
“Is it a bomb?” I asked, cowering closer to the wall of the entryway.
“No,” he said, bemused. “It’s a book.” He ripped duct tape off a Ziploc freezer-strength Baggie as he walked toward me. I ventured into the room and met him halfway, watching as he undid the plastic zipper and pulled a book out of the Baggie. He appeared lost in thought as he studied it. Then he looked up.
“I suppose this is your bailiwick,” he said, handing the book to me. “Any thoughts?”
I frowned. “My first thought is that this is really weird.”
The book was crimson morocco leather, in near perfect condition. The spine was elaborately gilded with The Legend of Sleepy Hollow written in gold between the raised bands. The paper was heavily gilded on all three edges. I opened it to check the date of publication: 1905.
On the inside flyleaf, facing the title page, was a full-color Arthur Rackham illustration of Ichabod Crane and a pretty woman dressed in pink frills, walking under a gnarly tree. Hiding among the branches of the tree were a band of evil-looking pixies, grinning maniacally.