CHAPTER FOUR

      HE WAS LATE.

      Not fashionably late, ten or fifteen minutes. Not even a half hour.

      No, it was ten minutes to eight. Serena’s stomach growled as she tapped her nails on the glass tabletop. She had rearranged the place settings three times. She had chilled the sauvignon blanc, and decanted the merlot, just in case. She had even deigned to endure that most hated of feminine habits and put on makeup. Not much. A light brushing of blush on her cheeks, mascara and a shimmery pink lip gloss. Just enough.

      And he was late.

      The grandfather clock in her living room had swung and ticked its way to 7:58 when the doorbell rang.

      “I shouldn’t even answer,” Serena said.

      “Of course you should,” Ariel replied.

      “He’s late.”

      “So?”

      “It’s disrespectful.”

      The doorbell rang again.

      “Perhaps. Or perhaps he was unavoidably detained.”

      “Making a drug deal?”

      “Maybe,” Ariel said. “Or maybe he was caught in traffic. Or maybe he had to close a million-dollar deal on a painting. There’s only one way to find out.”

      The doorbell rang again.

      “And that’s it,” Ariel said, pointing to the door.

      With a heavy sigh—wondering yet again why this young girl intimidated her so—Serena walked to the door and opened it.

      Damn him.

      “Hi,” Darius said, holding out a bouquet of yellow carnations. “Sorry I’m late.”

      The flowers even matched her dress.

      “No problem,” Serena heard herself say, without so much as thinking about it. Then, as if another brain had taken charge of her vocal chords, she added, “I was late getting ready myself.”

      What was she doing?

      “It worked out well, then,” he said. He lifted the large plastic bag in his other hand. “I hope you like Italian.”

      “Sounds yummy!” Ariel said, reaching out to take the bag. “Come on in.”

      “Yes, do come in,” Serena added.

      “Thank you,” Darius said, stepping into the small, tiled foyer. He paused a moment to look around. “You have a lovely home. That’s a Robert Franklin, isn’t it?”

      “I guess so,” Serena said, looking at the painting above her sofa as if for the first time. It was a pastel watercolor, a man and a woman caressing each other’s cheeks. “I just picked it because I liked it. I really don’t know anything about art.”

      Darius offered a disarming smile. “Not to worry. You’ve chosen well. It fits the room.”

      She hoped he’d turn that smile off soon. Before her brain made yet another detour into complete abandon. She fell back upon safe territory. “Well, let’s eat!”

      In the kitchen, as she and Ariel transferred the steaming food from the containers into serving dishes, Ariel whispered, “Well, he recognized who did the painting in your living room. One point for art dealer.”

      Serena, shocked back to reality for a second, was about to admit she may have been wrong, when a thought struck her. “The painting is signed.”

      Ariel gave her one of those long, deep looks, then nodded. “That’s true.”

      But Serena was beginning to wonder if her need for excitement hadn’t pushed her right over the edge. Then she remembered the weaselly man saying, “We have your mother.” Darius Maxwell was not acting like a man who was in any way worried about his mother. The weasel’s words had certainly sounded like a threat, not a reassurance.

      Hmmm.

      Food in serving dishes—scampi, pasta primavera, ravioli stuffed with Portobello mushrooms, and garlic bread, she and Ariel paraded into the dining area with the offerings.

      “I hope,” said Darius, standing near the table, “that the selections please you.”

      “Oh, definitely,” Serena said, managing a bright smile. At least he’d turned off that thousand-watt smile of his. It had settled into a pleasant curve of his very pleasant mouth.

      After the women had finished placing the dishes on the table, Darius held their chairs out for them, Serena’s first. That was an old-world courtesy, so old that Serena had actually forgotten men could do such things.

      Ariel’s gaze seemed to say, And you think this guy is a drug dealer?

      Serena felt herself blushing, faintly, she hoped. Damn her fair complexion. Maybe she should bake in the sun, set herself up for melanoma, and make sure the world could never again see her cheeks pinken.

      When they were all seated, Darius apologized again. “I really was unforgivably late. But like an idiot, I decided to go to this small mom-and-pop restaurant where they have the most wonderful Italian cuisine, and I totally forgot about rush hour across the drawbridges.”

      Serena smiled politely. “It’s all forgiven. The food smells wonderful. Don’t you have to deal with rush hour?”

      A clue, she thought. She had to deal with rush hour, as did every other upstanding American, except perhaps the president.

      “Well, not usually,” he admitted as he passed the scampi. “My job has rather irregular hours.”

      “Oh?” She lifted her brows at him, then scooped a small portion onto her plate before passing the dish to Ariel.

      “I’m an art dealer, as I said,” Darius explained smoothly. Maybe too smoothly. “I’m working on a project in St. Petersburg right now. A new gallery is opening, centered on the works of Mateus Davilla.”

      Ariel perked up. “Like the Dali Museum?”

      “Yes, like that.” He smiled at her. “The gallery is very well funded by a collector, and I’ve been scouting for some additional paintings for