"Of course. Powder room." She gestured to a door tucked under the long sweep of the front stairs. "The parlor is the first door on your right. Take your time."
"Thank you." Malory slipped inside and immediately decided that "powder room" was a very poor label for the plush, spacious area.
The half dozen candles on the marble counter streamed out light and scent.Burgundy hand towels edged in ecru lace were arranged beside the generous pool of the sink. The faucet gleamed gold in the fanciful shape of a swan.
Here the floor mosaic showed a mermaid, sitting on a rock, smiling out at a blue sea as she combed her flame-colored hair.
This time, after double-checking to make certain that she'd locked the door, Malory did kneel down to study the craftsmanship.
Gorgeous, she thought, running her fingertips over the tiles. Old, certainly, and brilliantly executed.
Was there anything more powerful than the ability to create beauty?
She straightened, washed her hands with soap that smelled faintly of rosemary. She took a moment to admire the collection of Waterhouse's nymphs and sirens framed on the walls before digging out her compact.
There was little she could do for her hair. Though she'd drawn it back and anchored it at her nape with a rhinestone clip, the weather had played havoc with the dark blond curls. It was a look, she thought, as she dusted her nose. Sort of arty and carefree. Not elegant like the redhead, but it suited her well enough. She reapplied her lipstick, satisfied that the pale rose had been a good investment. Subtle worked best with her milkmaid coloring.
She'd paid too much for the cocktail suit. Of course. But a woman was entitled to a few weaknesses, she reminded herself as she straightened the slim satin lapels. Besides, the slate blue was right for her eyes, and the tailored lines pulled it all together into a style both professional and elegant. She closed her bag, lifted her chin.
"Okay, Mal, let's go drum up some business."
She stepped out, forced herself not to tiptoe back down the hall to drool over the paintings.
Her heels clicked briskly on the tile. She always enjoyed the sound of it. Powerful. Female.
And when she stepped through the first arch to the right, the thrilled gasp escaped before she could block it.
She'd never seen its like, in or out of a museum. Antiques so lovingly tended that their surfaces gleamed like mirrors; the rich, deep colors that demonstrated an artist's flair; rugs, pillows, and draperies that were as much art forms as the paintings and statuary were. On the far wall was a fireplace she could have stood in with her arms stretched out at her sides. Framed in malachite, it held enormous logs that snapped with tongues of red and gold fire.
This was the perfect setting for a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a faerie tale.
She wanted to spend hours there, to wallow in all that marvelous color and light. The uneasy woman who had huddled in her car in the rain was long forgotten.
"It took five minutes for my eyes to stop bugging out of my head after I walked in."
Malory jolted, then turned and stared at the woman who stood framed in the side window.
This one was a brunette, with dense brown hair skimming between her jawline and shoulders in a stylish swing. She was perhaps six full inches taller than Malory's compact five-four, and had the lush curves to match the height. Both were set off with trim black pants and a knee-length jacket worn over a snug white top.
She held a champagne flute in one hand and extended the other as she walked across the room. Malory saw that her eyes were deep, dark brown and direct. Her nose was narrow and straight, her mouth wide and unpainted. The faintest hint of dimples fluttered in her cheek when she smiled.
"I'm Dana. Dana Steele."
"Malory Price. Nice to meet you. Great jacket."
"Thanks. I was pretty relieved when I saw you drive up. It's a hell of a place, but I was getting a little spooked rattling around by myself. It's nearly quarter after." She tapped the face of her watch. "You'd think some of the other guests would be here by now."
"Where's the woman who met me at the door? Rowena?" Dana pursed her lips as she glanced back toward the archway. "She glides in and out, looking gorgeous and mysterious. I'm told our host will be joining us shortly."
"Who is our host?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. Haven't I seen you?" Dana added. "In the Valley?"
"Possibly. I manage The Gallery." For the time being, she thought.
"That's it. I've come to a couple of showings there. And sometimes I just wander in and look around avariciously. I'm at the library. A reference librarian."
They both turned as Rowena walked in. Though glided in, Malory thought, was a better description.
"I see you've introduced yourselves. Lovely. What can I get you to drink, Miss Price?"
"I'll have what she's having."
"Perfect." Even as she spoke, a uniformed maid came in bearing two flutes on a silver tray. "Please help yourselves to the canapйs and make yourselves at home."
"I hope the weather isn't keeping your other guests away," Dana put in.
Rowena merely smiled. "I'm sure everyone who's expected will be here shortly. If you'll excuse me just another moment."
"Okay, this is just weird." Dana picked a canapй at random, discovered it was a lobster puff. "Delicious, but weird."
"Fascinating." Malory sipped her champagne and trailed her fingers over a bronze sculpture of a reclining faerie.
"I'm still trying to figure out why I got an invitation." Since they were there, and so was she, Dana sampled another canapй. "No one else at the library got one. No one else I know got one, for that matter. I'm starting to wish I'd talked my brother into coming with me after all. He's got a good bullshit barometer."
Malory found herself grinning. "You don't sound like any librarian I've ever known. You don't look like one either."
"I burned all my Laura Ashley ten years ago." Dana gave a little shrug. Restless, moving toward irritated, she tapped her fingers on the crystal flute. "I'm going to give this about ten more minutes, then I'm booking."
"If you go, I go. I'd feel better heading back into that storm if I drove to the Valley behind someone else."
"Same goes." Dana frowned toward the window, watched the rain beat on the other side of the glass. "Crappy night. And it was an extremely crappy day. Driving all the way here and back in this mess for a couple of glasses of wine and some canapйs just about caps it."
"You too?" Malory wandered toward a wonderful painting of a masked ball. It made her think ofParis , though she'd never been there except in her dreams. "I only came tonight in hopes of making some contacts for
The Gallery. Job insurance," she added, lifting her glass in a mock toast. "As my job is currently in a very precarious state."
"Mine too. Between budget cuts and nepotism, my position was 'adjusted,' my hours trimmed back to twenty-five a week. How the hell am I supposed to live on that? And my landlord just announced that my rent's going up first of next month."
"There's a rattle in my car—and I spent my auto-maintenance budget on these shoes."
Dana looked down, pursed her lips. "Terrific shoes. My computer crashed this morning."
Enjoying herself, Malory turned away from the painting and raised a brow at Dana. "I called my boss's new wife a bimbo and then spilled latte on her designer suit."
"Okay, you win." In the spirit of good fellowship, Dana stepped over and clinked her glass against Malory's. "What do you say we hunt up the Welsh goddess and find out what's going on around here?"
"Is that what the accent is? Welsh?"
"Gorgeous, isn't it? But be that as it may, I think…"
She trailed off as they heard that distinctive click of high heels on tile.
The first thing Malory noticed was the hair. It was black and short, with thick bangs cut so blunt they might have required a ruler. Beneath them, the tawny eyes were large and long, making her think of Waterhouse again, and his faeries. She had a triangular face, glowing with what might have been excitement, nerves, or excellent cosmetics.