Chapter 17: Princess and the Player: Chapter 17

My place tonight. Jasper has plans so it’s just us is the text that Tuck sends. I frown at the lack of endearments he usually includes.

Okay. You want to cook or me?

You. The media is releasing my retirement news today.

Alrighty. Chinese delivery for the win. 8:00?

Yep. Later.

I stand up from Darden’s office and stretch my arms out, then yelp in surprise.

He hobbles in wearing a Yale sweatshirt and jogging pants. “What’s wrong, Miss Lane? I’ve fed you, watered you, left snacks by my laptop, and turned the heat up for you. What did I miss?”

“Nothing. The carrots were yummy.” My laptop crashed this morning, and I popped over to his place to borrow his. Instead of me taking it to my apartment, he insisted I stay.

“Well?” He hobbles over to me and glances at the computer. “I don’t see anything strange. What is it?”

My eyes widen again, and I laugh with my hand on my stomach.

I take his hand and put it there. “She kicked hard, Mr. Darden. Feel! It wasn’t just a flutter.”

He gasps as she gives another one, then blinks. “How big is she?”

“About the size of an eggplant.” I’m not as big as I should be, but she measures normally. Sadness washes over me as I think of Tuck not being with me at my doctor’s appointments.

“Eggplants are disgusting.”

“I didn’t say she was a vegetable. She’s kicking, checking out her reflexes. She’s got a little nose and is probably sucking her thumb now. Her brain is developing at superspeed, and she responds to voices. Go ahead and say hi.”

He blanches. “Hi.”

“Boring. Put some feeling in it like Cece and Brogan do.”

“No.”

“Do it!”

“Fine! Hi, eggplant! Your mom is being a pest!”

I snort as he eases down in one of his club chairs. “How are the clients?”

“I’ve got another referral from the Wall Street couple. I—I don’t know what I would have done without you, you know . . .” I struggle with a wave of emotion. “A true friend. I don’t have a dad or grandparent, but I can’t imagine them being better than you. Did you buy my paintings?”

“For the tenth time, I didn’t buy your paintings. You aren’t that talented.”

I stick my tongue out at him. “I only asked once! Now twice. Chill.”

“As if I’d send my man of business in that place.”

I make a face at him. “I still like you. You’re like a warm hug on a cold day.” I mimic hugging myself as he narrows his eyes.

“Warm hug, my ass. That’s your hormones talking. Last week you cried when I let you watch Twilight after you lost at chess . . .”

I come from behind the desk. “Don’t play us down, you cantankerous old man. You’re the one who rooted for me when I applied to live here. It gives you hives to talk about feelings, but I love you. We’re not blood but better.”

He gets flustered and fumbles around as he cracks open the Times. “You know I’m leaving all my money to charity, right?”

He peers over the newspaper, and I smirk. “I don’t care about your wealth. I do care a whole hell of a lot about you.”

He harrumphs.

“Since I have you here, I was wondering if I could pick your brain about the Russo family. All the rich people seem to know each other . . .” I asked him earlier in the week, and he said he’d make some phone calls for me.

He keeps reading the paper. “Valentina is an artist. Gianna is engaged. You told me that. I bought some land from their father, Lorenzo. Don’t recall his wife’s name. Their family made their money in construction, mostly building skyscrapers. One of my cronies told me they died in a car crash in the Catskills. They’re treacherous roads there . . .” He rattles his paper between his legs. “Dammit, what was the name of the town where they died? Something about singing—oh yes, Wren’s Song. It was the birthplace of Lorenzo and his siblings.”

“Wren? You’re sure?”

“I’d use the internet, but someone has it.”

I whip around and type in Wren’s Song, and a small town in the Catskills comes up, population 593. It doesn’t say anything about the Russo family. I type in Lorenzo Russo and find an article about a bridge his company was contracted to build and his obituary last year, but nothing that gives me a clue about why the sisters were infatuated by my locket.

“Give me thirty seconds,” I call out to Mr. Darden as I run through his den, out his door, and into mine; grab my locket; and then dash back to his place. I’m panting when I enter his study. “Was that thirty?”

“Did you go somewhere?”

I huff and hold out the necklace. “Here, does that look like a wren to you or just a bird?”

He pulls it up close to his face, then inspects it by turning it over. “It’s small and short, but lots of birds are, so I guess.”

I exhale noisily and lie down on the floor.

“Are you okay, Miss Lane?”

“Just thinking. I’ve always thought it was a wren. I paint wrens. I know my freaking wrens. It’s a wren.” I draw one in the air—the curved beak, the long tail. “You know what was super weird about meeting Valentina?”

“Her flashy red dress?”

I laugh. “No, but damn, I’m glad you do listen to me.”

“Hmm.”

I look over at him, but he’s still reading. “It was weird that she looked like me. Same hair, our lips, but her eyes don’t have the green that mine do. The first time I saw her, something, like . . . pricked at me, but it wasn’t until later that I realized we looked alike.”

“Don’t you think you might be getting your hopes up? Or seeing things that aren’t there? Your locket is unusual and expensive, a collector’s piece—”

“Wait!” I sit up and straighten my pink sweater.

He drops the paper. “Did the eggplant kick?”

“No! I just remembered something Gianna said when she came in to get the tattoo. She said her friend had bought my dollhouse painting, that her friend was an artist and she collected everything, even jewels . . .” My heart races as I stand up.

“Don’t leave me hanging,” he mutters.

“She lied, Mr. Darden. It wasn’t her friend. It was Valentina! Why would she say a friend bought my painting, unless it was to be secretive?”

“People lie for many reasons.” He goes back to reading. “You.”

I grunt. “You’re no help.” I pick up my phone and dial East Coast Ink. When Harlee answers, I say hi sweetly and “Thank you for not telling me about my paintings” and ask if she would put me through to Donny to discuss.

“Francesca?” Donny answers.

“Donny, hi. Thank you for the commission check. I need a favor, and you owe me. Can you look through your receipts and see who bought my dollhouse painting about six months ago?”

I hear the slide of his metal filing cabinet, the rustling of papers, and then his voice. “Tina Russo. She used an American Express. Total was fifteen hundred. I like that piece—”

I hang up. “I was right! It was her! But why?” I pace around the room, my adrenaline rising. “It makes no sense to lie.”

“Yet people do . . . some people in this room.”

I stop and glare. “I don’t want to talk about Tuck. I’m going to tell him. I swear.”

He shuts his paper. “Fine. Let’s talk this out. What do you know? Give me the details.”

I sit on the floor at his feet, crossing my black leggings. “One, Gianna sought me out because of her sister, not friend. Two, they stared hard at my locket. Three, there’s a wren on my locket, and their parents were from Wren’s Song. Four . . .” I chew my lips.

“What?”

I heave out a breath. “I have nothing but gut instinct.”

“You looked them up online and found nothing, no address?”

“They keep their heads low, and your cronies didn’t know.”

He takes a sip of his peppermint tea, then sets it down to pick up his phone. He appears to send a text, then gives me a look, the one that says we need to talk. “Why don’t we table this and move on to something else?”

I manage to push up a smirk. Tuck. It’s all he wants to discuss.

“Are you itching for a new honey badger painting?”

He mutters under his breath, and I catch a “Stubborn woman,” then, “When are you going to tell him? How long can this go on? What is your plan? He’s going to see the changes in your body.” His face reddens.

My fingers pluck at my sweater, and my throat prickles.

Tuck doesn’t want kids.

He’s going to be angry.

And commitment? He’s not even close to that.

His voice softens. “Miss Lane . . .”

My teeth dig into my bottom lip as I turn and look out the window. Central Park is covered in two feet of snow, the first good snowfall we’ve had this year. My mother left me in such a snow, but I won’t leave my child—I want her so much. If only he’d feel the same.

I admire his struggle to find strength in tackling his childhood traumas, the kindness he shows people that he isn’t even aware of. I love how he laughs with his whole face—the dimples, the crinkling of the skin at the corners of his eyes. The way he wraps his whole body around me at night as if I might slip away any moment. Emotion clenches at my chest. I love the intimacy I feel when he holds my eyes. As if it’s just me in his world.

I take a sip of tea, fighting to keep my eyes from leaking. “Do you think there are any honey badgers in New York State? Funny. I wish I knew more about them.”

“You should have been a lawyer. No, my dear, the American badger is found in the Great Plains region of the US, but I saw a honey badger on a trip to Africa.”

“Did it run at you?” I bare my teeth and growl. “Were you scared?”

“Pah! Nothing scared me, but they’re the meanest animal in the world, and their only enemy is man. They’ve killed buffalo, lions, wildcats, even men. They go for the balls first.”

“Phew. I was worried I might see one on the subway.”

He nods, in the groove now. “Honey badgers would decimate a subway. They have thick muscles and sharp claws. If they attack a beehive, they release a noxious fume that flushes them out.”

“Just out of its ass?”

He gives me a look. “Scent glands, Miss Lane.”

An hour later, we’ve watched YouTube videos of honey badgers in the wild and brainstormed a trip to Africa. No talk of Tuck. I win.

His doorbell rings, and I move to answer it. “I’ll get it.”

“If that’s Widow Carnes, tell her I’m dead already,” he calls out.

“With pleasure. Maybe I should tell her all your money is going to charity.”

I swing the door open and blink. “Levi? What are you doing here?”

“Francesca? I thought Mr. Darden lived here.”

“I do.” Mr. Darden comes into the foyer. “Do you two know each other?”

Levi’s eyes widen, and I give him a quick shake.

No, I didn’t tell him you were a fake client, nor did I tell him about our past.

“I’ll explain later,” I tell Darden, knowing I won’t go into detail. Darden has enough to worry about when it comes to me being pregnant.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Levi.

He holds out an envelope. “I wanted to give Mr. Darden an invitation to the exhibition next week.”

“Personally?”

He smiles at me. “He did send the email about you to me.”

“And?”

“Your address was on the email, so I knew you lived in the same building.”

Dammit. “Okay.”

He smiles. “I left your invitation at the front desk. They wouldn’t let me come up. I texted Darden yesterday, and he said I could bring his upstairs. The doorman let me up.” He rakes a hand through his blond hair, then gives me a sheepish look. “I admit I hoped I might see you. I didn’t realize you two lived next door to each other.”

Mr. Darden wears a bored expression on his face. Clearly, he’s not good at undercurrents. He murmurs a thank-you to Levi, then places the invitation on a salver on a table in the foyer. He pats my arm. “I’m going to go call a few more friends about that other thing we were discussing. I’ll let you two catch up.” His cane taps on the hardwood as he ambles away.

I turn back to Levi, pushing aside his tenacity in seeing me. “I have a client who’s asked me to look at a few of the artists at the exhibition. Thanks for the invite.”

Satisfaction settles on his face as he leans forward. “It would be pointless if you weren’t there.”

Apprehension tingles over me. “What do you mean?”

A wry smile lifts his lips. “Francesca, my muse, my best art, it’s always been about you.”