Page 26 of The Scarab's Game
I extended the light bar’s feet so it stood freely on the table and illuminated the room. I retrieved the camera from under the cabinet where I’d found the light. My next step was to take photographs of the painting and send them to Dr. Ferraro in Michigan.
His team would review them and provide their expert opinion. Hopefully they’d tell me I was wrong.
Or did I want to be right?
As I stood with the camera, inspecting settings, there was a light knock at the door. “Come in.”
Dante walked in, turning on the lights as he entered. His smile was tight, but different from his reaction to Emmett and me in the dark. “Your friend tells me someone was in your room yesterday?”
Why did he tell Dante?
Instead of a confident art restorer, I was now the damsel in distress. I didn’t like that role. “I’m fine. They weren’t there when I got back.”
“Did they take anything?”
“No.” I rounded the worktable and flipped the camera on. “I’m not sure what they could’ve been looking for. It’s not like I travel with expensive jewelry or wads of cash—although I’m sure plenty of people at the Hôtel de Paris do. I think it was a simplemistake the front desk made. They probably double-booked the room and gave a copy of my key to someone else. Airlines do it all the time, right?”
Dante stood across the table from me, resting his hands on the surface. He had such long fingers. Big hands. Strong, corded forearms, visible beneath his pushed-up sleeves. “And your new room? Do you feel safer?”
Safer? I’d have to define that word before providing a proper answer. Or better yet? Change the subject. “I need to take a few photographs of the painting under UV light to study the prior work. I don’t suppose there are any cameras with UV filters and Wi-Fi support? So I can airdrop to my phone?”
Dante’s head tilted, and his lips pursed in question. “Why photographs?”
“I never rely on someone else’s notes. I have to run my own experiments before I apply any chemicals.” Not that I’d confess my aunt reminded me of that yesterday, after I forgot her critical lessons.
“No Wi-Fi, but…” He held out a hand, and I passed the camera to him. He turned it to the side, opening the port covers. “I can plug it into the computer in the office and email you what you need.”
“Oh no, I can figure something else out. I wouldn’t want you to have to hang out here until I was ready.”
He returned the camera to me and waved a dismissive hand. “I have some work to do anyway and will be in the office next door for two or three hours. I was worried I might be a distraction with all the racket.”
“Racket?” I stifled a laugh. “What sort of office work do you do that causes a racket?”
He shrugged a shoulder, while one corner of his lips and both his eyebrows rose. “I believe I mentioned my father is heading to Napoli soon? He’s asked me to double-check the gallery’sbooks before he leaves—three years of reconciliations. I expect there will be a great deal of muttering and swearing. Although I promise all foul words will be in Italian, so it shouldn’t be too offensive.”
“I’m hard to offend.” I nearly snorted. The men I usually dated? Offending me was rarely something they worried about.
“This is good to know.” He winked at me and left.
I watched him go, taking in the way his muscles moved under his clothes. His perfectly formed ass and the way his linen pants draped over defined quads. I closed the door before he could catch me eyeing him.
But I wasn’t ogling. As gorgeous as he was—and that was an objective fact, like saying theDavidor theMona Lisawere beautiful—I didn’t feel the same spark as when Emmett winked at me last night. It didn’t shoot through my entire body, land in my toes, and then careen all the way back up to settle between my thighs.
My father’s judgmental voice swirled around my brain.
“You don’t know anything about them, Jenn.”
“Kelley and Heather’s parents don’t have a problem with Scarlett.”
He frowned. “I’ll talk with them. Make them see reason.”
I stomped my foot like I hadn’t done since I was ten. “That’s not fair. You can’t control who my friends are.”
“I’m your father. I have every right to make those choices while you’re still a child.”
A child? “I’m fifteen. I’m old enough to make my own decisions.”
My mother stood behind him, saying nothing. Not coming to my defense.