Read Online Love and Splendor: The Coltrane Saga, Book 5 by Patricia Hagan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patricia Hagan
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life.
He got to his feet, stretched, smiled, turned toward the house. There was much to be done.
Bart sat straight up. “Hey, where you goin’? It’s not even good dark yet. We’re gonna cook us some steaks, like always, have some beers. No need in being alone on Saturday night. Ol’ Pete didn’t go into town neither. I tol’ him we’d be cookin’ some grub soon, and he could join us.”
Colt opened the screen door, then turned to give Bart one last, thoughtful look as he declared, “I’ll be leaving Monday. I’ve got a lot to do before then.”
“Leaving?” Bart was on his feet and hurrying across the porch, a baffled expression on his craggy face. “What’re you talkin’ about? We ain’t got nowhere to go this time of year. It’s time to get set for the winter, and—”
“Oh, there is somewhere for me to go, Bart,” Colt said with a quiet smile. “Europe.”
Bart at once bellowed, “Europe? What in thunderation for?”
Colt went on inside, called over his shoulder with nonchalance, as though he traveled abroad often. “Oh, my family’s there. I miss them. I’d like to get to know my half-sister better. I want to spend some of my hard-earned money. I just want to live.”
He hurried up the stairs, Bart still calling to him, but he kept on going.
He had, he hoped, an appointment with his destiny.
Chapter Seven
Cyril Arpel scrutinized his reflection in the vertical glass beside the front door of the Coltrane mansion. He decided he liked what he saw—a slender, well-proportioned young man of proper height. His dark hair had just the right amount of curl, enough to make him appealing in a little-boy way but with just the right amount of unruliness to be masculine.
He liked his face, also. Clean-shaven, his skin was smooth. Green eyes. A nice Roman nose. A hint of a cleft in his chin.
The gray pinstripe suit he wore gave him the successful aura he deserved, thanks to all the years of struggling to become one of the most respected art dealers in Europe.
He touched the maroon tie. It gave a nice touch, a little hint of roguishness to prevent him from appearing too austere. After all, he was one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors, and he intended to stay that way for a long time. An almost perverse smile spread across his lips as he thought of the good times he had at some of the Continent’s most exclusive, and best, bordellos. A wife would only tie him down, and he enjoyed a variety of women.
Of course, no one knew about Cyril’s “other” life. On the surface, in public, he had a reputation for absolute decorum and refinement. Never would he dare for anyone to find out about his wild nights of passionate orgies. That was his secret. He intended to keep it that way.
He touched a white-gloved finger to the bell, took a deep breath, and waited. He, like everyone else in the upper echelon of Paris society, had heard about Mademoiselle Daniella Coltrane, daughter of the respected and wealthy American emissary Travis Coltrane, and her plans to open an art and antique shop in the Montmartre quarter on the Right Bank. And, like all the others who had heard the rumors about her having found a valuable collection of paintings in an inherited château in Monaco, Cyril was anxious to view them. However, he was not about to wait for the grand opening of the shop. Therefore, he had sent an imploring message to Madame Kitty Coltrane herself, requesting a private showing. He knew her well because of her interest in art, felt she would honor his request, had been delighted when she did.
The door opened, and Cyril held out his engraved calling card to the stiff-necked butler. He was motioned inside, left standing only momentarily in the glittering foyer before he was led to a flower-bedecked parlor where Madame Coltrane received him.
He pressed his lips to her extended hand, appreciative of her beauty, as well as that of the room itself. “I had heard you had a stunning home, madame , but I was
He got to his feet, stretched, smiled, turned toward the house. There was much to be done.
Bart sat straight up. “Hey, where you goin’? It’s not even good dark yet. We’re gonna cook us some steaks, like always, have some beers. No need in being alone on Saturday night. Ol’ Pete didn’t go into town neither. I tol’ him we’d be cookin’ some grub soon, and he could join us.”
Colt opened the screen door, then turned to give Bart one last, thoughtful look as he declared, “I’ll be leaving Monday. I’ve got a lot to do before then.”
“Leaving?” Bart was on his feet and hurrying across the porch, a baffled expression on his craggy face. “What’re you talkin’ about? We ain’t got nowhere to go this time of year. It’s time to get set for the winter, and—”
“Oh, there is somewhere for me to go, Bart,” Colt said with a quiet smile. “Europe.”
Bart at once bellowed, “Europe? What in thunderation for?”
Colt went on inside, called over his shoulder with nonchalance, as though he traveled abroad often. “Oh, my family’s there. I miss them. I’d like to get to know my half-sister better. I want to spend some of my hard-earned money. I just want to live.”
He hurried up the stairs, Bart still calling to him, but he kept on going.
He had, he hoped, an appointment with his destiny.
Chapter Seven
Cyril Arpel scrutinized his reflection in the vertical glass beside the front door of the Coltrane mansion. He decided he liked what he saw—a slender, well-proportioned young man of proper height. His dark hair had just the right amount of curl, enough to make him appealing in a little-boy way but with just the right amount of unruliness to be masculine.
He liked his face, also. Clean-shaven, his skin was smooth. Green eyes. A nice Roman nose. A hint of a cleft in his chin.
The gray pinstripe suit he wore gave him the successful aura he deserved, thanks to all the years of struggling to become one of the most respected art dealers in Europe.
He touched the maroon tie. It gave a nice touch, a little hint of roguishness to prevent him from appearing too austere. After all, he was one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors, and he intended to stay that way for a long time. An almost perverse smile spread across his lips as he thought of the good times he had at some of the Continent’s most exclusive, and best, bordellos. A wife would only tie him down, and he enjoyed a variety of women.
Of course, no one knew about Cyril’s “other” life. On the surface, in public, he had a reputation for absolute decorum and refinement. Never would he dare for anyone to find out about his wild nights of passionate orgies. That was his secret. He intended to keep it that way.
He touched a white-gloved finger to the bell, took a deep breath, and waited. He, like everyone else in the upper echelon of Paris society, had heard about Mademoiselle Daniella Coltrane, daughter of the respected and wealthy American emissary Travis Coltrane, and her plans to open an art and antique shop in the Montmartre quarter on the Right Bank. And, like all the others who had heard the rumors about her having found a valuable collection of paintings in an inherited château in Monaco, Cyril was anxious to view them. However, he was not about to wait for the grand opening of the shop. Therefore, he had sent an imploring message to Madame Kitty Coltrane herself, requesting a private showing. He knew her well because of her interest in art, felt she would honor his request, had been delighted when she did.
The door opened, and Cyril held out his engraved calling card to the stiff-necked butler. He was motioned inside, left standing only momentarily in the glittering foyer before he was led to a flower-bedecked parlor where Madame Coltrane received him.
He pressed his lips to her extended hand, appreciative of her beauty, as well as that of the room itself. “I had heard you had a stunning home, madame , but I was
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