Ronsard was watching her move around the suite, touching the plants, smelling the flowers. "This is a peaceful place. I thought you would enjoy it; an escape from the social whirl."
"Thank you," she said sincerely. His thoughtful-ness in providing this retreat was touching. He was correct in thinking she enjoyed occasional solitude and serenity in which to recharge, but as she looked around she realized that the balcony would also provide an excellent means of clandestine entry, a la Medina. She would make certain the glass doors were always unlocked-not that they would provide much difficulty to someone as adept at breaking and entering as John was.
Her luggage had already been deposited on a padded bench at the foot of the bed. Ronsard took her arm. "A maid will unpack for you. If you aren't too tired, I have someone I'd like you to meet."
"No, I'm not tired," she said, remembering he had mentioned in Paris that he wanted her to meet someone. The electronic supplies she had brought were safely locked in her jewelry case, so she wasn't worried about the maid seeing them and reporting to Ronsard that one of his guests had brought some interesting equipment with her.
"My private wing is on the other side of the house," he said and smiled. "I wasn't lying when I said your suite wasn't next door to mine. I wish it was, but I deliberately remodeled so that the guest rooms were somewhat distant."
"For privacy, or protection?"
"Both." A tender look swept his face, an expression all the more astonishing because it seemed to be directed elsewhere. "But not my privacy, and not my protection. Come. I told her I was bringing someone to see her, and she has been excited all day, waiting."
"She?"
"My daughter. Laure."
Chapter Seventeen
His daughter? John hadn't mentioned that Ronsard had a daughter. Niema tried to hide her surprise. ""You've never mentioned her before," she said. "I thought your sister was your only family."
"Ah, well, perhaps I'm paranoid. I do everything I can to safeguard her. As you pointed out, I'm an unsavory character; I have enemies."
"I said Eleanor thinks you're an unsavory character," she corrected.
"She's right, you know. I'm far too unsavory for a woman like you."
She rolled her eyes. "Smooth, Ronsard. Women probably fall all over you when you warn them that you're too dangerous for them."
"Have I ever mentioned you have this annoying habit of seeing through my ploys?" he asked conversationally, and they both laughed.
They weren't the only people in the hallway. They passed several guests, all of whom had to speak to their host. One gentleman looked familiar, and he swept her with a knowing look. It took her a moment to place him as the horse-racing afficionado she had met at the prime minister's ball. She smiled at him and asked how his horse had finished in the weekend's race.
"You have a slave for life," Ronsard said as they continued down the hall. "He bores everyone with his talk of horses and racing."
"I like horses," she replied serenely. "And it doesn't take any more effort to be nice to someone than it does to be nasty."
Getting from one side of the huge villa to the other took some time, especially when he was continually stopped. At last, however, they passed into his private wing, which was guarded by heavy wooden double doors. "My suite is here," he said, indicating another set of double doors on the left. He showed her a family dining room, a den that surprised her with its coziness, a small movie theater, an enormous playroom filled with all manner of toys and games, a library so packed with books she doubted he could get another volume on the shelves. The titles were both fiction and nonfiction, with an amazing variety of children's books mixed in.
"This is one of Laure's favorite rooms," he said.
"She loves to read. Of course, she has outgrown fairy tales and Dr. Seuss, but I make certain there is always a selection of reading material appropriate to her age."
"How old is she?"
"Twelve. It's a delightful age. She's hovering between childhood and adolescence, unable to decide if she wants to play with her dolls or experiment with lipstick. I've forbidden the lipstick for another year, at least," he said, his lips quirking.
He turned to her, a smile still on his lips, but his eyes were somehow looking beyond her. "Laure is small for her age," he said. "Very small. I want to prepare you. Her health is ... not good. Every moment I have her is a gift from God."
An odd thing for a man like Ronsard to say, but then again, perhaps it wasn't. He opened a door into a room so cheerful and charming Niema caught her breath, and they stepped inside.
"Papa!"
The voice was young, sweet, as pure as the finest crystal. There was a whirring sound and she came rolling toward them in a motorized wheelchair, a tiny doll with an animated face and a smile that lit the world. An oxygen tank was attached to the back of the wheelchair, and transparent tubing ran from the tank to her nostrils, held in place by a narrow band around her head.
"Laure." His voice was filled with an aching tenderness. He leaned down and kissed her. He spoke in English. "This is my friend, Madame Jamieson. Niema, this is my heart, my daughter, Laura."
Niema bent forward and extended her hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you," she said, also in English.
"And I you, madame." The young girl shook Niema's hand; her fingers were painfully fragile in Niema's careful clasp. Ronsard had said his daughter was twelve; she was the size of a six-year-old, probably weighing only about fifty pounds. She was so very, very thin, her skin a bluish white. She had Ronsard's eyes, dark blue and intelligent, and an angel's smile set in an alabaster face. Her hair was a silky light brown, brushed to a careful smoothness and tied back with a festive bow.