The very morning I planned to take the advice Henry offered during our very proper pillow talks and ask Burke Cameron for my next assignment, Robin signaled me over the intercom. She spoke softly. “Your new client’s a dreamboat.”

      The moment I entered the waiting room, I understood. The man before me could have stepped out of Sigmund Romberg’s “A Desert Song.” Snappy black eyes and sun-bronzed complexion were framed by dark ringlets across his brow and white, even teeth. His tropical suit seemed less appropriate than a sheik’s aba. 
Robin, visibly mesmerized, managed, “Ms. Prescott, this is Mr. Ali Ahmed.” 

      He lunged forward, grasped my hand, and kissed it. “Ms,” he pouted. “How I hate that title. Please, does it stand for Miss or Mrs.?”

      “I am unmarried.”

      “How fortunate for the gentlemen who delight in your company.”

      His riveting stare cautioned me to step back and respond with formality. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ahmed. The Cameron Agency will do its best to find a home suited to your needs.”

      “So I understand,” he replied. “I seek a suitable estate where I can train my race horses.”

      “A horse farm, is it? I’ll make a quick computer search and plot out an itinerary.”

      Within a few minutes, I had a list of properties in Fauquier County where, I judged, Ali would be compatible with the jet set sophistication of Middleburg’s celebrity residents. 

      As I navigated the ramp from the Beltway to the Interstate, I filed away events of the past few weeks in my mind’s recesses, even questions about the passageway to the secret room, and focused on the appointments I had arranged.

      Ali’s flashing eyes drank in the sweep of undulating farmland and one prosperous horse farm after another, all distinguished by white board fencing and immaculate buildings. At length, we turned onto a long driveway lined with Colorado spruce and Bradford pear trees that soon gave way to a gentle stream meandering past paddocks, run-in sheds, and a stable that more closely resembled a mansion. Further along, a stand of willows overhung a pond where swans glided, generating ripples in their wake.

      “The stable looks adequate for a start,” Ali said. “We can always expand.”

      The main house lazed across a broad green knoll, its brick exterior painted a vivid yellow to contrast with shutters that matched the waxy leaves of ancient magnolias standing sentinel at either wing. White columns marched across its face toward the casual ambiance of a side verandah. I parked on the circular drive before a formal garden.

      Ali leaped from the passenger seat and hastened around to my door. Taking my hand, he drew me onto the gravel trace as carefully as if I were crafted from bone china. “How do you like it?”

      “It’s breathtaking! But you’re the one to decide. The inside could be a shambles,” I cautioned, yet certain that it was every bit as deliciously perfect.

      Mrs. Wardle, the housekeeper, met us at the door. “The owners are at their other home in Bermuda,” she said. “Mrs. Cameron is a close family friend, so this is her exclusive listing. Feel free to look around.”
She directed us into a spacious parlor that flowed through a formal dining room and out wide glass doors opening onto the terrace beyond.

      Ali’s sharp, dark eyes examined the marbleized wallpaper and the walk-in fireplace. “I suppose I could have it redone,” he mused.

      Without thinking, I blurted. “You don’t like it?  I think it’s perfect.”

      “Nothing is so perfect it can’t be improved. Do you really like this fussiness?” Ali’s disdain of the chintz slipcovers on a pair of sofas was evident.

      “I probably wouldn’t choose that exact print…”

      “There! You prove my theory that all women like change. After I decide on my house, I’ll consult you about the decorating details.”

      “That’s not part of my job,” I said, wondering exactly how far he believed the Cameron service extended to the clients. “I’m sure you’ll find decorators to fulfill your needs.”

      His eyes pierced mine. “I’ve known you only a short while, but I value your opinion as an expert…and as a lovely lady.”  He bowed graciously.

      Outwardly, I smiled; inwardly, alarms went off. Few things about this man added up to a wealthy horse-breeder. My apprehension mounted as we climbed the curving staircase to the second floor and he caught my wrist, ostensibly to draw my attention to the carved cherubs cavorting across the ceiling. I sensed that his grip would become painful should I attempt to break away. Submitting to his grasp, I let him lead me around the second floor hallway from room to room.  The exterior wall of each was dominated by a large sliding window opening onto a balcony. Deliberately he drew me close to drink in the view.

      “Would that scene content you for the rest of your life?”

      “I’m sure your wife will be pleased with anything you choose,” I said, wondering how many wives resided in his harem.

      Seemingly taken aback, Ali flashed a smile and loosened his grip. “My wife? Of course she’ll be pleased.”
Twisting adroitly, I grabbed that opportunity to break away on the pretext of examining the intricate knob on a heavy door.

      On cue, Ali’s interest shifted directly to the door. “Where does that go?”

      “Probably to a cedar closet.” I cracked it ajar. “Why, here’s a staircase. Must be an attic.”

      Leading the way, I began to climb. A narrow shaft of light filtered down from above. Halfway up, I paused, startled by the sound of creaking floor boards.

      “Mice.” Ali spoke in jest, but his voice conveyed tension.

      I reached the top first. As my eyes adjusted to the scene, I sucked in my breath. Sitting in a rocking chair, an ancient woman, eyes closed, mumbled to herself mindlessly. At that very moment, Mrs. Wardle called shrilly from the doorway below, “Ms. Prescott! You must not be up there! Please come down immediately!” 

© 2005 Emily Pritchard Cary. All rights reserved.
 

© 2005 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at