“Hello, Amara,” he said after a beat, his voice tight.
“Hello, Daddy,” she replied without any warmth.
“Daddy?” Press asked. “You didn’t tell me you were Nick Rheinhardt’s daughter this morning.”
“And you—” Nick stared at Amara “—didn’t tell me that he was the reason you didn’t answer the phone when I called earlier.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
NICK©RECOGNIZED AMARA’S©obvious displeasure. Clearly, she’d been hoping to avoid her wayward father. Not to mention the other whammy of having to watch her new little buddy—this college kid flaunting his preppy testosterone and gee-whiz smile—fawn all over said dad. And having Georgie practically hopping on his toes, no doubt hoping to work unexpected encounters like this into the episode, only added to the sense that a crisis was looming. Not to forget the librarian.
Yes, let’s not forget the librarian, Nick thought. Penelope.
He closed his eyes, feeling all over again the brush of her breasts across his arm. And the thing of it was, he was simply not one of those guys who ever harbored a librarian fantasy.
Not that she looked like anybody’s idea of a librarian. That shapeless lab coat couldn’t hide her whippetlike frame that somehow had all the requisite curves. And then there were her legs…oh, boy, those legs. He’d never been a fan of skinny jeans—until now. And the way they ended just above her delicate anklebones, leaving a stretch of tantalizing bare flesh before her little slip-on flats. And not just any flats—ones with what looked like pages of an Italian newspaper covered in photos of Brigitte Bardot. A librarian wearing a sex goddess—could he ever have imagined?
Her ankles weren’t the only irresistible features. Her heart-shaped face with its pale skin, the delicately arched brows and a nose so narrow it was like something out of a painting by Vermeer. Still, the determined set of her jaw spoke of fire and passion—totally Rubens. Then there was her hair—that fairylike mass of ringlets that haloed about her head. Was it gold or russet? And then there was something else about her face that had him searching—for words, for insight.
But it wasn’t just her face. It was the way her mind worked—so orderly, so precise. Posed with a problem—such as finding manuscripts ASAP for some demanding TV host—she had analyzed the situation and come up with an imaginative yet totally logical solution. So different from the chaos that seemed to consume his own life. So refreshing. So calming… So soothing…
Perhaps he was having librarian fantasies after all… .
He shook his head. And narrowed his eyes when he focused on his daughter’s defiant face. “I tried to reach you this morning to set up a time to get together.”
“I must have been out by the pool when you called,” she shot back.
The guy—he was definitely part of the equation. Nick had no doubt. Which is why he was about to suggest—no, order—that from today onward, while Amara was under his watch, she’d be sleeping on a cot in his hotel room. But before he could do so, Georgie spoke up. Good ol’ Georgie. Ever ready to make things go smoothly.
“Well, you both found each other anyway. So no harm in the end,” Georgie chimed in. He held out his arms and approached Amara. “C’mon, you’re not too old to give your uncle George a big hug.” Troll-like, he enveloped her in his expansive arms, and Amara leaned into him naturally.
Nick felt a pang of jealousy. The two of them had barely exchanged a peck on the cheek.
When Georgie and Amara broke their hug, his librarian—yes, he was already beginning to think of her as his—spoke up.
“As long as you’re here, why don’t you come over and see what I’ve put out for your father and Mr. De Meglio to see.” She stepped to the side and indicated the conference table behind her. “I know that Press is accustomed to my little impromptu lectures on various holdings, and he has always kindly demonstrated an interest, genuine or otherwise.”
“Excuse me, when have I ever not thought something was really interesting?” Press asked, holding his hand up.
“The collected dry-cleaning bills from the last five years of Henry Ford’s life?”
“Okay, that was just weird. But that was the exception.” He motioned Amara over to the table. “So what have we got here?”
“These are all food related, as you might have guessed, given the circumstances. We’ve just finished looking at the work by a celebrity American chef and a provisions list from the Revolutionary War period, and now we’re on to something a little older and quite unique.”
Nick stepped aside and let the two younger people shoulder their way front and center.
Amara stared intently at one of the folios on display. “Hey, cool. Look at this.” She motioned to Press.
“The Grantham Galen. You brought it over from the exhibit?” Press asked.
“Just for this meeting. It goes right back,” Penelope answered.
“So what’s a Grantham Ga-something?” Georgie asked.
“It seems to be an old Greek manual that talks about using all these cooking herbs like cinnamon and ginger and laurel.” Amara pointed toward the text. “I’m not quite sure what this one is.” She looked to Penelope. “Am I right about it being an herbal treatise?”
“Our little Amara reads ancient Greek, and you never told me?” Georgie looked to Nick.
Nick opened his eyes wide and held up his hands. “Hey, whatever she’s learned she didn’t get it from me. And as far as languages are concerned, my accomplishments beyond mangling the mother tongue extend only to restaurant French, which is heavy on the swear words.”
“And possibly very useful in certain contexts,” Penelope observed. Then she immediately turned her attention to Amara. “Yes, it does talk about herbs, which nowadays are used in cooking, but in ancient times were the mainstays of medicine. And the word you were unsure of is cardamom,” she noted.
Amara lowered her head and studied the folio some more. “Is it? Wait a minute. If this is one of Galen’s writings, like Press said, wouldn’t it be his Theriac electuary?” She was addressing Penelope.
“A Ther-i-what?” Georgie asked, coming forward to take a better look.
“It sounds like a kind of enema,” Nick suggested, feeling more and more peripheral to the discussion.
Penelope appeared to take no notice of his comment. “A Theriac electuary, also known as a Venice treacle, is a mixture of sixty-four drugs—including what today we think of as herbs and spices, such things as cinnamon, cloves, mustard seed—”
“And cardamom,” Amara interjected.
Penelope nodded before continuing. “Including cardamom, which was formed by pulverizing the mixture with the addition of honey as a binder. It was supposed to be an antidote to poison. The recipe here is one attributed to Galen.”
“Galen who?” Nick asked. He could be as academic-y as
