long reception rooms. But she did not have a chance to look further,
for Peter seized her hand and raced her up the staircase, while Nick
followed them up to Peter's room at a more sedate pace.
The Spitfire had place of honour on the shelf above Peter's bed. He
brought it down proudly, and they examined it with suitable expressions
of admiration. Peter responded to their praise like a flower to the
sun.
When at last they descended the staircase, the sadness and restraint of
parting was on them all, but they were stopped in the centre of the hall
by the voice from the drawing-room door on the left.
Peter, darling. A woman stood in the open doorway, and she was even
more beautiful than the photograph that Samantha had seen of her.
Dutifully Peter crossed to her. Good evening, Mother. She stooped over
him, cupping his face in her hands, and she kissed him tenderly, then
she straightened, holding his hand so he was ranged at her side, a
subtle drawing of boundaries.
Nicholas, she tilted her head, you look marvelous so brown and fit.
Chantelle Alexander was only a few inches taller than her son, but she
seemed to fill and light the huge house with a shimmering presence, the
way a single beautiful bird can light a dim forest.
Her hair was dark and soft and glowing, and her son an the huge dark
sloe eyes were a legacy from the beautiful Persian noblewoman that old
Arthur Christy had married for her fortune, and come to love with an
obsessive passion.
She was dainty. Her tiny, narrow feet peeped from below the long, dark
green silk skirt, and the exquisite little hand that held Peter's was
emphasized by a single deep throbbing green emerald the size of a ripe
acorn.
Now she turned her head on the long graceful neck, and her eyes took the
slightly oriental slant of a modern-day Nefertiti as she looked at
Samantha.
For seconds only, the two women studied each other, and Samantha's chin
came up firmly as she looked into those deep dark gazelle eyes, touched
with all the mystery and intrigue of the East. They understood each
other instantly. It was an intuitive flash, like a discharge of static
electricity, then Chantelle smiled, and when she Smiled the impossible
happened - she became more beautiful than before.
May I present Dr. Silver? Nick began, but Peter tugged at his mother's
hand.
I asked Sam to see my model. She's a marine biologist, and she's a
professor at Miami University - Not yet, Pete/ Samantha corrected him,
but give me time. Good evening, Dr. Silver. It seems you have made a
conquest. Chantelle let the statement hang ambiguously as she turned
back to Nick. I was waiting for you, Nicholas, and I'm so glad to have
a chance to speak to you. She glanced again at Samantha. I do hope you
will excuse us for a few minutes, Dr. Silver. It is a matter of some
urgency.
Peter will be delighted to entertain you. As a biologist, you will find
his guinea pigs of interest, I'm sure. The commands were given so
graciously, by a lady in such control of her situation, that Peter went
