Page 90 of Sleigh Bells and Snowstorms
With a deep breath, I stopped in front of the gate. A second later, it swung open, and I drove in.
It was easy to see why Julian had become the object of town gossip. The house itself was built with the sort of rustic luxury style that was common in the mountains. Large beams, big windows, wrought-iron embellishments. But the statues flanking the front looked like something out of Renaissance Italy.
I was no art expert, but they looked like white marble. One was a man, the other a woman, both standing with one arm raised, as if reaching for each other across the driveway. Lighting illuminated them from below, making them seem to glow in the evening darkness.
The driveway curved, making a loop, so I parked in front of the house. The gate closed behind me, making me feel a bit trapped, and I was well aware of the numerous cameras. It was eerie.
My heart beat faster as I got out and walked to the front door. Strangely, my heightened nervousness didn’t make me want to leave. It made me want to succeed.
I knocked, and a moment later, Julian answered.
He wore a dark gray suit, no tie, and the top button of his shirt was undone. Not a hair was out of place, and his formality made me glad I’d dressed up. This wasn’t a casual, hang-out-and-eat-dinner-on-the-couch-while-watching-a-movie sort of date.
“Hi,” he said with a confident smile. “You look beautiful.”
Jensen growled in my ear.
“Thank you.”
He stepped aside. “Come in out of the cold.”
I went in, and he shut the heavy door behind me. He helped me slip off my coat and hung it in a closet near the door.
“Can I get you a glass of wine?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
A large iron chandelier hung from the high ceiling, and a curved stairway with a polished wood banister led to the second floor. A water feature with a Renaissance-style sculpture—this one a cherub with wings—stood in the center of the foyer, and another statue perched on the landing above.
“Look for cameras,” Jensen whispered.
I glanced around but didn’t see any. If he had indoor cameras, they were hidden.
“This is lovely,” I said, gesturing to the fountain. “The water is so soothing.”
“It was sculpted by an artist in France. I had to have the entire floor torn up to get the plumbing put in, but it was worth it. Feel free to look around. I’ll be right back.”
While he went to the kitchen to pour the wine, I took slow steps through the first floor and tried to memorize the layout as best I could. Windows, doors, hallways, rooms. The formal living room at the front of the house featured a fireplace with a stone front that reached the high ceiling. That led to a dining area—the room Jensen and I had looked into from outside.
“Looks like a collector to me,” I said quietly. “Paintings, sculptures, vases, all kinds of things. He has art on the walls everywhere, and at least three glass display cases. No cameras that I can see.”
“Good,” Jensen answered. “You’re doing wonderful.”
I wandered into the kitchen, and Julian handed me a glass of white wine. It pricked that he hadn’t asked whether I liked white or red, but I accepted it with a smile.
“Your house is so beautiful,” I said. “I love how you’ve decorated.”
“Let me give you the grand tour.”
I followed him from the kitchen into an open great room with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the river. Although it was dark, soft lighting illuminated the landscape, giving it a dreamy winter wonderland ambiance.
Interestingly, however, he didn’t point out the view.
“This is late nineteenth-century Russian.” He gestured to a glass case with a bronze statue of a man in uniform on a horse.
“It’s beautiful.”
“And rare.” I didn’t miss the hint of self-satisfaction in his voice. “Probably the only one in North America that isn’t in a museum.”
