Keys to the Castle Read Free

a white silk shirt, light enough to see through, untucked over faded jeans. She thought the embroidery at the cuff was pretentious. But there was warmth in his cocoa eyes, and something that she could only describe as an intense and brilliant interest, as though everything about the world fascinated him; as though he couldn’t get enough of learning about it.
    She, on the other hand, was carefully cool and precise and disinterested. She wore Vera Wang. Her dark hair was upswept to display her long neck—which she knew was her best feature—and teardrop diamond earrings. Her makeup was impeccable. She was elegant, in control, and unapproachable, a look that she had mastered, along with so many other lies, over the years. Yet somehow the look had not worked with him.
    And although she generally would have, at that point, politely excused herself and moved away, she was intrigued enough to add, “How do you know how long I’ve been here, anyway?”
    â€œBecause I’ve watched you since you entered,” he replied, “forty-two minutes ago. I’ve watched you check the time on five different occasions and I’ve watched you finish that silly orange drink a little too fast. So I’ve brought you another. What is it, anyway?”
    She lifted an eyebrow, hesitating a moment before setting aside her empty glass and accepting the full one he offered. “It’s a mango martini,” she said.
    â€œSounds dreadful.”
    â€œIt is.”
    He laughed. “Then you shall simply stand here and hold it and pretend to enjoy the hospitality and inventiveness of our hosts, eh bien ?”
    â€œYou’re French,” she observed, placing the accent.
    â€œI used to be,” he admitted. “I’ve lived in North America now for so many years that I have to practice my accent for ten minutes in the morning before I can go about in public.”
    That made her laugh a little, and the small lines at the corners of his eyes deepened a little as he observed, gently, “There, now. That’s so much better. You have the saddest smile I’ve ever seen.”
    And before she could even react to that, he thrust out his hand and announced, “I am Daniel Orsay. I am a poet, and currently the darling of the avant-garde literary set, or so I’ve been told. Please don’t apologize that you’ve never heard of me. I’m a very bad poet.”
    She accepted his hand, and he held her fingers, in the way of Europeans, as she tilted her head at him in skeptical amusement. “But charming.”
    â€œWhich is precisely how one gets invited to parties such as this without being either rich or famous.”
    He held her hand a little too long, which threatened to make her flustered. She withdrew her fingers and dropped her eyes, taking a sip of the too-sweet martini. “I’m Sara,” she said, looking up at him again. “Sara Graves. And I’m not rich or famous either, I’m afraid.”
    â€œImpossible.” He seemed to use French pronunciation solely to amuse her, his accent exaggerated. “Do you think we might have stumbled into the wrong party by mistake? Surely, it is so!” Then, smoothly lapsing back into easy cocktail chatter, “What do you do, Sara?”
    â€œI sell things.” The stupid martini was giving her a headache, possibly because she was sipping it too fast again.
    â€œWhat kinds of things?”
    â€œThings that people don’t need and don’t want.”
    â€œYou must be very good, then.”
    Her lips tightened in acknowledgment. “I am.”
    â€œBut not very happy, I think.”
    She was annoyed, and wanted to argue, but she didn’t know what to say. So she took another gulp of her drink and drew a breath to take her leave but he forestalled her in the very instant she was about to speak. Head inclined toward her curiously, eyes filled with that deep and genuine interest, he