“Ladies first.” I stood, already untying my robe.
“I’d rather not wait,” he said, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me to him. “I hope you don’t mind sharing.”
Our robes fell together in a pile of peach cashmere. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my lips against his. “I don’t mind a bit,” I said against his mouth. “Not one bit.”
After much dithering at his hotel room door about who should leave first and how much time should lapse before the second person left, we ended up leaving together. Not that it would have mattered as the hallway was deserted. A maid had brought me clothes and makeup from my room, and I’d blushed only once when she’d shown me the variety of knickers to choose from, none of which the old Babs Langford would have found in her dressing table.
As we exited the lift downstairs, I felt quite sure that everyone was staring at us, knowing what we’d been doing for the last three days in Drew’s hotel suite. It bothered me a bit, but not anywhere near as much as it might have once. And even if it had, I wouldn’t give up those three days for anything.
The clacking of Prunella’s typewriter made us turn in unison in the opposite direction, nearly running into Precious Dubose. I almost didn’t recognize her. Her hair was half loose, falling down one side of her face. Her lips were bare, her makeup nonexistent except for her mascara that had migrated below her eyes. Deep purple crescents showed through the mascara, making her appear more than a decade older. Even her usual immaculate clothing was rumpled, as if she’d slept in them.
“There you are! Where have you been?” Her voice held a note of desperation.
If she hadn’t been so distraught, I would have told her that I had been at an assignation. It would have made her proud. Instead, I immediately felt guilty for asking Drew to call the front desk and tell them that we were indisposed until further notice.
“Did you find something about La Fleur?” Drew asked.
Precious leveled an odd look at him that I couldn’t decipher. “What is it, Precious?” I asked. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Margot. She was taken to the H?tel-Dieu hospital yesterday. We think . . . we think this might be the end. We’ve wired for the children to come to Paris.”
“Oh no.” I felt Drew’s hand on my shoulder as he pulled me against his side.
“I’ve been with her at the hospital. She’s still conscious. I believe she’s waiting to say goodbye to her children. I’ve only come back to pick up a few things for her that I thought she might need to make her more comfortable.”
“Let us do that,” I said. “You must be exhausted. You can’t take care of a sick friend if you make yourself sick. Stay here and try and sleep for a few hours and when you’re more rested you can join us at the hospital.”
It looked as if she might refuse.
“Precious,” Drew said sternly. “Tell us what you were going to get and we will take care of it and then rush to the hospital. We won’t leave her side until you get there, all right? She won’t be alone.”
She frowned as she swayed on her feet, no doubt from exhaustion. “I promise,” I reassured her.
She appeared to be as grateful as she was relieved as she gave us her list of things to fetch from Margot’s room, remembering as we started back toward the lift to give us Margot’s key.
The room smelled of the daisies that filled every vase in the room, almost completely masking the scent of medicine. “I’ll get the things Precious requested from the bedroom if you’ll look in the closet for some sort of traveling case we can use to transport everything.”
He nodded and while he opened up a closet door, I entered the bedroom. During my visits, I’d always kept to the living room, where Margot sat on the chaise while I read to her. The bedroom had been decorated in the same ivory palate, with a dark antique dressing table with a mirror above it. I hesitated just for a moment before pulling open one of the top drawers, hoping Margot would forgive me for invading her privacy.
Brightly colored and lacy lingerie sat in perfectly organized piles inside, surprising me. I had somehow not expected Margot Lemouron to be the type to own sexy undergarments. Or perhaps she actually wasn’t and Precious had decided to take matters into her own hands.
I took out a small stack of knickers, not counting them on purpose. I didn’t want to put a finite number to the days Margot might need them. I continued to open the drawers, searching for the silk scarves Margot often wore to cover her bald head. I found sweaters and nightgowns—I took a few of both—before opening the last drawer.