“Long live the king,” she mumbled.
Walker shot her a quick glance. “What?”
“It looks like a castle,” she amended.
He shrugged and killed the engine of his sixty-thousand-dollar car. They climbed out of the Jag, and he gestured to the trunk, where he’d already popped open the lid. “Don’t worry about our luggage. Someone will take care of it soon enough.”
Someone? The hired help? “You’re spoiled,” Tamra said.
He frowned at her. “I don’t have servants in San Francisco. I prefer my privacy. But things are different here.”
She held her tongue, and he opened the door to an expansive foyer. A magnificent library was on the left and a lavish dining room on the right. A double staircase, leading to each wing of the house, made a sweeping impression. Walker escorted her and Mary into a majestic room he called the grand parlor.
Grand indeed: creamy fabrics and ornate antiques, a terrace that presented a breathtaking view of a flourishing garden and the vineyards below.
Tamra didn’t want to sit, although Walker offered her and his mother a seat. The furniture, she noticed, was polished to perfection. Tables gleamed and mirrors reflected every carefully decorated angle. There wasn’t a thread out of place. Even the tassels on pillows displayed themselves in a don’t-touch-us manner.
A woman wearing a black uniform draped with a white apron entered the parlor. She looked about Mary’s age, her long dark-brown hair pinned up.
“Mr. Walker,” she said, her tone soft and respectful. “It’s good to have you home. And with your new family.”
“Irena.” He greeted her in a detached voice. But even so, he introduced her to Tamra and Mary, letting them know she was the head housekeeper.
If his attitude hurt Irena’s feelings, she didn’t let it show. Her blue eyes sparkled, especially when she spoke to Mary. Tamra liked her immediately, which made Walker’s disposition even more baffling.
Had the housekeeper done something to displease him? Or did he treat all of the employees with mild disdain?
Tamra shifted in her seat. Was it a learned response he’d picked up from Spencer?
“Miss Charlotte and Mr. Alexandre left a message for you,” Irena informed him. “Their flight was delayed. They won’t be arriving until tomorrow morning.”
He frowned. “That’s fine. Is Lilah here?”
“Yes, Mr. Walker. She’ll be with you shortly.”
“Thank you. Will you send in some refreshments?”
“Yes, of course. I’d be glad to.” She excused herself and gave Walker’s mother a gentle smile on her way out the door.
Mary seemed disappointed about Charlotte’s delay, but Irena’s kindness had prompted her to relax, helping Tamra relax, too.
Five minutes later, when Lilah Spencer breezed into the parlor, their discomfort returned.
The lady of the manor, a reed-thin redhead, approached Walker with a Hollywood-style kiss, brushing her lips past his cheek. Impeccably dressed, she donned a cream-colored suit that matched the decor. Her makeup was flawless, her skin unnaturally taut.
Botox injections? Tamra wondered.
“I see the Indian people are here,” Lilah said.
“Mind your manners,” Walker told her, scolding his forty-nine-year-old aunt as if she was a child.
“Was that politically incorrect?” She divided her gaze between Tamra and Mary. “Would you prefer Native American?”
So much for the welcome Walker had promised, Tamra thought. “Indian is fine.”
“Well, then. See?” Lilah smoothed her lapel, where a simple gold broach had the audacity to shine, to look as chic as the woman wearing it. “No harm done.”
Walker introduced his mother first, and Mary was gracious enough to extend her hand. Lilah extended hers, too, and Tamra wondered if Spencer’s widow was mimicking what she saw, like a Stepford wife who kept switching gears, not quite sure how to treat Mary—the Indian her dead husband had wronged.
Irena arrived with a silver tray bearing iced tea, fresh mint, lemon wedges and sugar. Another maid carried a platter of finger sandwiches and a delicate assortment of fine china.
Lilah made a face at the tea, as though she craved something stronger. The head housekeeper offered the first glass to Mary, who accepted it gratefully. After the drinks were distributed and the sandwiches left in a buffet-style setting, the hired help disappeared.
“Now, then.” Lilah sat in a Victorian settee and crossed her legs, her posture as graceful as an aging fashion model. “We need to decide what rooms Mary and Tamra should occupy.”
Walker made the decision in two seconds flat. “My mother can take Charlotte’s old room, and Tamra can stay in my apartment.”
“Your apartment?” Lilah arched her lightly penciled bows.
“That’s right,” he countered, daring her to challenge him.
She didn’t. She backed down easily, but not without a socially acceptable response. “His apartment is in the west wing,” she announced to no one in particular. “And it has two bedrooms.”
Walker gazed at Tamra from the across the room, and her heart bumped her chest. Fat chance that she would be sleeping in the second bedroom. She and Walker hadn’t made love since that night on the plains. They’d decided to wait rather than take liberties at Mary’s house. Of course, Walker was going full throttle now, demanding Tamra’s attention.
“Will you and your guests be joining us for dinner?” Lilah asked her nephew.
“Yes, we will.”
“Then I’ll see to the menu.” She stood, tall and slim and regal. “If you’re weary from your flight, don’t hesitate to retire to your room,” she said to Mary. “I understand how taxing jet lag can be.” She turned to Tamra. “You, too.” Then to Walker, “I trust you’ll show them to their quarters.”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll make sure the luggage is taken right up,” Lilah concluded. She bade everyone a courtly farewell and left the parlor to tend to her duties.
A queen who was lost without her king.
Walker’s apartment was as exceptional as the rest of the mansion, although the decor was quite a bit bolder, with more use of color. It contained a stylish living room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a comfortably equipped kitchen. The paintings on the walls exhibited desire, rage, even sadness. They were, Tamra thought, a reflection of Walker’s personality.
Their luggage had arrived in no time, and she decided to unpack while Walker sat on the edge of his bed and watched her.
“Is there an another apartment on the other side of us?” she asked.
He nodded. “It belongs to my cousin Trace. He got the balcony.”
She looked up, shook her head. “God forbid he should get something you don’t have.”
Walker rolled his eyes. “Trace irks me.”
She reached for a hanger. “Really? How so?”
“He just does. We’ve always been at odds with each other.”
Masculine rivalry? she wondered. Or did it go deeper than that? “Have you ever tried to work things out with him? Talk about your differences?”
He barked out a cynical laugh. “Yeah, right. He’s impossible to communicate with.”
“What does he do?”