Chapter EightSeated in dainty nymph-bedecked wing chairs that could have graced the salon of Louis XVI, Rey and I accepted intricately etched wine glasses of chilled Riesling. James-Henri, our gallant host, looked like the owner of a medieval castle or old-world chateau; he was dark and swarthy with a brooding visage, and hazel eyes that appeared green courtesy of a sweeping teal silk shirt. A chrome dome didn't suit him as well as other men, because it tended to pull the eyes to a blobby nose and goatee that leaned toward sloppy.
Having arrived five minutes ago, a portly middle-aged maid named Beata had led the way into a large living room decorated in an odd combination—or clash as Rey had muttered—of neo-classical meets retro.
Grabbing an iPhone from the top of a beveled-face walnut s
