A Dollhouse to Die For(137)
The stage was finally set.
“Okay, ladies.” Roos clapped his hands. “I think I can handle it from here. Good night. Thanks for your help.”
Eleanor sucked in a breath, but we couldn’t really object, not with Serrano standing right behind him. The photographer had obviously been given strict instructions to clear the scene.
One by one we trailed glumly into the house.
“Damn that Roos. Now we can’t see anything either,” Eleanor grumbled as I pulled the door to the kitchen closed behind us. “What a spoilsport. And why the hell did you have to be so efficient and cover up all the windows, Daisy?”
The tastefully remodeled carriage house had the same heavy ceiling beams as the garage, but the whitewashed walls and exposed stonework were softened with paintings of rustic subjects like a folk art pig, and there were top quality Persian area rugs covering most of the stone floors. It was a simple layout. A huge sleeping loft and a sitting room above, and a good-sized living room, dining room, and kitchen with walk-in fireplace downstairs.
Ruth was at the maple wood kitchen counter making a fresh pot of coffee and she grinned at our downcast expressions. “Don’t despair, my friends. All is not lost.”
She made a beckoning motion and we followed her to an alcove off the kitchen that was set up as an office. It also housed a closed-captioned TV system. Ruth poked the power button on the computer monitor and it flickered into life, showing a quadrant of pictures of the front of the house, the back door, the main gate, and the interior of the garage.
There was quite a bit of pushing and shoving so we could all get into a good viewing position before the show started.
We didn’t have long to wait.
Serrano didn’t bother going back to the changing area to don a robe or a towel like the other guys. He simply pulled off his tie right where he stood and stripped off his shirt while we held our collective breath.
Even in a grainy black and white image, the hard-muscled body was awe-inspiring.
“Good God,” Martha said.
The nighttime gray hues accented the rippled stomach and strong biceps that flexed as he moved, like a prowling mountain cat that wastes no energy, but is a focused, tightly coiled killing machine.
I swallowed, but there was no moisture left in my throat.
As Serrano slowly reached for his belt buckle, he glanced in the direction of the security camera, and it seemed as though his eyes met mine.
Roos tested his light meter near Serrano’s face and the resultant flash made my heart bounce.
With shaking fingers I turned the monitor off. “We shouldn’t be spying on the man like this. We’re just a bunch of sick old women getting our jollies.”
“And you’re jolly annoying.” Eleanor pouted and slumped back in a chair, crossing her arms over her narrow chest.
“Daisy, why don’t you come up to the house with me and visit with Stanley while the shoot is going on,” Ruth urged.
“Okay.” My heart was still racing.
“We’ll clean up here when it’s all over, dear,” Martha said to Ruth. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
As we left the room, I thought I could hear the whir of the monitor starting up again.
I grabbed my coat from the kitchen and Ruth and I walked the short distance up the curving driveway toward the magnificent main house.
The original section was from the eighteenth century with random width floors and fireplaces in most of the rooms. It had been added onto over the years and the newer wings had the same sage green siding as the carriage house. The carefully tended rose gardens, tennis court, and pool were situated behind the house, and open verdant acres rolled away in every direction with breathtaking views of the countryside.