“That’s what Sara told me I was.” He was unrolling the whip.
“So where’s your cape? I was promised a cape.”
“I left it at Sara’s house. Sorry to disappoint you, but I couldn’t handle it. A man has limits.”
“Probably didn’t want to hide your muscles,” Sophie said under her breath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. I—” She broke off because he looked to be about to unleash the whip in the direction of the rafters—and she had an idea of what he planned to do. “I’m hungry!” she said loudly. “I’d really, really like to have something to eat. Now. This minute!”
Reede heard the fear in her voice. “This is nothing. It’ll only take a moment.”
Before Sophie could reply, he’d cracked the whip over the nearest rafter, high above his head. With her hand to her mouth she watched him pull on it to test its strength, then he went flying across the room, swinging on the whip handle. He ended up on the far side of the room and dropped down, grinning like a boy.
“You should have dressed as Tarzan,” Sophie said, and she didn’t mean it as a compliment. His dangerous little stunt had scared her.
“A leopard loincloth wouldn’t hide my muscles, would it?” he said, letting her know he’d heard her previous comment.
Sophie couldn’t help but laugh.
Reede retrieved the whip, rehooked it to his belt, grabbed the picnic basket, and bounded up the stairs two at a time.
Within minutes he was seated across from Sophie on her improvised sofa and opening the basket. Inside were lots of little sandwiches, three kinds of salad, and two bottles of wine.
“Did you pack this yourself?” she asked as he opened a bottle and filled two glasses.
“Not a bit of it,” he said cheerfully.
She didn’t ask, but she figured his adoring staff or even his patients had put it together for him.
“Tell me everything about your life,” Reede said as he removed a plate from the straps on the back of the basket.
A montage of everything ran through Sophie’s mind: fighting to get to go to college, her mother’s death, taking care of her sister, and the icing on the cake: stealing the Treeborne cookbook from Carter.
Reede seemed to understand Sophie’s hesitation. “On Monday morning between eight and ten a.m. a FedEx man will stop at Kim’s house to pick up your package. I called a friend of mine in Auckland and it’ll go to him. He’ll send it to Earl.”
“Earl?” Sophie asked, then remembered the pseudonym she’d used. “Yes, of course. Earl. I can’t thank you enough for this. In other circumstances I wouldn’t be so dependent, but—”
“I don’t think you’re dependent at all. Sophie, that little sculpture you made was beautiful. Your talent amazes me. Why—?” He cut himself off as he bit into a sandwich.
“Why aren’t I exhibiting my work?” She could tell by his expression that he hadn’t meant to be so serious, but she didn’t mind. “I have a theory.”
“And that is?”
“That every person on this earth was given a talent, whether it’s for art or music or . . . or the ability to keep a house clean even when you have young children.”
“The clean house gene missed me,” Reede said, holding up the bottle. “More wine?”
She nodded. “What makes the difference between people are personality traits. Take you and Kim for example.”
“Go on.”
“She wanted to make jewelry and you wanted to be a doctor, so you did it.”
“I’m not understanding your point,” Reede said.
“Kim had an ambition that equaled her talent, so now she has her own shop and a brand-new contract with Neiman Marcus. And you became a doctor.”