Tilda nodded. “The only thing I regret is that I lost the Scarlets. I went back for them after the police left, but they were gone. Do you think they took them for evidence?”
“No,” Davy said, looking past her to the case of paintings balanced on the top stair of the last flight.
Tilda turned. “What?” She ran up the last flight and opened the case.
“They’re all here,” she said, delighted. “And there’s a note from Simon.”
Davy took it from her to read it.
“Here’s your wedding present, Dempsey. I’d stay to explain but those Goodnight women are too damn dangerous. Best wishes, Simon.”
Tilda picked the case up and hugged it to her. “Davy, he stole my paintings back for me.”
“Believe me,” Davy said. “The pleasure was all his. Open the door.”
“About that.” Tilda widened her eyes.
Betty, he thought, and moved closer, only one step below her now.
“I want you to know...” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “That I understand that you’re on your way to Australia...”
Davy grinned at her. “Frankly, Scarlet, I—”
“Oh, don’t,” Tilda said, frowning. “You’re a better person than that.”
“You’re right, that one’s too easy.” Davy put his arms around her and the Scarlets. “Vilma, I am no longer on my way to Australia. Open the door.”
She put her head down, and he held her closer, and she bit his shoulder softly, and he lost his breath.
“Could we just go in there?” he said. “Because I’m willing to do this on the steps, but it’s harder that—”
“Tell me you’re on your way to Australia,” she said in his ear.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m on my way to Australia.” He reached around her and opened the door, pushing her and her paintings through as he spoke. “Now can we—”
He stopped in the doorway.
The walls weren’t white anymore.
Huge green leaves grew around the bed, wild lush leaves, tapering off into charcoal sketches as they rounded the corners of the room, clearly a jungle-in-progress. Outlines of sly little animals peeped out of the bushes, laughing snakes and seductive flamingos and Steve, looking fairly calm, drawn near the floor in front of a large banana leaf. On the wall behind the bed, van Gogh-like sunflowers grew up in wild bursts of color like mutant suns, looming over Tilda’s headboard, which was now covered in more green leaves that wreathed one word in the center, written in huge Gothic letters, burnished in gold leaf:
Australia.
“So, sunflowers,” Davy said, looking down into the crazy blue eyes of his one true love.
Tilda stepped into the room and put the paintings down. He followed her, kicking the door closed behind him, and she slid her hand up his chest. “Zey are by van Gogh,” she said in a terrible Italian accent. “Would you like to buy zem, Il Duce?” She went up on her toes to kiss him, her hot little mouth just millimeters away from his, the scent of cinnamon making his head light.
“I can’t,” Davy said sternly, pushing her away. “Really sorry. Out of the question.”
“Oh.” Tilda rocked back on her heels. “Hey, I spent hours on those things so you could play this dumb game—”
He bent and scooped her up in his arms, and she flailed for balance, smacking him in the nose and knocking him back a step. He bounced her once to center her, and she shrieked and hung on to his neck.
“I can’t buy it because I’m leaving,” Davy said. “I’m taking my wife, Matilda Scarlet Celeste Veronica Betty Vilma Goodnight to Australia. It’s a touching story. We met in a closet—”
Tilda stopped straggling. “Are you proposing?”
“Yes,” Davy said. “I love you. Marry me, Matilda, and make me the most confused man on earth.”
She blinked at him, her lips parted, and for one horrible moment, he thought she was going to say no.
Then she smiled that crooked smile, and he breathed again.
“Ravish me, Ralph,” Tilda said.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Davy said, and did.
END OF FAKING IT
Faking It Page 38