“That’s the dress Lady Sybil wore when she seduced Tom the chauffeur…”
“Sounds like a soap opera,” he said with a grin.
“That’s because it was,” she said, giving him a playful whap. “A glorious one with fancy costumes and stodgy accents.”
There was no dungeon, of course, but there was an underground bowling alley and pool, plus a basement kitchen. They kept pointing out locations someone could use to hide a body.
“That cabinet looks big enough,” Adalia said, pointing to one in the kitchen.
“It would have to be a small woman,” Finn said with a contemplative look. “It’s too small to fit a man’s body.”
The family behind them looked startled, and the mother steered her tandem stroller in a wide arc to get around them.
“I bet I could stuff your body in there,” Adalia said, trying to stifle a smile.
“Really?” he said with a grin. “Too bad we’ll never know since it’s roped off.”
She gave him a playful look. “Rules are made to be broken, you know…”
He grabbed her wrist and tugged her away. “Did you learn that on Lifetime?” he teased.
“I’ll never tell. Maybe I’ll subject you to a marathon weekend. I hear there’s a Women Who Kill theme this weekend.”
“I need to draw the line somewhere,” Finn said. “My bro purse is already threatening my man card. I’m worried the manly police will show up at my front door and demand I turn it over.”
Laughing, she pulled him to a stop. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard,” she said with a sly smile, “but I’m pretty talented with Photoshop. If they peel your man card out of your tightly clenched, manly fist”—she picked up his hand and playfully kissed his knuckles—“I can just make you a new one.”
“Thank God I have you in my life,” he said, his eyes dancing. “I’ll never have to worry about my Photoshop needs ever again.”
“I’ll still have to charge you,” she said, lifting her shoulder into a shrug. “A girl’s gotta make a living.”
“Of course,” he said, still grinning. “I wouldn’t dream of asking for a discount.”
She was still holding his hand, so she lowered it and laced their fingers together. They finished the tour like that, stopping at the booth to see the photos they’d had taken at the beginning.
“We don’t have to see them,” Adalia said as they waited behind an Asian couple who were arguing in a different language. “Everyone knows this is a huge rip-off.”
“No way,” he said, holding her in place with their still-linked fingers. “I want to see them.” He was still smiling, but there was a seriousness in his tone that told her this meant something to him.
When they got to the counter, she burst out laughing. “We look like an ’80s ad for tourism to New York.”
“Exactly. I’m getting this one framed,” he said.
It was a joke, to be sure, but she found herself wondering if he would. And if they’d look at it from time to time and remember this day—not as part of an almost forgotten past, but as part of a beginning. Their beginning.
They drove to the other side of the grounds and had lunch in the stable café, discussing the exhibits while Finn looked up George W. Vanderbilt on his phone and told her facts about the bachelor who had built the nearly 179,000-square-foot house, then married several years after its completion.
When they finished their leisurely lunch, they wandered the gardens, strolling hand in hand as they discussed the garden layout and their own gardening experience, or lack thereof. (Finn had apparently killed no fewer than fifteen shrubs before giving up on his front yard.) She told him about a show on Netflix they should watch about large garden designs to help inspire his selection of the next plants he would kill.
Finn found a bench under a long pergola, and they took a seat. He wrapped his arm around her back, and she rested her cheek on his chest, neither one of them speaking for a couple of moments as they watched butterflies dancing around a planting of chrysanthemums.
“This has been perfect,” she said with a sigh. “Thank you for my day at Pemberley. No one else would have made it this special.”
He kissed the top of her head. “We’ll do the costumes next time.”
Sitting upright, she turned to face him. “You’d really do that? Look ridiculous in a period costume for me?”
A smug look filled his eyes. “I don’t know about ridiculous. I think I could pull off a morning coat.”
She laughed and gave him a soft kiss. “Yes, Finn. You definitely could. But right now, I’m more interested in what’s underneath this ridiculous shirt.” She placed a hand on his chest, her grin spreading. “And yes, you pulled off this ridiculous look too, but with great power comes great responsibility, which means we have to burn it when we get you home. Like immediately.”
“Miss Buchanan,” he said in his cheesy accent, but he sounded slightly breathless. “Isn’t it improper for an unmarried woman to be alone with a man in his home? He could do unscrupulous things.”
She gave him another gentle kiss, but this time she ran her tongue over his bottom lip. “One can only hope.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Before they went any further, he should ask her about Alan Stansworth. Because he wanted so badly for her to trust him. He needed it. But the way she was looking at him…
“Race you to the car?” he asked.
Instead of answering, she started running, laughing hysterically while she did so.
He raced after her, laughing too, feeling exuberant in a way he’d only felt with her lately. They ran past a bunch of tourists who looked at them quizzically, not because they were running—locals came out here to run—but because they were running in their jeans and I Love New York shirts, bro bag and fanny pack bouncing. They passed the Private Eyes woman from earlier, whose eyes bulged at the sight of them.
“Now he’s chasing her,” she shouted. “Do something, Bernard!”
Her husband had a look of alarm, but he didn’t attempt to follow them, and neither did she.
It was then Finn realized that some of the looks might not be because of their outfits. He hadn’t outpaced Adalia yet, which made it look like she was running and he was chasing. Adalia seemed to figure it out too because she was laughing harder, the sound drifting back to him.
They made it back to the car, breathless, and she panted out, “We’d better go… She’s totally going to call the cops this time.”
A uniformed police officer walked past them, hurrying off to destinations unknown, or possibly to the woman with the dyed hair, and Finn and Adalia exchanged a look. He unlocked the car, and she bit her lip when she heard the click, as if trying to suppress yet more laughter.
They climbed into the car all casual like—nothing to see here, officer—and then exchanged another look, grinning. And oh God, he couldn’t ruin the moment by asking her something that would upset her. Not now. Not yet.
“Go,” she said, and he didn’t make her say it again.
They were quiet on the way back to his house, but every so often he looked over, and whenever he did, she was staring at him, lips parted, eyes full of wanting. And oh, how he wanted her. It had never been like this.
Then she slowly slid the blindfold out of her fanny pack and slipped it into place, tying it behind her head.
“Adalia,” he said, his voice coming out so husky it sounded like a stranger’s.
“I’m a big believer in finishing what you started, Finn,” she said.
He sped the rest of the way home and parked in the drive.
“I do believe it’s time for you to show me to your bedroom, Mr. Hamilton,” she said, slipping into the British accent she pulled off all too well.
He opened the door so fast it nearly hit the almost-but-not-quite-dead shrub by the driveway, and he was circling around the car to open her door when he saw a familiar figure loping down the street. No, make that two. A small black figure preceded the mu
ch larger rusty-red and white figure.
“Jezebel?” he asked, baffled. “Tyrion?”
Adalia must have heard her dog’s name through the window, because she immediately exited the car, the blindfold hanging loose around her neck.
“Tyrion,” she shouted, running after him. The dog turned as soon as he heard her call his name, but he didn’t race back to them. He whined and glanced up ahead at Jezebel, who was still prancing jauntily forward. The sleek black cat slowed at the sound of his whine and glanced back, hair bristling a little at the sight of them. But she stopped.
“Does she think he’s her dog?” Finn said in an undertone.
“Shhh,” she said, pressing a finger to her lips. “It sounds crazy, but I suspect they’re working something out.”
More whining followed, answered by a couple of meows and shrieks, and then Tyrion bustled up to Adalia, tail wagging, as if he were a child who’d been given permission. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him with abandon, and Finn felt it down to his heart.
“What are we going to do about Jezebel?” he asked, really hoping she didn’t expect him to tackle her.
“Let’s see if she follows,” Adalia said.
It seemed highly unlikely to him—when had that cat ever followed anyone, even Beau?—but Adalia had her hand on Tyrion’s collar, so they weren’t likely to lose him, anyway. And Jezebel…well, she’d shown she could very easily survive on her own when she had a mind to. If she stayed out, she’d come back, lured by sardines and crystals.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s give it a try.”
They headed back toward his house, and sure enough, Jezebel trailed behind them, making a big production of every footstep, as if she were being dragged against her will. But she came, nonetheless.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “Thank God you saw them when you did. I wonder how they got out in the first place. It’s only three thirty. I guess Jack might have come back home to let them out, but it’s strange that he didn’t call.”
“You can check your messages when we get inside,” he said. Which was when he realized that she might not want to come inside anymore. She would probably want to bring them home. “If you still want to come inside,” he amended.
“You’d be okay with me bringing them in?” Adalia asked, her tone dubious. “Jezebel is like a poltergeist—she might never leave. And Tyrion sheds enough fur to make a coat. Your house is much too nice to be covered in fur.”
“Yeah, I’m okay with it. More than okay.” Besides, if they continued seeing each other, Tyrion would be spending plenty of time at his house. He knew Adalia wouldn’t want to leave him on his own for any length of time, especially after this.
“I know this wasn’t what we were planning…” she started as they reached the house.
“No, but life has a way of keeping things interesting for us,” he said. They stopped in front of the door. “I’ve taken in a foster for Maisie before. I have a water bowl in the closet, plus there’s some meat in the fridge and a few tins of sardines for Jezebel.”
She gave him a look, and he felt himself blushing a little. “I got some after she ran away a few months ago. I figured River might be more willing to forgive me if I caught her and brought her home.”
She nudged him a little with her shoulder. “That worked out for you pretty well, now didn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said honestly. “It did.”
“I think they’ll do okay without food for now. They always eat breakfast late, but maybe we can give them something later.”
Did that mean she intended to stay for a while?
He unlocked the door and opened it, waving for Tyrion to go in, but he stood to the side until a streak of black shot through the opening. Tyrion padded in after Jezebel, then looked back to see if Adalia would follow. Which she did. Finn shut the door behind them.
By the time he’d turned back around, Tyrion was curled up on his couch, Jezebel perched on the back of the cushion above him. Both appeared as comfortable as if they’d lived there their whole lives.
Adalia gave him a slightly worried look, as if she thought it might shatter his psyche to see them curled up on his sofa, and he found himself laughing again.
“I don’t care if they shed,” he said. “They make vacuums for a reason. Why don’t you check in with Jack to see what happened? I’ll get some things ready for them.”
But she groaned as soon as she pulled her phone out of her fanny pack.
“That’s probably why he didn’t say anything. My battery’s dead. Again.”
And no wonder. Her cell phone dated back to the first generation of portable phones.
“I’d tell you to plug it in,” he said, “but there’s no way I have a charger for that. If you know his number, you can call him on my phone.” He pulled it out of his bro bag and handed it over. “Or call Dottie and ask her to pass on the message.”
“Thanks, Finn,” she said, leaving her hand on his for a moment. “For everything. Maybe you can give me a tour of the upstairs once they’re settled.”
She winked as she said it, and he felt at once turned on and amused—she’d said it like a mom talking in code around her toddler.
“I’d like that,” he said.
She sat next to Tyrion to make her calls, and he found a couple of old dog dishes in his closet, along with a rope chew toy Maisie had told him to keep, making it clear she fully intended to guilt him into taking another foster. After filling one of the dishes with water, he found himself questioning the likelihood they would share and got them another Tupperware full of water. He could hear Adalia on the phone, but he didn’t process what she was saying until he came back in with the water bowls.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “But it may be after dinner. They’re safe.”
He lowered the bowls and the chew toy, which Tyrion and Jezebel promptly ignored, and looked at Adalia as she said goodbye and hung up the call.
“Dottie had Jack’s number. He feels insanely guilty,” she said, massaging the area between her eyebrows. “I don’t know why he was home—something about a phone call from Chicago—but he says he’ll explain later. Anyway…I guess he let Tyrion out, and Jezebel shot out the back. Tyrion started howling, then jumped the fence to follow her. Jack’s been roaming the neighborhood for the last hour with pockets full of treats.”
It occurred to Finn that it might be of some significance that Adalia had called Dottie for the number instead of Georgie. Was it because her sister would have advised her to go home? But he didn’t have much time to consider it. She reached out and patted Tyrion, who leaned into the caress. “He’s a loyal dog. I admire loyalty. Even if it’s to Jezebel.”
She bent down to kiss Tyrion’s nose and then stood from the sofa. “They look like they’re exhausted by their adventure,” she said. “I think we can take that tour.”
She held out her elbow like she had at the Biltmore, and he took it.
“I always prefer to start a tour in the master bedroom, don’t you?” he asked.
“I like the way you think.”
They walked up the stairs together, sides pressed together, and his heart pounded madly as he led her to his room. How many times had he imagined this? Well, he’d never imagined it quite like this, but in a weird way, it felt right. Because it was their kind of chaos.
He opened the door to the room, only then remembering that he probably should have warned her. Because across from them hung the painting he’d pieced together with glue. The cracks only made it more beautiful.
He’d kept the painting because she’d given it to him, however spitefully.
Because he couldn’t bear to throw anything of hers away.
Because, even though it radiated pain, it was stunningly beautiful.
He hoped it wasn’t weird that he’d kept it. He hadn’t hung it there at first. Not until they’d become closer. Ultimately, though, it had called to him, a
s if insisting to be seen. Her light—even her vindictive fury—deserved to be seen.
Now, he realized he’d fallen a little bit in love with her that day, seeing her create and destroy. And he’d fallen in deeper every day since.
He glanced at her, worried. “Adalia…”
But something flickered in her eyes, and she walked inside the room, tugging him after her by the loops of his jeans, and closed the door.
“We’ll have to burn it later,” she said.
For a moment he was confused. Did she mean the painting or his shirt? But then she ripped off his shirt and threw it to the ground. Her shirt followed it, her bra a bright neon pink this time, and then their mouths met—no longer gentle, like they’d been earlier, but consuming each other. He pulled away to finish undressing her. Then he looked at her for a moment, marveling at her beauty, her curls wild, her eyes bright with mischief and joy, and marveling, too, at the fact that this was finally happening. That it felt the way it did. He tried to take off his own pants, but she pushed his hand away.
“I get to do that,” she insisted, her eyes burning. And she slowly undid the button and the zipper, pushing down his pants and his boxer briefs, freeing him. She gave him a wicked look as she stroked him and said, “Big catch indeed.”
Then she reached down and found the blindfold among the clothes they’d shed.
Before she could put it on, or suggest he did, he said, “No, not the first time. I want to see your eyes.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Adalia’s head rested on Finn’s naked chest, his arm wrapped possessively around her. He was still catching his breath, as was she. Her finger traced the outline of his pec, then slowly slid down his abdomen.
Better Luck Next Time Page 27