Priceless (7 page)

“You’re not native
are you?”

She started to turn her head toward me but then she cau
ght herself and kept herself facing out the window.  She was punishing me for making her wait in the rain for three hours probably.    There was something about her that seemed vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place whatever it was.

“My accent blows my cover every single time.  Damn.”

Okay, she was more than a little wound up.

“American?”

“Yep.” 

The windscreen
wipers sweeping back and forth pretty much filled the cold silence between us.  I supposed my comment about pissing behind a tree had not been well thought out, and I wondered what she really thought of me.  Probably something along the lines of, “Go fuck yourself, you sodding arsehole.”  Yeah, Miss Hargreave had some pluck in her it seemed, despite her harrowing evening. 

“Look, I’m sorry about not getting your call when it first came
through.  I didn’t have my mobile on me.”

She kept herself turned away and facing
out toward the dark wet night.  “Doesn’t matter.  I’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”  She gestured with an elegant hand.  “This whole thing…is obviously not going to work.”  She snorted a laugh.  “American art student cataloging nineteenth century Romanticist masterpieces for a British earl.  What a joke!  I’m in way over my head—”

“That’s not tru
e.  I’m only a lowly baron, not even close to being an earl,” I interrupted in hopes of distracting her from what was certain to be an emotional tirade, as well as her notice.

“My
bad,” she sneered, mimicking me from earlier.  “I’ve got to work on my Debrett’s Peerage as well as my navigation skills.  I’ve got quite a list of improvements to tackle, don’t I?”  The sarcasm dripping off her was pretty harsh and she still spoke to the window.

Nope.
  Not distracted in the least.

I tried again. 
“So how does an American girl end up at University of London taking a graduate degree, and more to the point, how in the hell do you know Debrett’s Peerage? Surely that’s knowledge fit only for the natives.”  If distracting her didn’t work, maybe teasing would.

She laughed.  Just a short breath of air and a sh
ake of her head, but it made me feel better.  What I really wanted was to get a good look at her.  I wanted to check Miss Hargreave out, and see what she was made of in a lighted room—sans wet mud preferably.  If going by the rest of my impression of her, and the sound of her voice being any indication at all, I could be in for a lovely treat.

“You’re not going to quit before you
’ve even seen all the paintings I’ve got in my house, are you?  Because, that would be a travesty.  Well at least I think it would. I don’t know shit about art.”

She didn’t move her position of
staring out at the rain and I felt the sudden need to convince her to stay.  Nothing about this night was going to plan.  She wasn’t going to be an easy sell, but I really needed someone for this job.  It’d been left for about five decades too long.  I required a professional, and there was one sitting in the seat next to me right now.  A spitfire American with lousy directional sense, but an expert all the same.

I softened my
voice.  “I take that back.  I know enough about art to know I need a professional’s help.”

She m
oved in her seat and sighed, just as I pulled up to the garage and parked the Rover.  She held out her hand and turned her body toward me.

“Shall we begin again?  Gabrielle
Hargreave, University of London.  I’m the professional here to have a look at your art collection.”  She faced me now, but I still couldn’t see her very well.  I liked the sound of her voice though.  It sounded…sexy. 

The garage light had brightened the interior
by a fraction where we sat together, and I finally got a glimpse, but could still barely make out her features.  I felt surprise for the second time tonight as I closed my hand around hers for a firm shake.  Gabrielle Hargreave was, again, so not what I was expecting.

Her hair
was soaking wet and pulled back in a tie, but the overall impression was one of beauty.  I may be a waste at social pleasantries but I do know when a woman is beautiful, and Miss Hargreave was certainly that.

I was
changing my opinion about my new grad student rather quickly.

“Ahh, Gabrielle
Hargreave, pleasure to meet you.  Ivan Everley, inheritor of all this…and of course, shuttle driver for lost American art students.”  I smiled at her.

She dropped my
hand and looked down at her lap.

“That bad?”  I tilted my
head down to try to get her to look at me again.  She seemed miserable.

“You forgot to add ‘wet and caked in mud’ to your description.”

“Not really.  I remembered the ‘wet and muddy’ but figured I was pushing my luck with the ‘lost American’ part already.  I’m not a complete idiot, Miss Hargreave.”

She a
rched a very pointed brow at me and I felt the hit right in the groin.

I
reached for the door handle and got out of the Rover as fast as I could.  This whole situation was getting a little awkward.  We were bantering back and forth like we’d known each other for years rather than mere minutes.

But before I
could make my way over to her side to open the door for her, she’d already exited and was bent over my leather seats earnestly attempting to remove the smudges of mud left on them from the backside of her jeans.

I
got a very nice look at her from behind though and I wasn’t complaining.  Nope.  Miss Hargreave had a fine looking arse attached to those mile long legs of hers. Covered in mud or not, it was a beauty.

I
cleared my throat.  “Shall we?”

“Sorry about your leather seat
s.  I can come back and clean them tomorrow.”

“No worries.  Finnegan will take care of it
,” I said as I pulled her bag from the backseat.  “He’s the man to see around here if you want anything done.  I’ll introduce you as soon as we get up to the house.  On second thought, it’s late now.”  I checked my watch.  “He’s probably gone to bed.”  I nodded.  “Of which, you’re no doubt in desperate need of yourself.”

“I am exhausted,” she mumbled
, while stifling a yawn with her delicate hand.

I led her forward, my
hand pressed against her back as we made our way out of the darkened garage.  Again, I was struck with the overwhelming feeling of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.  Odd, but I kept thinking that we’d met before in some capacity.

“This doesn’t look nice at all,” I said. 
The rain, which had been doing steady work up to this point, decided to unleash in biblical proportions.  The sound of the drops hitting every surface as they poured down in sheets to rival Noah’s flood, roared in front of us.

“Well I don’
t think I can get much wetter,” she shouted over the noise.

“That’s probably a good thing
, because we’re both about to find out.  We’ve got to make a run for it!” I yelled, grabbing her hand and pulling her with me as I made for the safety of the house.

BEING
dragged through a deluge along a dark path in unfamiliar territory was not my favorite, but having a guide who knew where he was going was so much better than none at all.  At least I wasn’t spending the night in a rental car at the bottom of a ditch.

We dashed
toward a looming stone manor, Neo-Gothic design from what I could tell in the dark and streaming rain.  I held onto Mr. Everley’s hand and went forward.  He pulled us through puddles and small lakes until we headed up some stone steps, and finally to a door that got my attention.  It was a behemoth made of oak and carved with heavy designs of flora and fauna.  Fascinating.  I’d get a better look tomorrow in the light of day.

We entered
through the door and into a mudroom of sorts.  Perfect place for me.  I was covered in the stuff, and could think only about getting it off me via a hot bath.  A soft bed would be welcome, too.  In the morning I could figure out what kind of art Mr. Everley had stashed away in his gloomy corner of Ireland and decide if his collection merited the work or not.

“Here, allow me,” he said, taking my coat off my back and hanging it dripping on a peg.

“Thanks.”

I tried to shake the water off my hands, attempting to sort out my appearance, which must be
truly horrifying by now, but it was beyond hopeless.  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so soaking wet before.” I brushed at my emerald-green shirt, realizing because my poor jacket had lost to the rain, I was soaked through to the skin.

“Yeah,
it’s downright evil tonight.  I’m so glad you’re not out there any longer because I fear you would’ve floated away by now, Miss Hargreave.”  He was busy hanging up his own coat and pulling off the ball cap he’d been wearing, when we both turned to face one another.

“I’m so g
rateful you finally checked your pho—”

In the light.

Where he could really see me.

And w
here I could really see him…for the first time.

But it wasn’t the first time we’d seen each other.

Straight dark hair spilled down his neck.  Lips that I remembered knowing how to kiss me, opened in total surprise.  Captivating green eyes that had held onto mine in a crushingly intimate moment, widened in shock.  Mr.
Ivanhoe
appeared to register the same horrible conclusion I was experiencing.

Those dark green
eyes of his narrowed and glared down at me accusingly, looking fearsome and terrifying in what was, without a doubt, anger at finding me in his house.

Oh no, please, God,
no! 
It just couldn’t be
him
of all people.

I think it wa
s safe to say we were both in shock.

He
pointed a finger at me.  “You!”

I
stared up into his fuming eyes, frozen and horrified with only one thought racing through my mind.

Run
away.

I tried to.  I moved to turn my body away from him and flee, but he was too quick.  Within a millisecond he had me gripped by the shoulders and f
acing him.  I was going nowhere.  Not that I had anywhere
to
go when I was lost and muddy somewhere in the wilds of Northern Ireland, in some old stone mansion with what was certainly a crazed madman.

“What in the fuck are
you doing here? 
Maria,
wasn’t it?” he spat, shaking me with a hard jerk.

I shook
my head and tried to flinch out from his iron grip on me.  “W-who is M-maria?” I sputtered dumbly.  “Paul Langley just sent me here to have a look at your p-p-paintings.”  I could feel my body quivering in complete terror and fear for my safety.  What would he do to me?  “Please…don’t…hurt me,” I begged on a whisper.

He
blinked and released me instantly, as if he needed distance to keep his anger in check, and surprised at how hard he’d been holding onto my arms.

“
The evidence from last time wasn’t enough, was it?  Even Langley’s gotten in on things now?”  He scoffed and looked disgusted with me, a sneer curling one side of his lip.  “Were you planning on videotaping again or just photos this time?”

“
What are you talking about?”  I shook my head and tried to explain.  “I’m not here to b-bother you, Mr. Everley, I—I’m just here to do my job.”

“Was part of your job to fuck me for money?” he snapped back.

I wanted to crawl into a crack in the floorboards and die.  “No!  No, I—I didn’t know who you were.  It was a mistake—”

  “
—but you know who I am now, don’t you, Miss Hargreave?”

I nodded slowly and mouthed a pitiful
“yes.”  How was it possible I’d been with this man on the night of the gala and he was one and the same as Mr. Everley, the person whose paintings I was supposed to inventory?  I was so mortified.

“A
nd if that wasn’t enough, now you’re here at my house.  My sanctuary.  What do you really want?  More money?  My name can’t be hauled through the mud any more than it already has been.  I’ll give you this, Miss Hargreave, or, Maria, or whatever the fuck you call yourself, you’re certainly industrious for someone so young.  Art conservationist
and
a private escort all in one tidy package.  I’m suitably impressed, and that’s saying something.  I sure wish I’d found you a long time ago.” He leered up and down my body, gesturing with his hands.  “I bet you make more as an escort though, you’re banging hot.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.  Was he insane?

Hell, he wasn’t the only one on the verge of insanity.  I was alone out in the middle of nowhere with this deranged man with no way to leave.  If he put his hands on me again I swear to God I was out the door, rainstorm or not.

“I am not an escort!”

He barked out a sarcastic laugh.  “Really?  You sure fooled me then.”

“Wait—you think I work
for an escort service?”  I suddenly remembered back to that night and him saying something about the “service” contacting me…right before he dragged me into a side room and proceeded to make me lose all of my good sense.  “You’re dead wrong, Mr. Everley, because I am most certainly
not
an escort, nor have I ever worked for any kind of escort service.  I’m an art student at U of L and I was at the National Gallery for the gala on behalf of the university that night.  I thought you wanted a VIP patron tour.”  God, was I even having this conversation?  Explaining to him how I wasn’t a prostitute?  I pressed my eyes shut.  Surely I was deep into some kind of alternate reality dream state.  Must be the lack of sleep.  That had to be the answer to all of this.

I opened my eyes and saw he was still st
anding there glaring, the long dark hair I remembered, falling forward to frame the harsh set of his stubbly jaw.

Nope.  Definitely n
ot a dream.

H
e didn’t believe me at all, I could tell that much.  Angry waves still emanated off his imposing form while I stood babbling about mistaken identity and praying I was indeed sleep-walking.

“That was one helluva tour, Miss Hargreave.  In fact, I’d say you’re a real pro at giving them.  But wait,
” he paused, pointing one long finger upward and tilting his head, “our tour was interrupted just when it started to get good for me.  Now that I reflect on it, I say you owe me the rest of your special…
tour
.  I did pay after all.  I should get value for my money, don’t you think?”

He lean
ed in very close and brought the same pointed finger to just under my chin where he tipped it toward his lips.  With just a few inches between us, I could feel the warmth of his body heat radiating between us, and see sparks blazing in his eyes.  The tension penetrated, and I knew he’d moved well past taunting sarcasm with me.  Mr. Everley was dead serious.

A
nd just as devastatingly handsome as I remembered, which annoyed me greatly.

“Despite your rather rude intrusion
into my private home, I find I’d still very much like to fuck you, Miss Hargreave.”

He was
also propositioning me for sex. 
He was propositioning me for sex?

I swallowed and felt myself go weak in the kn
ees, realizing I was in a potentially dangerous situation if he decided to force the issue.  I had to get the hell out of here.

“
Will I get the rest of my
tour
now?” he whispered darkly, with the conceited suggestion of an arrogant male who thought he might be getting lucky in a few.  “Shall we do up a porno for everybody as well?  Share it with the media?  Does it gain you a bigger fee, Maria?”

I yanked my chin back
from the press of his index finger.  “That’s not my name!  And let me enlighten you, Mr
. Ivanhoe
, about precisely what’s not going to be happening here with us tonight…or ever.”  I gestured my hand back and forth between us.  “No sex.”

His eyes widened
and his mouth turned up in a smirk.  “Not in the mood just yet after your ordeal?”  He lowered his tone seductively.  “I can help you get in the mood.  Maybe you’d like to see some of my paintings first if art really is something that interests you.”  His smirk turned into a wicked grin that was all about lewd acts and dirty deeds.  I could see exactly where he was going in his mind.

“
Oh my God, you’re so disgusting.  You hired a prostitute to have sex with you at the Mallerton Gala and you thought I was her?”  I shook my head slowly back and forth and touched my chest with my fist.  “So.  Not.  Her.”

He cocked an aristocratic eyebrow at me.  “You weren’t complaining when I had my fingers
buried in your cunt, or when you were coming all over my han—”

I slapped him
as hard as I could across the face.

ONE
thought filled my head and it was to get away from him.

I ran for the
massive carved door and yanked it open.  Streams of rain still poured in sheets from the portico.  There was nowhere for me to get away
to
.  No sanctuary for me to hide in.  It was storming outside and nearing midnight in the middle of nowhere.  I couldn’t even say where I was, let alone tell anyone to come for me.  I was as trapped here as if I was marooned on a desert island.