She just needed to keep telling herself that.
Grace parked her car, relieved to see that Robert had read her mind and ordered in food. There was already a red delivery truck on the street, out of place among all the luxury leases. Calling for pizza was unexpectedly thoughtful. She’d half-expected him to go to the restaurant by himself, ratherthan break his precious routine.
“Please donea be telling me you livehere.” Couldn’t-be-Jamie took in the rows of cookie-cutter homes and made a face. “Slapped together and hellaciously ugly. This part of town hurts my eyes. I expected better of you, lass.”
Because that waswaytoo close to what she’d been thinking, Grace shot him a deadly glare. There was nothing worse than agreeing with a jackass. She slammed the car door and started up the curved walkway.
He arched a brow, seeing her annoyance. Like a misbehaving twelve year old, the negative attention just encouraged him. “Oh, sonowyou’repissed.” He hurried after her, his boots not making any sound on the pavement. “Why? Because I’ve pointed out what anyone with working eyeballs already kens? This house is a featureless monstrosity, like everything else built in the last forty years. It should be a crime to fill up beautiful farmland with such dwellings.”
James Riordan --serial killer and pirate-- would know all about crimes.
“You may have been sent to help me, but perhaps I’m also supposed to helpyou.” He persisted. “So far, your life is smashingly dull, Grace. Surely someone’s needing to fix that for you or you’ll end up dying in this tomb of beige.” He gestured to the house with a disdainful flick of his wrist.
Speaking of dying, if he wasn’t already dead and buried, she’d be thinking up ways to kill him.
“How could such a lovely woman surround herself with such a morass of mass-produced…?” He paused his sermon, his eyes falling on the mailbox where “Robert Johnson” was stenciled in an elegant, curving font. “Wait, is this not your home?” He glanced back at her, his stunning face outraged. “Oh bloody hell! Are you here to visit aman?”
Grace inhaled a cleansing breath. Stay calm. No negativity could find her in the peaceful green cornfields of her center.
Not that it wasn’t trying.
Captain Wouldn’t-Shut-Up continued with his rant. “This man shouldnotbe a part of your life. Not any longer. Forwhatever reason, you and I have been brought together. You should be focusing onme.”
Her eyes rolled so hard she nearly blinded herself.
“I’m only trying to look out for you, lass.” He tried, switching tactics when she didn’t respond to his illogical possessiveness. He made a show of checking her hand for signs of a ring. “It’s unseemly for an unmarried lady to call on a man at this hour of the night.” He arched a pious brow. “You’ll be giving people the wrong impression.”
Grace squeezed her eyes shut. Peaceful. Green. Cornfields.
“If a man is courting you, he should be calling uponyourresidence,” lectured the moral authority who knew the exact location of the town’s former brothel. “In fact, given your injury, agentlemanwould’ve come to collect you in his car and driven you safely home. He should be there to assist you through this crisis.” He gave a derisive sniff. “I was never a gentleman myself, but I know the breed.”
Grace couldn’t even imagine Robert coming to “assist her through a crisis.”
Maybe her bewilderment showed, because the delusion smirked knowingly. “Of course, ya didn’tcallhim for assistance, did you? That says much about your relationship.” He watched her, blue eyes seeing far too much. “Do you have no faith in this man? No expectation that he will be of service? Not even a hope that he’ll offer you some feeling of safety?” He arched a brow. “Deep down, do you know he’snota gentleman?”
Peaceful.
Green.
Cornfields.
Grace was stayingsofrigging calm and envisioningsomany cornfields that she didn’t even bother to knock on the door. She just slammed into the house and headed for the living room. Robert had a bar set up and, possible concussion or not, she seriously needed a drink.
“Holy Mary, the inside is even worse than the out.”The man who wasn’t, wasn’t,wasn’tJaimie Riordan came in behind her and looked around with a disapproving tsk. “Anyone who lives here must be an absolute wanker.” Everything in the McMansion had been picked by a decorator to be unobjectionable, but he was apparently not a fan of matching shades of taupe.
How unsurprising.
Braveheart 2.0 was the least subtle man she could imagine. Eighteenth century garb was known for its outrageous use of color. Gentlemen of fashion never wore suits that matched and Not!Jamie was clearly a fashionable guy. Dressed in a vivid yellow waistcoat and a contrasting blue jacket, with shiny gold buttons, no one in the modern world would ever call his outfit “tasteful.”
So why did he look ten times better in the gaudy mix of patterns than Robert ever did in his tailored business suits?
“You should have seenmyhome, lass. Your beauty would’ve glowed in such surroundings.”
Grace sent him a surprised look. Was he flirting with her?
He gave her a quick grin, which made her insides dip. Darn it, how was his smile so white, if he was from the 1700s? Didn’t everybody have rotten teeth back then? Her subconscious was totally cheating. “Aye, a bonny lass like you would have liked my ship. The boldest shades. The most fashionable furnishings. The best fabrics.”
Oh, she had no doubt that he’d built a veritable palace out of his stolen treasures. His personal style was clearly the Playboy Mansion meets Versailles, with a little bit of Elvis-era Vegas tossed in. Grace snorted, already picturing the circular beds and strategically placed mirrors.
