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“I’m so grateful you finally checked your pho—”
In the light.
Where he could
really see me.
And where 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 was 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 facing 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.
“And 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 standing there glaring, the long dark hair I remembered, falling forward to frame the harsh set of his stubbly jaw.
