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Reagan’s back straightened as she reflectively snaked her arm around Libby’s waist. His dark eyes shot down to her hand resting on Libby’s hip. Instead of backing o , he smirked, a gesture that only served to raise Reagan’s body temperature another degree.
“I don’t think I’m a sports car kind of person,” Libby replied graciously after a beat.
The Pompous Penguin rocked on his heels as he jammed a hand in his pocket. “Nonsense. This is everyone’s kind of car. I have suicide doors on mine. Means I have to take up two spots when I park it so I have enough room to get out, but it’s worth it.”
Reagan cocked her head to one side. “So you modified the car to be so impractical that everyone else has to sacrifice space for you?”
Libby sti ened against her, but Reagan couldn’t stop glaring at a shining example of everything wrong with the world.
The Penguin laughed before popping his cigar back in his mouth. “You gotta take the space for yourself before someone else does.”
“Imagine where we’d be if everyone were that selfish,”
Reagan replied with a tight jaw and what she hoped was a
taunting smile.
Before he could reply, Libby linked her arm in Reagan’s and started to turn them away. “Good luck on your bids,”
she said as she muscled her toward the exit.
They didn’t get more than a few feet away before The Penguin was harassing someone else about the car.
“What a dick.” Reagan decided when they were out of ear shot.
“Yep,” Libby agreed with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t mind if PETA doused him with red paint. So, do you want to try your hand at roulette? Blackjack? Maybe a little Texas hold ‘em?”
Eager to take a break from the confines of the foreign environment, Reagan came up with a better idea. “I want to check something else out. Are you feeling dangerous?”
Libby scanned her face before her painted lips curled at the end. “What do you have in mind?”
Remembering her childhood visit to the historic property, Reagan led them out of the deafening activity on the terrace and behind the red velvet ropes. Beyond the Do Not Enter sign, they slipped into the house turned museum, the aroma of flowers from the huge, fresh bouquets littering the grand hall greeting them as they wandered towards their destination. Nothing but the sound of their shoes clicking against marble followed them as they snuck through the ostentatiously decorated rooms.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Libby whispered when they ended up in a music room fit for Henry the Eighth.
“Trust me,” she whispered before taking them down a di erent, dark hallway. A few minutes, and a few more wrong turns later, they’d reached the promised land.
“Wow,” Libby gasped as she glanced around the grotto.
The pool was partially covered by a plaster and stone alcove cut into the side of the house. The still water shone pale blue
like the faded ocean mural painted on the domed ceiling.
“Can you imagine swimming in here?”
Reagan pulled the pu pastries from her pocket and handed Libby the stu ed napkin as she stared at a Cupid sculpture. “Eat something.”
Libby turned away from the sculpture and stared at the o ering in her hand. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of water lapping gently against the pool’s stone walls, the scent of salt from the bay in the air, and Libby’s wide, unreadable eyes.
“What?” Reagan asked when the tension mounted more quickly than she could metabolize. “I avoided all fish-based pastries.”
“You snuck me food in your pocket?” she asked, swaying on her feet gently like the breeze filling the grotto.
Reagan couldn’t tell if she was touched or grossed out.
Maybe a bit of both. “You were taking that champagne down pretty quickly without eating. I figured you might need a little something so you didn’t crash.”
Taking tentative steps forward, Libby closed the gap between them. Instead of making any moves to take the food, she tilted her chin up just a little. The gesture drew Reagan’s attention to Libby’s full lips and sent her heart racing.
