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I haul her away from the desk toward a sprawling staircase upholstered in crimson carpeting.
Erica twists around, bound by my arm, and waves at Mrs. Wilkins. Then she elbows me in the side, muttering out the corner of my mouth, "Why'd you let her think we're married?"
"It made her happy. She adores newlyweds." I experienced another of my too-frequent needs to make Erica smile and spoke the last two words in a silly imitation of Mrs. Wilkins's voice. Erica would have known the woman loves newlyweds if she hadn't been lost in her own anxieties while our host was talking to us. "Where's the harm in letting her believe it?"
Erica's mouth twists down at one corner, and she averts her gaze to the floor.
A moment later, I usher her to our room on the second floor, which has balcony access and picture windows that grant us views of both the tree-shrouded drive in front and the lush gardens behind the mansion. We stand outside the closed door to our room, but I'd seen pictures of this place on the establishment's website. I had requested this room specifically, because it has the best view.
I unlock the door and crack it open a few inches.
Then a strange impulse overtakes me. I pick Erica up and kick the door inward to carry her over the threshold. I kick the door shut behind us.
Erica seems mildly startled, but she looks bonnie that way.
I set her down on her feet beside the bed. Our bags already await us, tucked in between the dresser and the wall, across from the four-poster bed. Mr. Wilkins, the husband of Mrs. Wilkins, had brought our luggage up here while I got us signed in at the desk.
Erica shuffles toward her wheeled suitcase, glancing out the windows.
Ivy surrounds the panes while flowering trees and bushes add color to the landscape. The bed-and-breakfast boasts a magnificent garden with tables for outdoor dining. Maybe I shouldn't have chosen such a romantic place for us to spend a few nights, but I'd hoped the beauty of this mansion and its garden would lift her spirits.
Hooking an arm around her waist, I turn her toward me and pull her body snug against mine. "Like the surprise?"
"I love it." Linking her hands behind my neck, she rests her cheek on my chest. "I wish we could stay here forever, on a never-ending honeymoon."
Her statement makes me flinch, and my entire body goes rigid. Honeymoon? She'd been annoyed when I let Mrs. Wilkins believe we're married. Now she wants a honeymoon with me? I've made a mistake bringing her here. It's too romantic. I've given her the wrong idea about my intentions.
Erica jerks her head up and clamps her lips between her teeth. She also seems to stop blinking. Then she clears her throat and laughs nervously. "I meant a fake honeymoon. You know, like Mrs. Wilkins thinks we're doing now."
Like hell that's what she meant.
I let my arms fall to my sides, suddenly ill at ease with this conversation. Are my hands trembling? No, that would be daft. But I do feel cold inside, as if I've swallowed a bucketful of ice cubes. My gaze converges with hers, and for a few seconds, I wonder if she can read my mind and hear all my idiotic thoughts. Does she know how conflicted I am? I didn't until right now.
The green flecks in her hazel irises seem to shimmer as if they're lit from within, and I can't rip my focus away from her. A hint of tears glimmers in her eyes.
I veer my gaze away and scrub my hands over my face. "You know I'm leaving in a matter of days."
A sigh deflates her shoulders, and the movement seems to drag her spirit down too. "What's your point?"
"You said…" I start pacing the width of the room, between the door and the opposite wall, afflicted with a sudden need to stay in motion. "Have I given you reason to think I won't go?"
"No." Her voice turns sharper, almost acidic. "Don't worry, I won't chase you to the airport and throw myself at your feet, begging you to stay. I can find another sex partner at Dance Ardor."
The place where she'd wanted a one-night stand with a random stranger?
I reel around, seizing her arms. "Donnae ever go back to that club again!"
She punches my chest. "Let go of me, you—you—Homo heidelbergensis."
I gape at her, dumbfounded. "What did you call me?"
"Homo heidelbergensis." She wrests free of my grasp. "It's an ancient species of prehuman hominid. I was going to call you a Neanderthal, but then I remembered they didn't live in the UK, butheidelbergensisdid."
I can't help it. My closed lips stretch taut, one corner curving up. "A timekeeper, an accountant, and an anthropologist. My, you are a Renaissance woman."
She scowls and stuffs her hands into her jeans pockets. "I read a lot."
"Sorry." I reach out to touch her cheek, but pull my hand away. "I shouldn't have shouted at you. But I can't stand the thought of you going back to that…den of iniquity. Men would take advantage of you."
