Priceless (8 page)

I shut the door
against the elements and turned back around to see him standing there with his arms folded, a wide stance, and all traces of cockiness now absent from the face I’d just slapped.  In its place was a cold calmness that left me with absolutely no idea of what he was going to do.  Order me to leave?  Send me back out into that storming hell?  Ravish me anyway?

He spoke low and
precisely, his meaning very clear, and brooking absolutely no argument.

“It appears y
ou’re staying here in this house whether you want it or not.”

A sob escaped from my throat unwillingly.

“No need to worry, Miss Hargreave, you won’t be bothered again tonight.”

And then he jus
t left me there and walked away.  I heard his footsteps retreating, and watched him disappear as he moved off into another part of his house. The darkness swallowed him up…until I was alone in an unfamiliar old stone mansion with a storm raging outside its walls.

Rocky Horror Picture Show
, anyone?

Eventually the sound o
f his steps faded until all I could hear was the pounding rain hitting the windows and the eerie brush of leaves scraping against the stone walls and glass windows from the wind whipping the trees around.

I wanted to be brave. 
I tried so hard not to cry, but I couldn’t stop those bastard tears from leaking out.  It was all just too much.  Everything.  The ordeal of getting lost would have been enough, but the revelation of meeting
him
again sent me right over the edge.  How was it even possible?  I took little comfort in the fact that his crude and obnoxious behavior cancelled out my shame and embarrassment, and then some.  A prostitute?  Really!? 

I glanced around at
my surroundings and drew in a deep shaky breath, hugging my arms tightly for strength.  I could get through this one night, I told myself.  I had shelter from the storm, and dry clothes in my suitcase.  I had my phone and my wallet.  And in the morning, I would figure out a way to get back to my rental car and down to the airport at Belfast.

I was going to be just fine.
 

The
re was some relief at knowing my immediate safety was secure—but it also gave me an excuse to indulge in a little self-pity. 

I sat down on the
old wooden bench in Mr. Everley’s mudroom and wept like a baby.

THE
sound of a throat clearing roused me from my desperation and told me I was no longer alone.  I raised my eyes to see an older gentleman standing in the doorway of the mudroom.  His hair was graying over what must have been red when he was younger, and he was wearing what looked to me like a 1950’s smoking jacket that went all the way to the floor.  Soft leather loafers peeped out from the burgundy silk edging and a patterned neck cloth tucked in around his throat.  Quite the picture of distinguished country elegance.

From 1951
.

It was
also very clear he’d just been roused out of his bed, too.  Was it possible for me to have caused any more disruption to this household than I had in the short time I’d been here?  I didn’t think so.

He looked me over, probably disgusted by my bedraggled state.  Was this one of Mr. Everley’
s servants sent down to
deal
with me?  I lifted my chin and tried to pretend he hadn’t just caught me bawling my eyes out.  What a joke that was.  I slashed at the tears rolling down my face, and stood up quickly, trying to face up to whatever was in store for me.

His face gentled and he reached for my suitcase. 
“My name is Finnegan.  May I show you to your room, Miss Hargreave, is it?”  His voice had a definite Irish lilt, but refined, and strangely…kind.

“Y-yes…I g-g-guess so,”
I managed to answer. “It’s j-just for the n-night.  I’m leaving in the m-m-morning.”  It was nearly impossible for me to speak from the involuntary sobs that still had hold of me.  I hoped I wasn’t frightening the poor man to an early death.

“Follow me, my dear.  You look like you could use some warming up…and drying off.”

Thank God he took charge because I was very near the end of my rope.  I followed Mr. Finnegan with the burgundy smoking jacket down a hallway and up an impressive staircase, past enormous paintings and sculptures I refused to even try to make out in the dim lighting because I would never see them again after this night.

I know myself pretty well.

I just couldn’t take in any more.  Something dry to put on, a bed, and maybe a couple Nurofen if I was really lucky, and the sum total of my requirements would be mercifully fulfilled.

“This is the room we
had arranged for your stay with us, Miss Hargreave.  It is a suite with a sitting room just off there.”  He pointed to an open doorway lit by lamplight.  “You’ll also find things for making tea or coffee if you’d like a hot drink before you retire.”

I looked around at the beautiful rooms set up for me to live in while I worked on assessing Mr. Everley’s art collection, and at Mr. Finnegan regarding me so kindly as he explained the basics…and
felt tears leaking down my face again.

I vaguely registered
a conversation with him about helping me to get back to my rental car tomorrow so I could leave, amid more pathetic tears.  He took it all in his stride and patted my hand awkwardly before he left me alone, saying something about breakfast in the morning, and that things would look better to me after a restful sleep.  He probably thought I was an escapee from a mental ward, poor man.

Maybe things wo
uld feel better in the morning.  Or maybe they wouldn’t.

They probably wouldn’
t, I decided.

And by
this point I didn’t even care.

I didn’t ponder Mr. Finnegan’s prediction
s, either.  I couldn’t.  I wasn’t able to do anything more than strip out of my damp and filthy clothes, don some warm pajamas, and gulp down a couple of painkillers with water directly from the bathroom sink.

THINGS
did feel different for me the next morning, but not necessarily better.  I had a headache the size of Greenland for one thing, and my throat felt scratchy and irritated.

W
hen I opened my eyes to realize exactly where I was, I jumped out of the luxurious Irish linens dressing my bed and wandered into the adjoining sitting room.  I went straight to the tea cart Mr. Finnegan had mentioned last night, hoping a hot cup might help soothe my burning throat.  I made a mug of my favorite Titanic Blend and poured in a couple of milk pods.

The first sip was heavenly, but
it was much too hot to gulp so I took it with me into the bathroom.  All I could think about was getting out of this place and to the Belfast airport.

I didn’t waste time.

I threw on some clean jeans and a long-sleeved brown shirt that felt soft and comfortable against my sensitive skin.  In reality, my body ached all over.  I left the muddy stuff from last night where it lay on the floor with little concern.  They could throw it all away, I didn’t care.  Dirty clothes were not my problem right now, getting home was.  That and the thought I might be coming down with some kind of vile flu.  I was so lost right now, and it wasn’t just in the physical sense.

I felt
utterly exhausted and weak.  The energy expended in self-loathing and embarrassment had taken its toll on me.  I downed two more Nurofen to help with the massive pounding going on in my skull combined with the body aches, and gathered up my bag.

What if I had to face Mr. Everley in person again?  I couldn’t.  I just didn’t have the
strength to deal with that man at the moment.

Or
any moment.  Ever.

M
inutes later I was praying to this fact as I made my way down the grand staircase with my suitcase.  I gave it my best Spiderman-stealth-walk and made for the mudroom where everything had gone down last night.

I needed my jacket and remembered he’d hung it up for me dripping wet after our mad dash
from the garage through the rain.

Yeah, just before he realized exactly who he’d brought into his home.

He thinks you’re a prostitute trying to blackmail him.

A wave of hysteria threatened to overturn me once m
ore and I suddenly felt too overcome to fight it.  Just shrugging into my jacket was proving to be a major effort.  Thank God it had dried in the night.

I headed for the door, still unsure of how I was go
ing to make it back to my car.  The drive up last night from where I’d left it had to have been a couple of miles at least—

“Good morning, Miss Hargreave
.”

I spun around to find Mr.
Finnegan regarding me solemnly, sans smoking jacket.  He was dressed in the typical country gentleman uniform of corduroy and tweed.

“You’re up very early,”
he said gently, eyeballing my suitcase.  “Will you have some breakfast?”  He gestured his hand toward a lighted hallway.

“
No, thank you,” I said in a pathetically feeble voice.  Mr. Finnegan must think I was the biggest freak in the world.  “I have to l-leave.”

“Are you certain, my dear?  I have some fresh scones just out of the oven.  A mug of tea?
  You must be starved by now.”

His kindness broke me.

Why couldn’t Mr. Finnegan have been the owner of this place and the plethora of artwork I was supposed to inventory?  I’d made an express effort to avoid looking at any of the paintings on the walls as I’d come down the stairs.  And there had been a shit ton of them to my great dismay.  I didn’t want to be distracted or waylaid on my course of fleeing, but still, it was really disappointing.

I shook my head and knew I’d started crying again.  Between my blubbering
, the frustration in realizing I’d never get to see any of the art, feeling like crap, and the injustice of having to beg, I managed to ask my question as I stood there silently weeping. “Mr. Finnegan, will you h-help me get back to my rental car?  P-please?  I just have to…get away from here—and then I’ll be gone—and…Mr. Everley won’t ever have to see me again.”

I can say he was a gent
leman about my emotional outburst.  And he didn’t try to pry my reasons for going out of me.  It looked like he might have rolled his eyes just a bit when I mentioned his employer’s name, though.  Whether he did or not, Mr. Finnegan calmly led me down to the garage and helped me into the same Range Rover I’d ridden in last night.

Th
e day was rain-free so far, and I hoped it would stay that way until my ass was planted in a seat at thirty thousand feet bound for London Heathrow.

He drove me right to my Volkswagen rental, which hadn’t been swept over a cliff in
the night, thank God, as if he’d known precisely where it would be parked.

Maybe Mr. Everley had told him all about me
, and he already knew about our shameful meeting at the gala, too.  At this point, with freedom in my sights, I didn’t even care.

Mr. Finnegan
did insist upon leading me out to the main road, and pointed me in the direction of Belfast, with clear instructions on how to find my way.