I headed for the door, still unsure of how I was going 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 gentleman 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.
The 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 sh
ameful 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.
I waved goodbye to him, grateful for his sympathetic help and wishing there was some way for me to repay the kindness he’d shown me—a hot mess of a stranger with major emotional problems who’d upset his boss and dragged him from his warm bed at midnight. He probably wouldn’t forget me for a long time. I knew I’d remember him and his Cosmo Topper smoking jacket.
I pondered the disparities in people as I turned onto the highway, relief in the knowledge the airport was less than an hour away, and in a few more hours after that, I’d be back home in my warm bed with fuzzy socks on my feet.
I felt as if I could sleep for a year right now. Just so exhausted.
Visions of chicken noodle soup with buttered toast danced in my head. Food would be the first thing I tackled when I got home. I shivered from the chill invading my body and focused my attentions back on the road. I could do this. Every mile was bringing me closer to my goal.
I realized some people, like Mr. Finnegan, were just inherently good.
And others, like Lord Condemnation? Certifiable asshole fit him like a leather glove.
Yin and yang.
SIX
“WHAT do you mean she’s gone?”
“Some three hours now, I’d say.” Finnegan turned his back on me and returned to his task of preparing what looked like a roast of some sort.
“How in the hell was she able to leave?”
“I obliged her request that I return her to her rented car. Don’t worry, I made sure she arrived safely to the main road and sent her off with directions for Belfast City Airport.” He checked his watch absently. “She’s probably back to London by now, or close to it.”
“Why did you do that, Finnegan? I expected to speak with her this morning about the job.” This was certainly an epic cock-up. None of it made any sense. If she came here to find me at home, then why would she leave again so quickly? I didn’t think my suggestion last night was that far out of bounds, considering her line of work. The art student part surprised me, true, but maybe scholarly didn’t pay enough to suit her tastes. She was a woman who wore silk and lace with ease. Just as she did casual covered in muck.
Once I’d gotten over my initial shock, and cooled down a bit, I’d realized I wanted to keep Maria, or Miss Hargreave, or whatever her name was, around for a while. I wanted to have those green eyes sparking up at me and see her breathing heavily as I crowded her body with mine. I wanted to feel the moment when she decided to submit.
We’d been to that point before, you see, and I was determined to get us there again. I’d realized I’d offended her with my comment about making her come, as soon as I’d said it. She’d smacked me a good one and let me know her limits. I respected that and fully intended to repair my error. Some submissives didn’t like things so bluntly put, and I was willing to work out an arrangement that would be completely agreeable to both of us. Or so I had thought. I couldn’t deny the more I entertained the idea of her and me having a little something on the side, the more I liked the prospect of getting my artwork catalogued. It might just become my new favorite pastime.