The smile froze on my face, and for a split second, I wondered what it would be like for that
to be true.
“Abby?”
When I glanced back up, all three were just staring, waiting for me.
“Oh! Yeah...of course.” With a feeling of slight trepidation, I joined them on the sidewalk, slipping automatically under Nick’s arm as the camera flashed in front of our eyes.
The couple was literally overjoyed; in fact, I’d never seen anyone so grateful for a simple picture. They were so effusive that they caught the attention of other passersby. Before long, a bit of a crowd had gathered in front of the secret brownstone.
I took my cue from the master and stood for picture after picture, smiling as genuinely as I could for each fan and posing with endless patience as a stream of strangers spoke to me in some languages I didn’t even understand. Some of them screamed for me, tugging without restraint on my coat and hair.
By the time Nick and I were able to escape the entourage and make our way inside, the sky was darkening. Our plates of pancakes had gone cold and were forgotten on the stairs. We kissed swiftly, then waited for the crowd to dissipate before Nick went back out to hail a cab.
We were expected in the Hamptons the next morning, and that was not an appointment either of us could miss. His father would expect us right on time, and we both knew that if we were late for that very important date, he would have our heads quicker than the Queen of Hearts would have taken Alice’s.
Chapter 8
“It says here that the estate was built in the early 1800s by a guy who later helped with the renovations on The Louvre. It’s one of only three private residences in the entire world to which he lent his talents, and it is listed as the most coveted location in the eastern seaboard.” I pushed my sunglasses up into my hair and gazed down at the brochure in my hand. A black and white sketch on the front, in that art nouveau style, made it impossible to tell what the thing really looked like. “It also says it’s been featured in numerous films, even served as the wedding location for a princess of Spain. Did you know all of that?”
Nick leaned back against the leather seat of the Town Car and shut his eyes. “Yeah, Abby. I was there.”
The paper rustled in my hands as I gleefully ignored him, turning page after page. “A pair of tennis courts, Olympic-sized pool, drawing room directly beneath his and hers helicopter pads...and a labyrinth-type garden to rival that of Versailles.” With that, the brochure came down, and I swatted my dozing boyfriend across the knees. “Nick, why the hell have I never been here before?”
He looked up, then glanced blearily out the window, his bright blue eyes failing to show any interest. “You’ve never been here because I try not to come here.”
It was a simple answer, but it led to a million more questions.
“You try not to come here?” I repeated, scooting closer to him. “Why? If it’s about your dad, I know for a fact that he’s hardly ever here. He lives in the city full time, just like you do. Plus, even if the two of you happened to be here at the same time, the place is huge. Chances are that you’d never even run into each other.”
Nick’s lips twitched up in a faint smile, but a sadness lingered in his eyes. His gaze hovered there for a moment, staring almost wistfully into my own, before he tapped me lightly beneath the chin. “You should put on your jacket. We’re almost here.”
I glanced around quickly and gathered up my stylish trench coat in my arms.
We had woken up early, around six a.m.; rather, we were woken up early as a horde of Mitchell Hunter’s minions laid siege to the brownstone. I would never forget the look on Nick’s face as he wandered down the stairs in nothing but a pair of black boxer-briefs to answer the door.
The horrified shock of his top-secret lair having been so publically discovered was followed almost immediately by grim resignation as he realized he’d have to procure a new secret New York hideaway. His alias, Eric Silverton, was also a no-go. However, like the proverbial phoenix, it would only be a matter of time before someone new took Eric’s place.
I listened intently, huddled on the stairs in a bathrobe, as everyone greeted him with a frantic barrage of introductions, all speaking at the same time with the same look of wide-eyed reverence, before pushing past him into the house.
“Hey!” he called after them, still gripping the door tentatively and not hiding his annoyance with the intrusion. “Who the hell are you people anyway?”
A man near the front stepped forward. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Hunter. Your father said you would be expecting us. My name is Pierre Lacont, and my team was sent to make sure you and your wife arrive in the Hamptons, safe, prepared, and on time.”
Since I knew no one could see me on the stairs, I ventured a roll of the eyes. Of course, Mitchell wouldn’t trust us to pack a suitcase and call a cab. He has to micromanage everything himself.
A muscle clenched in the back of Nick’s jaw as his hand tightened on the door, but other than that, he kept his face clear of all emotion, save a chilling smile. “My father sent you to help me pack a bag?”
Pierre’s own smile faltered for a moment, until he spied me on the stairs. Like a man grasping for a life-raft, he threw open his arms. “Mrs. Hunter!” he said, in warm exclamation, obviously hoping I would be the sweet to temper my husband’s sour. “It’s so wonderful to meet you! Your father-in-law sent us to escort you to the Hamptons manor. We are at your service, milady.”
I didn’t know what part was stranger, the “Mrs. Hunter” or the reference to “your father-in-law,” speaking of Mitchell Hunter. My eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, and I locked eyes with Nick as he pursed his lips with the hint of a genuine smile and helplessly shrugged his shoulder.
Sensing that mere words would have little effect so early in the morning, Pierre was quick to bring out the big guns. With a sharp snap of his fingers, four women burst into the room, each wheeling a rack of gorgeous designer clothes.
My face perked up as I ventured a step or two lower. “All these are...for me?”
Pierre’s eyes glowed like a viper’s with a mouse in a corner; he knew he had me. When it came to getting a New York woman out of bed, he knew some things worked even better than caffeine, and a new wardrobe was one of them.