When she turned back to us, Victoria again appeared calm, ice-like. Triumphant.
“You know,” she started, “my dear friend Bernard used to say that human beings had a special capacity to go after that which they admired the most. A compulsion that we must give in to.” Her eyes glittered. “We crave to own things that are beautiful. Things that no one else can have.”
Henry’s nostrils flared at the mention of Bernard.
“Henry and I certainly agree,” I jumped in. I smoothed my palm down his back—an attempt to focus his attention.
She smiled at that. “There are levels in this world. You understand.”
“Of course,” I said. “Alistair seems like a wonderful…contact.” I chose that word carefully.
“He is.” She glanced around the room, waved like the queen at a few other patrons. It was a strange sensation, being the center of Victoria’s persistent scrutiny. Because she was the center of everyone else’s.
“Private collecting,” she said, turning toward Henry. “When did you begin, Mr. Thornhill?”
I needed Henry to play the game with her. He adjusted his glasses, glanced around the room like Victoria had done. He appeared to be verifying that no one could hear us.
“Like Bernard,” he began slowly, “I have a very special occupation. With a very special access. It seemed only natural to begin our own collection. There are so many different ways one can come into a rare manuscript. If you’re smart, you can find them.”
“I’m incredibly smart.” She tilted her chin.
“I can see that,” Henry agreed. He leaned in as if sharing a joke. “I once read an article about you in the newspaper. Your collection contains many scientific works. Any reason why?”
“I’m always being called for interviews, you can’t even imagine,” she said, looking pained. I painted my face with mock sympathy. “My mother had a mind for science and math, which was interesting since my father was the oil man. But it was her finance skills that grew his money so rapidly. Her head was filled with figures.”
I felt a bizarre twisting in my gut at the mention of Victoria’s mother.
“I never took to it myself, but it felt right to honor her memory with scientific texts. The ideas of our greatest thinkers are housed right in my mansion.” She preened, looking positively delighted. “It’s a source of power, I’m sure you know. To own something others want. To own the theories that have shaped our very understanding of the universe.”
I watched my fake husband. His thumb swept across the nape of my neck. “The more you seek that kind of power, the more you desire it.” Another drag of his thumb, setting off nerve endings I never knew existed. “I’m certainly the kind of man who has the kind of capacity Bernard referred to. I crave things that are beautiful.”
His thumb left my neck. Replaced by his entire hand, spreading between my shoulder blades. I arched into it a little—shamelessly wanting his hand to caress every inch of my back.
But he didn’t.
“It’s why I love to visit the falls,” she said.
Henry didn’t respond, but he did raise his glass toward hers with a wink. It was a charming move, and she tipped her head flirtatiously.
“The Philadelphia Natural History Museum is hosting their annual gala a week from today. Come be guests at my table. I have two empty seats with your names on them.”
“We’d love to,” I said, even as my heart dropped. The clock was ticking on the Copernicus, and seven days away felt like forever. I could already see Abe’s disappointed face. “Unless you’d like us to visit your collection sometime this week? We’re free tomorrow.”
It was a desperate toss out. And Victoria knew it immediately.
“I don’t just invite anyone to see my collection, Delilah.” Her tone was sharp.
“Oh, I know, I thought…Henry might be able to look at…” I turned to him, eyes pleading. “I thought you wanted him to view it. And we’re available this entire week. Pardon my eagerness.”
Her face didn’t appear to pardon anything.
“There are levels in this world,” she repeated. “Levels you will care to respect.”
“Of course.” I stepped back, hand on my chest. “Of course, I’m so sorry.”
“My wife knows that viewing your private collection is a professional dream I’ve had for a number of years,” Henry said smoothly. His hand between my shoulder blades traced down my spine. “We apologize for the inference. It was pure excitement. And love for me on her part.” His lips grazed the top of my hair down to my temple in a soft, impossibly tender kiss.
Victoria thawed the tiniest of amounts. But still—her body language remained guarded as Sven appeared like clockwork to mutter something in her ear. “I must leave you two now. My assistant will call you.”
She left us without her usual effusive goodbye.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
I needed to punch the shit out of something.
16
Henry
Delilah struck the punching bag with a sharp slap.
“That’s my girl,” Freya cheered. She was behind the bag, holding it steady as Delilah attacked it with a fierce precision. “Float like a butterfly, am I right?”
Slap slap. Delilah was nimble grace on her feet, bouncing lightly, fists at her face. “Don’t move. I don’t want to accidentally punch you, Frey.”
She shrugged and winced as Delilah hit the bag with a vicious whack. “I can take it. Last time you and I sparred, I think I won.”
“Bullshit,” Delilah teased.
“Last time I believe I won,” Abe said. He was leaning against his desk with his legs crossed in front of him. The fireplace was lit, and Freya’s table was a mess of papers, highlighters, computer screens blinking rapidly. “Our new hire doesn’t know self-defense. At least, I’m assuming. Is that correct, Henry?”
Every head swiveled my way. Delilah and I had left the auction, and as soon as we arrived, she’d stripped off her dress and returned in a sports bra and yoga pants. And proceeded to spar with the bag like it had committed a personal offense against her.
“Um…no,” I said. “Not really a reason to engage in self-defense while earning your PhD in Library Science.”
“You should teach him,” Abe said to Delilah. We locked eyes. Delilah was panting lightly, sweat misting on the muscles of her lean abdomen. Her eyeliner was smudged, but her lips were still blood red.
I had a fleeting vision of her kicking me to the ground, foot landing on my chest. The way she’d smirk down at me, as if she knew the domination was the kind of punishment I’d beg for.
Twice now I’d told her she was beautiful—and both times it was the goddamn truth. Not an element of our fake fairytale, but bone-deep honesty. Maybe having Delilah Barrett force me to my knees in submission wasn’t a smart idea. Part of me wanted to take it—let her use my body however she saw fit.
Part of me wanted to make her beg.
Which meant all of this was a bad idea.
“This is a great idea, actually,” Abe continued.