“I see.” His eyes blazed with hunger. “Seems we’ve both come prepared.”
The limo came to—what felt like—a screeching halt. I turned my head toward the window—and my jaw dropped at the sight of Victoria Whitney’s mansion rearing up in front of me. It appeared somehow larger and more grandiose than the last time we’d seen it.
“We’re here,” I said, dazed from the scrape of Henry’s voice. Dazed at the evening we were about to have.
He looked like a sleepwalker just coming to. I swung the door open, sinking my stilettos into the wet, manicured grass.
My knees were trembling.
Henry appeared behind me, palm at my low back.
“I’m sorry,” he started to say at my ear. “I got a little—”
“I’m not the least bit sorry,” I said.
So much yearning filled his expression I had to turn away before I leapt into his arms and suggested we drive off into the sunset together. But we were on the job now.
Focus. Stay safe.
“I brought you something.”
That yearning was back—this time in Henry’s voice. And when I turned around, he was holding a whimsical-looking corsage of pale pink roses.
“Oh,” I said, momentarily startled.
“You’d said you never went to prom and I thought you would like this. Even though this isn’t prom and we have a very serious job to do.” Indecision flashed across his face—and I knew, intimately, what he must have been feeling.
“I love it,” I said. “It’s perfect.”
The slow smile that spread across his face was charming as hell. And it was just for me.
“Can I see your wrist?”
I held it out dutifully, aware of couples around us starting to descend from their limousines, dressed in their finery. This appeared perfectly appropriate—we were two newlyweds, enjoying an evening together, adorned with pink flowers. He clasped my hand gently, turning it over. Slipped the flowers over my fingers, down to my wrist. His thumb caressed circles at my pulse point, and my fingers responded, trapping his forearm. Holding him to me. We stared at each other, content to breathe in this moment.
“There,” he said. “You look even more exquisite now.”
I took hold of Henry’s lapels and pressed my lips to his cheek again—right out in the open, for all to see. Inhaled the smell of his skin for one decadent second before stepping back and letting go. Because we didn’t have many of these moments left.
Dorran knocked on the passenger side window, trying to get our attention.
Any more moments of sheer honesty between Henry and me would have to wait.
Victoria’s Tudor mansion glowed brightly in front of us, lit up with guests and laughter. Couples were stepping out of similar limousines, dressed to the absolute nines. Notes of classical music floated toward us on the breeze.
I ducked my head down to Dorran in the driver’s seat. “Thank you,” I said. “You know where to wait for us?”
“I do,” he said. “Just call. I’ll be ready at any moment.” I nodded at him as he drove off.
Lifting his elbow, Henry said, “Are you ready, wife?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, husband.”
We both smiled at that—a recognition, a stirring, an acceptance of the job in front of us. The house rose up like a wave of red bricks. And silhouetted in the grandiose doorway was Victoria, dressed in a tapered gold gown, greeting guests like a resplendent bride at her wedding.
Although a myriad of sharply dressed couples vied for her attention, she only had eyes for us.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill,” she exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting for you to arrive. You both look ravishing.”
Sven flanked her, staring down each guest with a snarl. I ignored him like he was a misbehaving dog.
“Not as ravishing as you, Victoria,” Henry said smoothly. “What an honor to be here in your magnificent home.”
“I do hope you enjoy the inside,” she crooned, aware of the many eyes on her. “Once I’ve finished greeting everyone, I must snag the both of you right away. I have something to show you that will knock your socks off.”
It could truly be anything: a favorite painting, an old book, an interesting architectural detail.
But my breath caught at the possibility—and Victoria heard it. She squeezed my hand brightly.
“I love your enthusiasm, Delilah.”
“I’m so looking forward to what you’re going to show us,” I said—and didn’t even have to fake the sincerity of that statement.
“Good. Go get yourself a drink before I find you.” The doors behind her opened into the great room—a fire roared in the fireplace, over which antique swords were displayed. A black bear rug dominated the space, mouth open and teeth snarling.
“It’s no Reichenbach Falls,” she said quietly—so quietly I thought I’d imagined it. “But I believe you’ll still be enthralled. Welcome to the most magnificent mansion in all of Philadelphia.”
36
Henry
A towering display of glasses bubbled with a champagne waterfall between trees draped in wispy fabric. Four crystal chandeliers dangled from a white ceiling engraved with flowers—dotted with tiny twinkle-light stars. The small stage held a string quartet. Glamorous-looking waitstaff flitted about with trays of finger food.
“I can’t believe this,” Delilah said, staring up at the ceiling and through the crowd. “This is…”
“Incredible,” I finished.
She squeezed my hand, and I held it, linking our fingers together. In all honesty, my fake wife was the incredible one—a statuesque beauty in a stunning white gown, her blue eyes brighter than I’d ever seen them before. The shape of her thighs appeared in my mind—the illicit black lace, the scalloped fabric, the flexing muscle. It was everything Delilah embodied: danger and desire; delicate lace and precise strength.
And I wanted to take it off with my teeth.
“Let’s get a drink and pretend to be impressed with these portraits,” Delilah said. She picked up two glasses from a passing waiter and led us to a wall of heavy-looking, gilded paintings.
“I don’t think I have to pretend,” I remarked. Before us hung a four-foot-tall portrait of our target, lit with glowing lights. Victoria appeared to be twenty years younger in it but still distinguished. “You don’t want to call too much attention to yourself,” I said. “Just a little something to let your guests know whose house you’re in.”
Delilah was grinning. “I’d love it even more if she’d had herself painted as royalty.” She indicated the five portraits of European royalty hanging to her left. “Why do you think she has these?”
“It was certainly common for Tudor homes to showcase the royal family. She’s probably aiming for authenticity.”
“And who is this?” She was gazing up at a man dressed in white fur, holding a blue scepter.
Christian VII of Denmark, read the inscription.
“King of Denmark,” I said. “I remember him because he reportedly used to ask to be tied down and flogged.”