“Let’s never do that again, wife,” he said softly.
“Thank you,” I stuttered. “I’m terrified of heights.”
“Anyone would be terrified of falling out of a door that leads to nowhere.”
“What on earth could she use that for?”
Henry still had me cradled against his chest—it reminded me of our moment in the closet, my body still clenching with pleasure, mouth closing around the fabric of his jacket to quiet my screams.
“On the bright side, if we find the Copernicus, we could toss it out this door and pray it lands on a soft bush.”
A delirious giggle escaped my lips. I kissed his jaw, his throat, that patch of skin left open by his shirt. The adrenaline and the fear were turning me into the woman Mark had accused me of being—easily swept away by her passions, her inner desires.
As if that was a bad thing. As if being a woman in love with her life was somehow wrong.
“We have to keep going,” Henry said, ghosting his lips at my temple. “But don’t take that to mean I don’t want to stay here like this.”
I stepped back, tucked my hair behind my ear. Grabbed the gun that had clattered to the floor at my almost-fall. “Let’s go.”
We both refocused, although Henry kept my hand in his, steadying me down the steep stairs. Back in the main hallway, confusion threatened to swamp my instincts. It was so dark, and every inch looked exactly the same: the yellow doors, the wallpaper, the carpet.
“I’m starting to get the creeps,” I whispered. “How about you?”
Henry tried another door—arching a brow at me when it clicked. He creaked the door open a half-inch.
Then slammed it with a horrified expression.
“Oh my God, she does have a torture chamber,” I said.
“Kitchen,” he mouthed. Bent over to whisper, “I think this is another entry point to the kitchen. I saw people, trays, ovens.”
“Did they see you?”
We both froze, listening for the sound of waitstaff yelling about secret-passageway-intruders. There was an unbearable crawling of time—but nothing.
We exhaled, backs against the wall, heads tilted up.
“For the record,” I said, “I still think this is a brilliant plan.”
“For the record,” Henry replied, “I still think you are brilliant.”
Our smiles were shy.
“Do you think we’re heading east?” I asked, attempting to orient us in this claustrophobic hellhole.
Henry stared over my shoulder, breath tickling my ear. “I don’t think so.”
I sighed, frustrated, anxious, moving quickly toward my gut instinct. We took a hard left, then another. Two rights into hallways that appeared to be exactly the same. “Do you think it could be—”
We walked right into Victoria fucking Whitney.
40
Henry
Delilah gasped and I slapped my palm over her mouth, yanking her back against my body.
“Well, that’s what I’m saying, darling,” Victoria lectured, “you must get your portrait done with James.” In a quieter tone: “You know he removes the wrinkles, right?”
Bitzi Peterson and Victoria Whitney stared directly into our faces, a mere six inches from us—but they saw nothing.
“It’s a spy painting,” I whispered into Delilah’s ear. “Wealthy people used them to watch their guests or spy on their servants. It works like a two-way mirror. We can see her, but she can only see the painting.”
I’d guessed that Victoria had them—it fit her flair for drama and “historical accuracy” —and we’d stumbled right into it. I could feel tension vibrating in Delilah’s muscles…but her breathing slowed. I lifted my hand from her mouth but kept my arm wrapped around her waist.
“Can she hear us?” Delilah mouthed, right at my ear. I nodded, placing a finger to my lips. Against my arm, her muscles were coiled, ready to strike. Just moments earlier, she’d moved with deadly accuracy, toppling that guard with ease. She’d looked like a warrior goddess in stilettos, holding her gun cocked, her red lips curved with determination.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with that new couple,” Bitzi said. “The handsome one?”
Victoria was smug. “Henry and Delilah Thornhill, yes. They’re quite the treasure.”
“He is unbelievably handsome,” Bitzi said, shaking her head.
“They’re very much in love,” Victoria said, eyes dreamy. “I believe they’ll serve us well in the future. They’re fans of the falls, as you know.”
Delilah went ramrod straight. Behind the two of them, the party was in full swing.
Bitzi dropped her tone. “Have you heard from him recently?”
She didn’t say who the him was—but I had a guess. They shared a knowing a look—and then were interrupted by Sven lumbering over, looking pissed as hell.
Fuck. How many minutes had it been since Delilah incapacitated that guard? We’d been wandering around these hallways with no sense of time.
“Ms. Whitney?” he asked. “We, uh…we have a problem.”
Victoria glared at him. “Interesting, since I pay you an exorbitant fee to have no problems.” She cocked her head and Bitzi fled the scene.
“The two people you let into the library? They’re missing.”
Victoria stroked her martini glass with one manicured talon. “Well, where could they possibly be?”
Sven leaned in as Delilah and I inhaled as one.
“Do they know about the library?”
Understanding flooded Victoria’s features. “They’re not… I mean, they couldn’t possibly…” And then she straightened up. “George should be manning the entrance, so if they did figure it out, he’d have them trussed up like pigs by now,” she said, tone icy.
Sven gave a tight nod and left.
For a single moment, unaware she was being watched, Victoria placed an adorned hand at her throat. Her fingers were trembling, just slightly. Compassion—or maybe sympathy?—twisted through my veins. But before I had time to analyze it, Delilah was already yanking me down the hallway, and we were running. We took a right, then another right, the walls seemingly closing in as they grew darker, the wallpaper a mocking red.
And the walls became books.
All the way down the damn hallway—built-in bookshelves from floor-to-ceiling, spilling over with them.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. Bernard had been right. Victoria had built a second library into these hallways. Her favorites. There were children’s books here, contemporary novels, spy thrillers mixed in with antique-looking classics. They weren’t arranged perfectly like the previous library but placed haphazardly, with no discernible organization.
On one of the walls hung a black-and-white photo of a young woman who looked a lot like Victoria. She was reading to a group of small children. The inscription on the frame said Celeste Whitney.
Victoria’s mother. The woman whose head was filled with figures.
Delilah stared at me with wide blue eyes, fingers on the shelves. Her head tilted back, way back, to take it all in. The ceiling was painted like the Sistine Chapel, but instead of angels and gilded clouds…it was the universe.