“And for good reasons.”
I thought back to Eve’s haunted whisper when she’d quoted that bit about how death awaited the enemies of Germany. Something about her said combatant to me. I’d seen my brother come back from war, marking the changes in him with worried, loving eyes, and James wasn’t the only ex-soldier I’d observed. I’d danced with them at mixers, talked to them at parties, made a habit of observing them because I’d hoped I could see something that would help me help James. I’d failed in that; nothing I’d ever done had helped James, and even now I hated myself for it—but still, I knew what a combatant looked like, and Eve showed all the signs. “Will she be all right tomorrow?” James wouldn’t even leave his room the morning after episodes like this.
“Probably.” Finn leaned on the sill of the open window and looked down at the row of streetlights, taking another thoughtful swallow of whiskey. “She usually goes on the next day like nothing happened.”
I wanted to keep probing, but the whole thorny matter of Eve and her secrets made my head ache. I let it go for now, wandering over to join Finn at the windowsill. It was what came next in the equation, after all: girl plus boy, multiply by whiskey. Now add proximity. “So we’ll be in Roubaix tomorrow, if the car doesn’t break down again.” My shoulder brushed his.
He passed me the flask. “I can keep her ticking.”
“You’re pretty handy with that toolbox. Where’d you learn?” Prison? Curiosity was consuming me.
“I’ve been in and out of garages since I was a wee one. Playing with wrenches in the cradle.”
I took another swig. “Could I take a turn driving the Lagonda tomorrow, or is she a one-man car?”
“You drive?” He glanced at me with the same surprise he’d shown when I said I’d had a job. “I figured your family kept a chauffeur.”
“We aren’t Vanderbilts, Finn. Of course I can drive. My brother taught me.” A sweet, painful memory: James had escaped a big family barbecue by dragging me off in his Packard and giving me a driving lesson. “I think he really did it because he wanted to get away from our noisy relatives. But he was a good teacher.” He’d ruffled my hair, saying, You drive home, you’re the expert now—and after I pulled up in a proud swish of tires, we lingered awhile before rejoining the family hubbub. I’d asked James if he would be my date to the next formal dance. I won’t get a real date, James, and we can sit on the sidelines making fun of all the sorority girls. He smiled sideways and said, I’d like that, sis. I’d gone in thinking that for once I’d helped him when he was in one of his moods.
Not three weeks later he shot himself.
I blinked that away, painfully.
“Maybe I’ll let you get behind the wheel someday.” Finn looked down his lean shoulder at me, light gleaming off his dark hair. “You’ll have to be patient with her. She’s a persnickety sort of lady, after all. A bit cranky, needs special handling. But she’ll always come through.”
“Don’t go all Scottish and metaphorical.” I took another swig from the flask and gave it back, my fingers brushing his. “It’s past two in the morning.”
He smiled, looking back over the nighttime lights. I waited for him to move closer. But he just drained his whiskey, and moved to sit on the wall bench.
My sharp inner voice was still saying nasty things. Before it got any louder, I went to finish the equation: boy plus girl, multiplied by whiskey and proximity, equaled . . . Taking the glass out of Finn’s hand, I climbed into his lap and kissed him. I tasted whiskey on his soft mouth, felt the roughness of his unshaven jaw. Then he broke away. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” I wound my arms around his neck. “I’m offering to sleep with you.”
His dark eyes went over me deliberately. I tilted a shoulder, nonchalant, and let the strap of my slip slide down my arm. His hands skimmed my bare knees on either side of him, then slid over the nylon hem rather than under it, up to my waist and holding me firm as I tried to lean forward for another kiss.
“Well,” he said. “It’s turning out to be quite the night for surprises.”
“Is it?” I felt his hands through the thin silky nylon, big and very warm on either side of my waist. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.” Ever since I’d seen him strip down to his shirtsleeves to work on the Lagonda. He had much better arms than most college boys, who usually ran lanky or doughy.
Finn’s voice sounded a little hoarse, but very level. “What’s a nice girl like you doing jumping into bed with an ex-convict?”
“You know I’m not a nice girl. Eve cleared that up. Besides, it’s not like you’re taking me to cotillion,” I added bluntly. “You’re not meeting my parents. It’s just a screw.”
His eyebrows went up.
“Though I do wonder what you did,” I added in all honesty, trailing one finger around the back of his neck. “To get yourself tossed in prison.”
“I stole a swan from Kew Gardens.” He still had a firm grip around my waist, holding me away from him.
“Liar.”
“I nicked a diamond tiara from the crown jewels in the Tower of London.”
“Still a liar.”
His eyes looked black and bottomless in the dim light. “Why ask me, then?”
“I like hearing you lie.” I wound my arms around his neck again, sliding my fingers into his soft hair. “Why are we still talking?” Most boys were all hands the minute the lights went out; why wasn’t Finn? As soon as Eve made it clear what kind of girl I really was, I’d assumed he would leave off the respectful air and try to get me in the sack. That was what I was used to. I could either shove him off or go along, and I’d already decided to go along. But I wasn’t used to making the advances. I might not be pretty, but I was available—that was usually enough to get a man’s hands reaching for my clothes without any help from me.
But Finn didn’t move, just kept looking at me. His eyes went to my waistline and he said, “Haven’t you got a lad? A fiancé?”
“Do you see a ring?”
“Who was it, then?”
“Harry S. Truman,” I said.
“Now who’s the liar.”
The air was thick and warm. I moved my hips, and I could sense him responding. I knew what he wanted. Why wasn’t he taking it? “Why do you care who knocked me up?” I whispered, moving some more. “You can’t knock me up now, and that’s what counts. I’m a safe lay.”
“That’s ugly,” he said quietly.
“But it’s true.”
He pulled me closer then, his face very near mine, and my skin thrummed. “Why exactly are you climbing all over me?”
Whore. The word echoed in my head, in my mother’s voice or maybe my aunt’s. I flinched, turned it into a shrug. “I’m a tramp,” I said, flippant. “Everyone knows tramps sleep around. And you’re kind of a dish. So why not?”