Okay, he’s charming and handsome and loves art and lives in a castle. And I’m not interested. Not at all.
They turned a few times through several passageways and arrived in a massive foyer with a gray stone staircase that could accommodate three large horses shoulder to shoulder. Vivid tapestries in blues, greens, and a pale yellow hung down the high walls. They were made within the past fifty years, but the workmanship and detail revealed a talented artisan.
She turned her attention back to Henry. A castle? Old money? That would explain his choice of profession. He could afford to muck about in Oxford. Summers off. Long holidays. It made sense.
Henry climbed the stairs. Halfway up, he turned around and looked down at her. “Let me take you to bed.”
Why was he looking all seductive and adorable? Paranoia warred with her gut feeling that he was one of the good guys. Her stomach tightened. Luc had ruined intimacy for her. He’d taken her virginity by force and twisted sex into a four-letter word.
“I can crash anywhere. An oversize couch or maybe a bathroom floor.” Still wrapped in the blanket, she slowed her steps. The bag hung by her side.
Henry walked back down the stairs, but stopped a step above her. He extended his hand until she took it. His grip was warm, but not overwhelming. “Relax. I’m bringing you to your own room. My room is in another wing.”
So much for his seduction of her. Embarrassment coiled in her chest. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just don’t want to be a bother.”
“You’d never be a bother, Sunshine. Never.”
Henry showed her to a bedroom on the third floor, second floor to the English. After smiling and thanking him for the hospitality, she glanced around at the simple furnishings, more appropriate for a youth hostel than a medieval castle.
She threw her only piece of luggage on top of a red duvet. Red also dominated the art in the room. Mostly framed posters. A field of poppies. The Eiffel Tower in black and white accented by a woman in a red dress. Some sort of red surreal paint blob. What did she expect? A silk screen by Andy Warhol?
Locking the door, she scouted around for cameras, but since there wasn’t much of anything in the room, there weren’t many places to hide one. Comfortable with her security, she unzipped the backpack, dumping her few clothes on the bed. She removed her iPod Shuffle, hooked it up to a small set of speakers she traveled with, and turned on her favorite Sting album. Sultry, rhythmic, and loud enough to mask her movements.
The cardboard liner in her bag was glued to a thinner piece of cardboard on three sides, creating a perfect hidden pocket for her two passports. The first passport, now expired, was embossed with the seal of the United States. The owner was born in Boston, Massachusetts, twenty-eight years ago, with long dark brown hair and bored, flippant brown eyes. An immature version of Alexandra Cushing Northrop had let it expire to prevent her father from finding her and dragging her home. The depressing part of her youthful rebellion was his failure to ever come looking for her. Her only contact with her family involved sporadic emails with her mother and sisters telling them she was happy.
It was for the best. Luc had no idea her family existed, and that kept them all safe.
Someday, someone might call her Alex again, but her best hope to get out of the country was taking on the identity of Luc’s sister Danielle, a twenty-four-year-old woman with short brown hair and hazel eyes.
She’d taken Danielle’s French passport just in case. Danielle wouldn’t need it anymore, not since being murdered with her boyfriend. Luc wouldn’t report them missing in order to avoid be implicated in their deaths. She hoped to use Danielle’s identity to board a plane out of Europe. If Luc realized she had it in her possession, however, the passport could be used as a beacon guiding him straight to her.
She pulled the bottom drawer out of the poor-quality dresser and tossed it onto the bed. At the bottom of her backpack, she located a roll of duct tape, a fugitive’s best friend. The stuff easily secured a plastic bag with her passports and a few hundred pounds on the back side of the drawer. No one should find it. Henry seemed smart, but not street-smart.
The dark shadows from the rainy morning hung over the window, making her drowsy. She stripped to nothing and crawled between the sheets. After staring into space, at the ceiling, and toward the window, she disappeared into her dreams.
Someone banging and banging on the door jolted her out of her hazy fog and roused her completely. She stretched her arms over her head and then rolled away from the noise.
“Get up, Sunshine. Time to start the day.” His voice was cheerfully annoying.
She pulled the duvet over her head. “Go away, Henry. I’m sleeping in.”
“You’ve slept for almost five hours. We have plans. Get up.”
The banging continued. It wouldn’t stop. Henry didn’t seem the type to stop until he got what he wanted. And he wanted her out of bed. She could have withstood his attack for another few minutes, but her stomach growled. Food trumped sleep.
She jumped up and threw on her jeans, a black T-shirt, and a hoodie. She’d left the combat boots in Oxford, so she put on the red sneakers. They felt slimy on her bare feet. They wouldn’t be dry for another day.
She unlocked the door and glared.
Henry stood in front of her with a stupid grin on his face, wearing a pair of tan khakis and a camouflage jacket.
His darn smile spread to her lips, like a contagious disease. “Off to the hunt?”
“Not today. We’re off to breakfast, or brunch to be more exact, since it’s almost noon.” He stood in the door waiting for her to exit and then strolled next to her. “Did you have a good sleep?”
“I did, actually.” As they turned from her wing into what looked like the main section of the house, she noticed the change in furnishings. A change for the better. “Are you restoring the wing I stayed in?