Simon stared at the fireplace. “Where’s your fiancée?”
“Sleeping. She had a few glasses of wine. If she’s not asleep by now, she will be any moment.”
“How did she perform?”
“Like a thoroughbred. My aunt is already prepping invitations for the wedding. Several of the male guests followed her from room to room panting after her. She spoke to several influential MPs and managed to converse with intelligence on a diverse amount of subjects. I’d love to know her background.”
“Me too.” Simon nodded. “Something’s not right about her. Think about it. She’s hiding from someone. She has an impressive knowledge of art she couldn’t have picked up in school alone. My guess is she’s a well-educated American who ran with the wrong crowd. She’s pissed someone off and her only way to stay alive is to live in hiding.”
Henry took a sip of scotch and placed the glass on the table next to him. “Interesting theory. How are you going to test it?”
Simon leaned his head back on the chair. He brought his fingertips together in front of his chin. “Keep watching her. She’ll screw up. Give it time, and then we’ll get to see the real Gabe West.”
Chapter Twelve
Alex sat on the stairs and absorbed Henry’s and Simon’s words. Simon had better instincts than Henry. Henry saw what he wanted to see. A woman who had a good head on her shoulders, yet never applied herself to anything. Simon seemed to look through her disguise and hit closer to the heart of her being.
That scared her, especially since she didn’t know anything about Simon except that he baked killer cinnamon rolls.
What if he found out her identity? She couldn’t have Simon messing up her plans.
Without making a creak in the stairs, she slunk back up to Henry’s bedroom.
The next morning, a cloudy day greeted her. Typical for this part of England. She made her way toward the kitchen deep in thought.
Bacon. She strutted into the kitchen and straight to the man at the stove. Simon’s only redeeming quality had to be his breakfasts. A pile of crispy bacon sat on a plate next to him. She helped herself to three long and greasy pieces.
He undressed her with his eyes, but she saw through the act. He wanted to interrogate her, not sleep with her. Perhaps she could pull some information from him instead.
She took a deep breath and slid into his arms, but his touch felt wrong, and her heart wrenched at her attempt to seduce. To keep herself from running back upstairs, she focused on Matt, murdered while protecting her at the pub. Simon pulled her closer, as though testing her. She tamped down her skittish side and placed her free hand on his chest. Careful. She was playing a dangerous game with a dangerous guy.
“Did you grow up with Henry?” she asked.
“Nearby.”
“It must be annoying to have to serve your old friend.”
His head dropped down, and he rubbed his cheek through her hair. “Doesn’t bother me in the least.”
“I would ask you to refrain from manhandling Gabe until the engagement is officially over, and you’ve broken it off with your longtime girlfriend.” Henry’s voice boomed into the kitchen from the doorway.
So much for information-gathering.
“I thought this engagement was pretend, Henry.” Simon brushed his lips over hers, smirked, and returned to cooking. Gabe’s stomach soured at the false intimacy.
She backed away from Simon, moving closer to Henry. The heat in his eyes contained lust for her with a threat toward Simon. His competition chuckled. This could only get worse if she remained in the room, so she grabbed some coffee and headed to the door.
Henry snapped at Simon. “Stay away from her.”
“Yes, sir.” Simon winked at her as she passed him. He was enjoying pissing Henry off.
Halfway up the stairs, she overheard Henry ordering him to “keep your fucking hands off her or find a new place to live.”
The afternoon dragged on. Simon disappeared, and Henry went to complete some work in his study. He didn’t speak to her all afternoon. Perhaps it was for the best. She needed to stay focused on self-preservation. With nothing better to do, Alex located an interesting book titled Saints, Scholars, and Schizophrenics: Mental Illness in Rural Ireland on the bookcase in his bedroom and sat near him in his study to read. Twice, she descended the stairs to locate a snack or a drink and rummage through some closets and drawers. A few times, she took a bathroom break to search the medicine cabinets. She also fell asleep for an hour.
“Want more tea, Henry?” She needed another break from staring over the rim of the book at his intense expression. His silent brooding gave her a stomachache, most likely because she had caused his sour mood.
“No, thanks. Feel free to watch the telly downstairs if you’re bored.”
“Okay. I’ll be back.”
She headed down the stairs, but stopped on the second floor. Her need to know about Simon lured her to his bedroom door. Was he really Henry’s employee? Doubtful.
She opened the door and slid inside. His bedroom had none of the expensive furnishings with which Henry surrounded himself. Every piece of furniture seemed forged of steel and black lacquer. Piles of newspapers covered a glass coffee table, and clothes covered everything else. He was a pig. Each dresser drawer she opened contained unfolded shirts, socks, underwear, and nothing of interest. Tension climbed. She needed something and couldn’t be caught.
His closet smelled of dirty gym socks and a strong men’s cologne. He only had three suits and a tux. The rest of his wardrobe consisted of jeans and sweaters. In the back of the closet, she spotted his laptop. Bingo.