Priceless

by Raine Miller

  “What are you talking about?” I shook my head and tried to explain. “I’m not here to b-bother you, Mr. Everley, I—I’m just here to do my job.”

  “Was part of your job to fuck me for money?” he snapped back.

  I wanted to crawl into a crack in the floorboards and die. “No! No, I—I didn’t know who you were. It was a mistake—”

  “—but you know who I am now, don’t you, Miss Hargreave?”

  I nodded slowly and mouthed a pitiful “yes.” How was it possible I’d been with this man on the night of the gala and he was one and the same as Mr. Everley, the person whose paintings I was supposed to inventory? I was so mortified.

  “And if that wasn’t enough, now you’re here at my house. My sanctuary. What do you really want? More money? My name can’t be hauled through the mud any more than it already has been. I’ll give you this, Miss Hargreave, or, Maria, or whatever the fuck you call yourself, you’re certainly industrious for someone so young. Art conservationist and a private escort all in one tidy package. I’m suitably impressed, and that’s saying something. I sure wish I’d found you a long time ago.” He leered up and down my body, gesturing with his hands. “I bet you make more as an escort though, you’re banging hot.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Was he insane?

  Hell, he wasn’t the only one on the verge of insanity. I was alone out in the middle of nowhere with this deranged man with no way to leave. If he put his hands on me again I swear to God I was out the door, rainstorm or not.

  “I am not an escort!”

  He barked out a sarcastic laugh. “Really? You sure fooled me then.”

  “Wait—you think I work for an escort service?” I suddenly remembered back to that night and him saying something about the “service” contacting me…right before he dragged me into a side room and proceeded to make me lose all of my good sense. “You’re dead wrong, Mr. Everley, because I am most certainly not an escort, nor have I ever worked for any kind of escort service. I’m an art student at U of L and I was at the National Gallery for the gala on behalf of the university that night. I thought you wanted a VIP patron tour.” God, was I even having this conversation? Explaining to him how I wasn’t a prostitute? I pressed my eyes shut. Surely I was deep into some kind of alternate reality dream state. Must be the lack of sleep. That had to be the answer to all of this.

  I opened my eyes and saw he was still standing there glaring, the long dark hair I remembered, falling forward to frame the harsh set of his stubbly jaw.

  Nope. Definitely not a dream.

  He didn’t believe me at all, I could tell that much. Angry waves still emanated off his imposing form while I stood babbling about mistaken identity and praying I was indeed sleep-walking.

  “That was one helluva tour, Miss Hargreave. In fact, I’d say you’re a real pro at giving them. But wait,” he paused, pointing one long finger upward and tilting his head, “our tour was interrupted just when it started to get good for me. Now that I reflect on it, I say you owe me the rest of your special…tour. I did pay after all. I should get value for my money, don’t you think?”

  He leaned in very close and brought the same pointed finger to just under my chin where he tipped it toward his lips. With just a few inches between us, I could feel the warmth of his body heat radiating between us, and see sparks blazing in his eyes. The tension penetrated, and I knew he’d moved well past taunting sarcasm with me. Mr. Everley was dead serious.

  And just as devastatingly handsome as I remembered, which annoyed me greatly.

  “Despite your rather rude intrusion into my private home, I find I’d still very much like to fuck you, Miss Hargreave.”

  He was also propositioning me for sex. He was propositioning me for sex?

  I swallowed and felt myself go weak in the knees, realizing I was in a potentially dangerous situation if he decided to force the issue. I had to get the hell out of here.

  “Will I get the rest of my tour now?” he whispered darkly, with the conceited suggestion of an arrogant male who thought he might be getting lucky in a few. “Shall we do up a porno for everybody as well? Share it with the media? Does it gain you a bigger fee, Maria?”

  I yanked my chin back from the press of his index finger. “That’s not my name! And let me enlighten you, Mr. Ivanhoe, about precisely what’s not going to be happening here with us tonight…or ever.” I gestured my hand back and forth between us. “No sex.”

  His eyes widened and his mouth turned up in a smirk. “Not in the mood just yet after your ordeal?” He lowered his tone seductively. “I can help you get in the mood. Maybe you’d like to see some of my paintings first if art really is something that interests you.” His smirk turned into a wicked grin that was all about lewd acts and dirty deeds. I could see exactly where he was going in his mind.

  “Oh my God, you’re so disgusting. You hired a prostitute to have sex with you at the Mallerton Gala and you thought I was her?” I shook my head slowly back and forth and touched my chest with my fist. “So. Not. Her.”

  He cocked an aristocratic eyebrow at me. “You weren’t complaining when I had my fingers buried in your cunt, or when you were coming all over my han—”

  I slapped him as hard as I could across the face.

  ONE thought filled my head and it was to get away from him.

  I ran for the massive carved door and yanked it open. Streams of rain still poured in sheets from the portico. There was nowhere for me to get away to. No sanctuary for me to hide in. It was storming outside and nearing midnight in the middle of nowhere. I couldn’t even say where I was, let alone tell anyone to come for me. I was as trapped here as if I was marooned on a desert island.

  I shut the door against the elements and turned back around to see him standing there with his arms folded, a wide stance, and all traces of cockiness now absent from the face I’d just slapped. In its place was a cold calmness that left me with absolutely no idea of what he was going to do. Order me to leave? Send me back out into that storming hell? Ravish me anyway?

  He spoke low and precisely, his meaning very clear, and brooking absolutely no argument.

  “It appears you’re staying here in this house whether you want it or not.”

  A sob escaped from my throat unwillingly.

  “No need to worry, Miss Hargreave, you won’t be bothered again tonight.”

  And then he just left me there and walked away. I heard his footsteps retreating, and watched him disappear as he moved off into another part of his house. The darkness swallowed him up…until I was alone in an unfamiliar old stone mansion with a storm raging outside its walls.

  Rocky Horror Picture Show, anyone?

  Eventually the sound of his steps faded until all I could hear was the pounding rain hitting the windows and the eerie brush of leaves scraping against the stone walls and glass windows from the wind whipping the trees around.

  I wanted to be brave. I tried so hard not to cry, but I couldn’t stop those bastard tears from leaking out. It was all just too much. Everything. The ordeal of getting lost would have been enough, but the revelation of meeting him again sent me right over the edge. How was it even possible? I took little comfort in the fact that his crude and obnoxious behavior cancelled out my shame and embarrassment, and then some. A prostitute? Really!?

  I glanced around at my surroundings and drew in a deep shaky breath, hugging my arms tightly for strength. I could get through this one night, I told myself. I had shelter from the storm, and dry clothes in my suitcase. I had my phone and my wallet. And in the morning, I would figure out a way to get back to my rental car and down to the airport at Belfast.

  I was going to be just fine.

  There was some relief at knowing my immediate safety was secure—but it also gave me an excuse to indulge in a little self-pity.

  I sat down on the old wooden bench in Mr. Everley’s mudroom and wept like a baby.

  THE sound of a throat clearing roused me from my desperation a
nd told me I was no longer alone. I raised my eyes to see an older gentleman standing in the doorway of the mudroom. His hair was graying over what must have been red when he was younger, and he was wearing what looked to me like a 1950’s smoking jacket that went all the way to the floor. Soft leather loafers peeped out from the burgundy silk edging and a patterned neck cloth tucked in around his throat. Quite the picture of distinguished country elegance.

  From 1951.

  It was also very clear he’d just been roused out of his bed, too. Was it possible for me to have caused any more disruption to this household than I had in the short time I’d been here? I didn’t think so.

  He looked me over, probably disgusted by my bedraggled state. Was this one of Mr. Everley’s servants sent down to deal with me? I lifted my chin and tried to pretend he hadn’t just caught me bawling my eyes out. What a joke that was. I slashed at the tears rolling down my face, and stood up quickly, trying to face up to whatever was in store for me.

  His face gentled and he reached for my suitcase. “My name is Finnegan. May I show you to your room, Miss Hargreave, is it?” His voice had a definite Irish lilt, but refined, and strangely…kind.

  “Y-yes…I g-g-guess so,” I managed to answer. “It’s j-just for the n-night. I’m leaving in the m-m-morning.” It was nearly impossible for me to speak from the involuntary sobs that still had hold of me. I hoped I wasn’t frightening the poor man to an early death.

  “Follow me, my dear. You look like you could use some warming up…and drying off.”

  Thank God he took charge because I was very near the end of my rope. I followed Mr. Finnegan with the burgundy smoking jacket down a hallway and up an impressive staircase, past enormous paintings and sculptures I refused to even try to make out in the dim lighting because I would never see them again after this night.

  I know myself pretty well.

  I just couldn’t take in any more. Something dry to put on, a bed, and maybe a couple Nurofen if I was really lucky, and the sum total of my requirements would be mercifully fulfilled.

  “This is the room we had arranged for your stay with us, Miss Hargreave. It is a suite with a sitting room just off there.” He pointed to an open doorway lit by lamplight. “You’ll also find things for making tea or coffee if you’d like a hot drink before you retire.”

  I looked around at the beautiful rooms set up for me to live in while I worked on assessing Mr. Everley’s art collection, and at Mr. Finnegan regarding me so kindly as he explained the basics…and felt tears leaking down my face again.

  I vaguely registered a conversation with him about helping me to get back to my rental car tomorrow so I could leave, amid more pathetic tears. He took it all in his stride and patted my hand awkwardly before he left me alone, saying something about breakfast in the morning, and that things would look better to me after a restful sleep. He probably thought I was an escapee from a mental ward, poor man.

  Maybe things would feel better in the morning. Or maybe they wouldn’t.

  They probably wouldn’t, I decided.

  And by this point I didn’t even care.

  I didn’t ponder Mr. Finnegan’s predictions, either. I couldn’t. I wasn’t able to do anything more than strip out of my damp and filthy clothes, don some warm pajamas, and gulp down a couple of painkillers with water directly from the bathroom sink.

  THINGS did feel different for me the next morning, but not necessarily better. I had a headache the size of Greenland for one thing, and my throat felt scratchy and irritated.

  When I opened my eyes to realize exactly where I was, I jumped out of the luxurious Irish linens dressing my bed and wandered into the adjoining sitting room. I went straight to the tea cart Mr. Finnegan had mentioned last night, hoping a hot cup might help soothe my burning throat. I made a mug of my favorite Titanic Blend and poured in a couple of milk pods.

  The first sip was heavenly, but it was much too hot to gulp so I took it with me into the bathroom. All I could think about was getting out of this place and to the Belfast airport.

  I didn’t waste time.

  I threw on some clean jeans and a long-sleeved brown shirt that felt soft and comfortable against my sensitive skin. In reality, my body ached all over. I left the muddy stuff from last night where it lay on the floor with little concern. They could throw it all away, I didn’t care. Dirty clothes were not my problem right now, getting home was. That and the thought I might be coming down with some kind of vile flu. I was so lost right now, and it wasn’t just in the physical sense.

  I felt utterly exhausted and weak. The energy expended in self-loathing and embarrassment had taken its toll on me. I downed two more Nurofen to help with the massive pounding going on in my skull combined with the body aches, and gathered up my bag.

  What if I had to face Mr. Everley in person again? I couldn’t. I just didn’t have the strength to deal with that man at the moment.

  Or any moment. Ever.

  Minutes later I was praying to this fact as I made my way down the grand staircase with my suitcase. I gave it my best Spiderman-stealth-walk and made for the mudroom where everything had gone down last night.

  I needed my jacket and remembered he’d hung it up for me dripping wet after our mad dash from the garage through the rain.

  Yeah, just before he realized exactly who he’d brought into his home.

  He thinks you’re a prostitute trying to blackmail him.

  A wave of hysteria threatened to overturn me once more and I suddenly felt too overcome to fight it. Just shrugging into my jacket was proving to be a major effort. Thank God it had dried in the night.

  I headed for the door, still unsure of how I was going to make it back to my car. The drive up last night from where I’d left it had to have been a couple of miles at least—

  “Good morning, Miss Hargreave.”

  I spun around to find Mr. Finnegan regarding me solemnly, sans smoking jacket. He was dressed in the typical country gentleman uniform of corduroy and tweed.

  “You’re up very early,” he said gently, eyeballing my suitcase. “Will you have some breakfast?” He gestured his hand toward a lighted hallway.

  “No, thank you,” I said in a pathetically feeble voice. Mr. Finnegan must think I was the biggest freak in the world. “I have to l-leave.”

  “Are you certain, my dear? I have some fresh scones just out of the oven. A mug of tea? You must be starved by now.”

  His kindness broke me.

  Why couldn’t Mr. Finnegan have been the owner of this place and the plethora of artwork I was supposed to inventory? I’d made an express effort to avoid looking at any of the paintings on the walls as I’d come down the stairs. And there had been a shit ton of them to my great dismay. I didn’t want to be distracted or waylaid on my course of fleeing, but still, it was really disappointing.

  I shook my head and knew I’d started crying again. Between my blubbering, the frustration in realizing I’d never get to see any of the art, feeling like crap, and the injustice of having to beg, I managed to ask my question as I stood there silently weeping. “Mr. Finnegan, will you h-help me get back to my rental car? P-please? I just have to…get away from here—and then I’ll be gone—and…Mr. Everley won’t ever have to see me again.”

  I can say he was a gentleman about my emotional outburst. And he didn’t try to pry my reasons for going out of me. It looked like he might have rolled his eyes just a bit when I mentioned his employer’s name, though. Whether he did or not, Mr. Finnegan calmly led me down to the garage and helped me into the same Range Rover I’d ridden in last night.

  The day was rain-free so far, and I hoped it would stay that way until my ass was planted in a seat at thirty thousand feet bound for London Heathrow.

  He drove me right to my Volkswagen rental, which hadn’t been swept over a cliff in the night, thank God, as if he’d known precisely where it would be parked.

  Maybe Mr. Everley had told him all about me, and he already knew about our sh
ameful meeting at the gala, too. At this point, with freedom in my sights, I didn’t even care.

  Mr. Finnegan did insist upon leading me out to the main road, and pointed me in the direction of Belfast, with clear instructions on how to find my way.

  I waved goodbye to him, grateful for his sympathetic help and wishing there was some way for me to repay the kindness he’d shown me—a hot mess of a stranger with major emotional problems who’d upset his boss and dragged him from his warm bed at midnight. He probably wouldn’t forget me for a long time. I knew I’d remember him and his Cosmo Topper smoking jacket.

  I pondered the disparities in people as I turned onto the highway, relief in the knowledge the airport was less than an hour away, and in a few more hours after that, I’d be back home in my warm bed with fuzzy socks on my feet.

  I felt as if I could sleep for a year right now. Just so exhausted.

  Visions of chicken noodle soup with buttered toast danced in my head. Food would be the first thing I tackled when I got home. I shivered from the chill invading my body and focused my attentions back on the road. I could do this. Every mile was bringing me closer to my goal.

  I realized some people, like Mr. Finnegan, were just inherently good.

  And others, like Lord Condemnation? Certifiable asshole fit him like a leather glove.

  Yin and yang.

  SIX

  “WHAT do you mean she’s gone?”

  “Some three hours now, I’d say.” Finnegan turned his back on me and returned to his task of preparing what looked like a roast of some sort.

  “How in the hell was she able to leave?”

  “I obliged her request that I return her to her rented car. Don’t worry, I made sure she arrived safely to the main road and sent her off with directions for Belfast City Airport.” He checked his watch absently. “She’s probably back to London by now, or close to it.”