“Oh, thank you,” she said as she hustled up ahead of him.
He was about to follow when he caught a flash of something colorful on the floor.
A pair of stilettoes. Pale, made of satin. Louboutins.
He ripped his head around and searched where he and the woman had come from.
“Samuel T.?” she said from the top. “Are you coming?”
They were Gin’s shoes. She was down here. She had come down here … to watch?
Well, she certainly hadn’t stopped them.
His first impulse was to smile and go on the hunt—but that was a reflex born out of the way they had related for how long?
To remind himself of how things had changed, all he had to do was think of that ring on her finger. That man standing beside her. The news that was soon going to go nationwide.
Funny, he had never cared about all the other men Gin had been with. Whether that came under the eye-for-an-eye exception because he was sleeping with an equal number of other women … or whether he had some kind of kink in him that made him want her more knowing she’d fucked and sucked other men … or maybe it was something else entirely … he didn’t know.
One thing that was certain?
Richard Pford was now a source of tremendous jealousy. In fact, it had taken every ounce of Samuel T.’s self-possession not to give that waste of space a glare that left a hole in the back of his skull.
“Samuel T.? Is there something wrong?”
He looked up the stairs. The light coming from behind the woman turned her into nothing but shadow, reducing her to a faceless set of curves with no greater weight than an apparition.
For some reason, he wanted to take Gin’s shoes, but he left them behind as he let his ascent answer the lady’s question.
Emerging on her level, he cleared his throat. “I’ll meet you there.”
Her smile drooped. “I thought we would go to the track together.”
The track?
Oh, right. It was Derby day.
“I have some business to take care of. I’ll see you there.”
“Where are you going now?”
The question made him realize that he’d started off toward the kitchen, not the party. “Like I said, business.”
“Which box are you in?”
“I’ll find you,” he called out.
“Promise?”
Walking away, he could feel her staring at him—and he was willing to bet that she was praying to Mary Sue, the Patron Saint of Debutantes, that he turn around, come back over and become the escort that she’d hoped would emerge thanks to that subterranean fucking.
But Samuel T. did not look back nor did he reconsider his exit. And he didn’t pay any attention to the host of chefs in Miss Aurora’s kitchen.
He wasn’t actually aware of anything until he stepped outside.
Closing the mud room’s door behind him, he took a breather and leaned back against the hot white-painted panels. Another scorcher of a day, which was not a surprise. Then again, nothing was a shocker in Charlemont when it came to the weather.
If you didn’t like the conditions, all you had to do was wait fifteen minutes.
So sleet for Derby would also have been possible.
God, he was tired.
No … he felt old—
A throaty growl sounded from over on the left, but it wasn’t a sports car. It was an old beater of a truck coming up the service road.
Poor bastard, whoever it was. Staff wasn’t allowed to park anywhere near the house on a day like today. Whoever was behind the wheel was volunteering for a proverbial throat punch.
But he had troubles of his own to worry about. Putting his hand in his pocket, he took out his car key; then he stepped off the flat stone and began to head over to where he had tucked his Jag in tight to the house.
He didn’t make it far.
Through the windshield of that old truck, he saw a very familiar face. “Lane?”
As the truck stopped by the rear entrance of the business center, he went across. “Lane?” he called out. “You downscaling before Chantal hits us with a response?”
The driver’s window went down and the guy made a quick slashing finger across his throat.
Samuel T. glanced around. There was nobody anywhere. Staff were inside or out working the tent and gardens. Guests wouldn’t have deigned to come back here where the scrubs might be. And it wasn’t like the birds in the trees were going to have an opinion about two humans chatting.
As he came up to the truck, he leaned in. “You really don’t need to do this for your divorce—”
He fell silent as he focused on the man sitting beside his newest client.
“Edward?” he croaked.
“How lovely to see you again, Samuel.” Except the man didn’t look over. His eyes remained fixed on the dashboard ahead of him. “You’re looking well, as usual.”
As the words were spoken, it was impossible not to take a survey of that face … that body.
Dear … Lord, the pants were bagging around thighs that were like toothpicks, and the loose jacket hung from shoulders that had all the breadth of a coat hanger.
Edward cleared his throat and reached down to pick a BBC cap off the floorboards. As he put it on his head and drew the bill down low to cover his face, Samuel T. was ashamed of his gawking.
“It’s good to see you, Edward,” he blurted.
“You didn’t,” Lane said quietly.
“I’m sorry?”
“You didn’t see him.” Lane’s eyes burned. “Or me. Do you understand, counselor?”