Page 37 of Misadventures with a Duke

“Sure. You can have mine.” She reaches for a device that Logan produces from an outside pocket this time. The thin rectangle is similar to his magical tablet but a quarter of the size. I attempt not to gawk as the woman taps rapidly at it with her thumbs. My fight is for naught once the front of it changes, as if responding to her actions. “Give a shout day or night,” she offers. “Sorry if you have to leave a message. Believe it or not, the service at HQ can be shit sometimes. I’ll call back, though.”

Before Logan finishes tucking the device away, I have been guided down the regal hallway, through a sumptuous room denoted as the bookstore—how are there so many books in here?—and then through a small door that should be illegal in its deception.

Dainty doors do not belong on kitchens like this.

I sweep around with an awe-stricken stare, but my new awe is overtaken by a larger perplexity. Why is no one in this mansion not using a single one of these modern culinary wonders? How is that possible? Unless this is their second kitchen… But how is that possible? I cannot imagine a cookery grander than this.

Ponderings I must, and do, set aside.

The most important matter is that we are finally away from prying gazes. I celebrate that by finally exhaling in full. But neither of my rescuers does the same. I should be more concerned but do not wish to be. It feels too wonderful to be fully on my feet, free of shackles on my wrists and trepidation in my senses. The immaculate floors in this place are much better appreciated without my face mashed against them. The stunning redhead at my side is no awful hindrance to the cause either, despite the scowl that crunches her sleek features.

“‘Give a shout, day or night?’ Are you kidding me?”

Her spew is so ferocious, I instantly assume they are sisters. But aside from their high cheekbones and full lips, there are not enough other similarities to support my supposition. The woman next to me is tall and curvaceous, with fire in her strides to match her distinctive curls. That is above and beyond the verdant spells in her eyes and all those gorgeous freckles. Her friend, now leaning against a big silver machine that hums in daunting ways, is shorter but formidable. I have no doubt that if the guards changed their mind and rushed back in here, she could knock them out of their boots and then force-feed the footwear back to them.

“What?” she retorts, folding her arms. “Should I have gone with something else?” And then bats her arresting blue eyes, obviously mocking. “Gosh, Detective. I’d totally give you my number, except I just lied about my name, occupation, and imperviousness to your hotness. But let’s go get some drinks and tapas sometime, okay?”

“So…you gave him a bogus number?”

The woman pushes fully back to her feet and yanks at the beret, which is indeed attached to her short dark hair—which proves to be naught but a wig. Beneath that, her hair is still contained, held in place by a matching black net of some sort. “Let’s just say the guy will be in luck if he wants a to-go order from La Barca.”

The woman at my side spurts out a giggle. “Ohhh, excellent pick—kind of what you need for that wig too, sweetie.”

“Are you kidding?” She rocks her head back, regarding the frayed black mess. “It’s been in the bottom of my satchel for a week and got there by being crusted with too much stage blood. I’m just glad the beret was down there too. Hopefully it helps Dick Gorgeous to remember me fondly.”

“Excuse me?” exclaims my redhead. “Dick what?”

“Oh, come on. That fine, fine male… He was better than a large malt in a heat wave.” She adds a fanning motion with her hand. “Sweet frosting on my cookie, Tigger. I must really love you.”

“Oh, you do.” They hug with palpable affection, which has me forgetting the new emptiness in my hand. “And I’m so grateful, honey. Honestly and truly.”

“Yeah, yeah. You can repay me with Crémant and croissants some other time.”

A hungry groan leaves my lips before I can help it. “I like her,” I say in time to their laughter. As she yanks off the black head net, revealing her actual hair in its cobalt and turquoise splendor, I emphasize, “Especially now.”

She chuckles again, the droll sound a perfect complement for her dazzling locks. “Well, props back to you too, Pompeii.”

“Huh?” The woman between us blurts. “And what part of your backside did that come from, Drusilla Daphne Kidman?”

“The obvious part.” She drags a hand through her long, bright plumage. “If you IMDB Pompeii—”

My magnifique rolls up a hand with a new laugh. “Why don’t I take your word for it?”

“On that note, why don’t you two find some shadows to hang in while I get moving? Because no way are we going to be to transport him anywhere with these still on display.”

I cannot control the smirk that teases my lips as D illustrates her words with fast pokes at my chest and arms. I nearly let my lips take on a chuckle of their own as my woman—at least for now—responds with a defined verbal simmer.

“Settle down, Raegan,” her friend admonishes. “We don’t have time for a bestie showdown.”

“All right,” my redhead grumbles. “So what is your plan?”

“That cute consignment place is still open around the corner. Matter of fact, it’s where I got these.” She raises a foot, showing off one of her impressive boots. “Let me duck in there real fast and grab something that won’t scream ‘hunky but horribly doomed’ so loudly.”

At once, the female at my side is giving up a new smirk. While any expression is alluring on her, this is my preference to her open stress.

“Lovely little Lautrec, I officially love you.”

“Of course you do, Diva Degas.”