Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [68]
Whether Simon liked it or not, he was going to go out into the world and return to life. He’d be the charming man I knew he could be and crush the ridiculous rumors flying around about him. Then we’d come back up here and we wouldn’t leave his bed until Tuesday when it was time for me to get in to my car and drive away forever.
Suddenly, with that thought, my triumph and happiness about tonight oozed away. And I stood there feeling utterly, completely empty.
“I suppose I have some work to do,” Simon said as he walked around the desk toward the door. Before he left the room, however, he looked over at me, a dangerous twinkle in those dark eyes. “Remember. My terms.”
Forcing myself to throw off the dark concerns of what was to come, I nodded. “Your terms.”
TWO HOURS LATER, I realized I should have been a whole lot more worried about Simon’s terms.
“Oh, my,” I whispered as I watched him descend the stairs.
I honestly wasn’t sure what I had been suspecting. I just knew I was in no way prepared for this. My curiosity had been killing me the whole time he’d been in the attic doing whatever it was he’d been doing. Telling me to leave him alone every time I’d gone to the base of the stairs and shouted up to see if he was all right, he’d insisted he’d be ready to leave by seven. He’d even showered and dressed in one of the third-floor rooms, just to make sure I wouldn’t peek.
“Well,” I muttered as he reached the bottom of the steps, “I’d definitely call that your terms.”
When I saw Simon dressed in his “costume” for the dance, I had to admit just how outrageous his terms were. Part of me wanted to shriek in fear. Another, stronger part, wanted to howl with laughter. Instead I just stood there stunned, wondering how on earth the residents of Trouble would react.
Finally, though, I couldn’t help applauding his ingenuity. I slowly began to clap. “Mr. Zangara, I presume?” I said as he reached the foyer and strode toward me in the old-fashioned black frock coat and trousers. The striped vest and white shirt beneath screamed 1930s wealth, which was, of course, the first hint of his persona.
“Where on earth did you get that thing on your face?” I asked, glancing toward the dead giveaway—the long, handlebar mustache drooping down each side of his mouth.
“Old wig.”
“And how’s it staying on? Heaven help you if you have to sneeze.”
“Spirit glue. Did you see the big case of theatrical makeup up there?”
I had but since I’d come equipped with my own makeup and quite enough hair, I hadn’t availed myself of any of the items in it.
Damn but the man was creative. Shaking my head and chuckling, I noted the slicked-back, brilliantine-shiny hair, the derby hat, the gold-fobbed walking stick. Right down to the antique black shoes on his feet.
“Think anyone’s going to realize who you’re supposed to be?” I asked, knowing better than to try to talk him out of this. He said he was going to Trouble on his terms and darned if he wasn’t doing it.
“I don’t particularly care,” he said with an even—if slightly dangerous—smile. “Ready?”
Taking his arm and nodding, I let him lead me outside. As he opened the door to the car and helped me in, he murmured, “Lottie, sweetheart, if any man comes within a foot of that cleavage of yours, I’m breaking his arms.”
Grabbing his neckcloth and tugging him down, I met his mouth in a quick kiss. “Simon, darling, if any woman lays a hand on your…stick…I’m scratching her eyes out.”
He pressed a quick, hot kiss on my mouth, then shut the door, leaving me to wonder. Was this laughing, flirtatious, mock-jealous man dressed in a ridiculous costume really the same angry stranger I’d met a week ago? I found it hard to believe, seeing only glimmers of the dark figure who’d tried to throw me out in the storm.
Simon was charming, protective, funny. Even as we got closer to town and I saw the way he stiffened in his seat, he still kept smiling, harassing me about my costume and offering to let me wear his coat all night.
“I’m quite fine in my coat,