“Surely, in this century, a woman can open a car door without help.” Hat and scarf off, she sits back in the seat. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Shooting her a smile, I pull into traffic.
About a mile into the drive, she taps my hand resting on the stick shift. “In front of my mother, please don’t hold back your gentlemanly skills. If you could, have horns and trumpets announce my arrival.”
She holds a straight face but her eyes dance merrily. “Home, James.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” I drive east for almost an hour until the Google lady states, “You have arrived.”
Bloody right.Two medieval-like towers loom, the only break in a ten-foot stone wall that stretches for miles.
While I idle in front of the spiked-top gate, Calliope grabs her cell phone, presses an application and says, “Open sesame.”
“Aladin?”
I turn expecting more sass, but for the first time she appears nervous. “No, it’s from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.”
A solenoid buzzes, a motor whirs, and the gate splits in the middle.
I circle a long drive while she barks out with her hands spread wide, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Bradford-Clarke estate. To the left, you’ll see the famous stables where Ms. Calliope fell off her horse and broke her arm. The tennis court, to the right, is where she spent summers unsuccessfully trying to hit a small green orb, and that’s the old carriage house.”
Her voice lowers and I need to strain to hear over the car’s engine. “...where she would read for hours on end, hidden away from the world.”
A little shrug is followed by an unfocused stare at a mansion on a hill in the distance. My cock, at half mast since meeting her, stirs. Bloody hell. It was better when she was a just a New England socialite. Her small confession makes her seem too vulnerable, too human, and the urge to protect becomes more than a job.
I am so fucked.
Easing the SUV between snowbanks, we pass a fountain, some perfectly shaped pines, and several species of spindly armed fruit trees.
Callie wrings her mittens in her lap and her mouth grows tight as she views the six white columns ahead. I wish I could comfort her but have no idea what to say.
After I cut the engine, a young gent runs from a side entrance and opens her door. Then, he runs around the front and takes the key from me.
Callie holds out her elbow. “Escort me in. We’re about to meet the queen mum. Try not to hold her gaze for too long and for heaven’s sakes, don’t argue with her.”
I grab my suit bag out of the back. “Should I curtsey?”
“I’ll let you know.” Taking a deep breath, she rings the doorbell.
A bald man in a dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie answers the door. “Miss Calliope. How lovely to see you again.”
She gives him a quick hug, eyes darting about. “Pat, you look wonderful, as always. Where is Mother?”
“In the drawing room.” He eyes me for the first time. “You’re the bodyguard?”
Callie breaks in, mimicking Sean Connery. “He’s Bond, James Bond, MI-6, but don’t tell anyone.”
Snickering, I hand the perplexed butler my suit bag. “That’s my costume for this evening.”
He and Callie share a worried glance but I take her hand and squeeze it. “Don’t worry. I promise your mother will be thrilled.”
“Wanna bet?”
Not really, but Grayson assured me the costume was authentic.
We walk down a grand hallway with Renaissance art on either side, more museum than home.
At the end, we stop at a large entryway where the butler slides open an oak panel and leans in, “Your daughter has arrived, ma’am.”
