He reached for the lipstick. The lid slid off, and it began to vibrate. He stilled. Swallowed.Shit.“Is this—”
“What it is, is none of your business. Just put it in the bag.”
Grinning, he did as she demanded and collected the remaining couple of items. A travel-size bottle of hot sauce, and a small book entitled:How to Make Friends (Even If You’re a Bit of an Asshole).It took every ounce of the good manners he’d been taught growing up not to remark on that last item as he dropped it in her purse.
Thedriver, clearly unfazed by the spectacle, popped the trunk, retrieved her luggage, and unceremoniously dropped the monogrammed bags next to the mud puddle with a dull thud. “There you go,” he said flatly.
“There will be no tip, and you can expect a scathing review on Yelp,” Frankie informed him.
“And I’ll make sure every Uber driver in the tri-state area blocks Francesca B.” He climbed back into the car, slammed the door, revved the engine, and sprayed her with dirty water as he peeled out.
“Unbelievable.” She flung a mud-streaked hand in the air. “You’ll be hearing from corporate, you hear me? Corporate!”
Marcus suppressed another laugh and took a step closer.
She yanked her foot free with a wet squelch, locked her fiery gaze onto him, and pointed an accusatory finger. “This is all your fault.”
Marcus raised a brow. “My fault? Did I choose your footwear this morning?”
“Oh, don’t play coy!”
“Coy is not in my toolbox.”
She inhaled an exaggerated breath and exhaled it just as theatrically. “I demand to speak to the landlord.”
“I’m overseeing the renovations,” Marcus said with a straight face. “The new owner won’t take possession until they’re completed.”
“You’re living here?” she asked incredulously, as if he looked better suited to a tent on the side of the road. “Do you have a name?”
“Marcus D Grant—”
“What does the D stand for?” she interrupted.
“The D is of no consequence,” he parroted, “but since you asked so nicely, it stands for Dick,” he lied. It stood for DeLuca, his family surname.
“Dick?” She looked at him like he’d just said his middle name was Ditherbum or Dweezil.
“Don’t you like Dick?”
“I love Dick.” Her cheeks flushed the moment she caught the innuendo.
“Now that we’ve got that all cleared up, let’s try the introductions again. Marcus D Grant. At your service.”
She rolled her eyes. “Service, my ass. If you were truly at my service, you’d have carried me from the car to the porch. And now you’re standing like a dick while I’m…I’m filthy, and my shoes are ruined.”
Marcus widened his stance and crossed his arms. “Do I not get credit for saving your precious bag? Which, by the way, is why I didn’t catch you before you fell.”
“Of course I chose to save it first. That Birkin costs more than you make in a year.”
The guilt he’d felt over manipulating her life lately vanished. Therapy had done zilch to humanize her. His messing with her was nothing compared to the way she no doubt treated people daily. “I cleared twentythousand last year; I doubt your purse cost that much.” Allowing her to believe he was a low-level employee of the manor would work in his favor.
“That’s all?” She sounded genuinely horrified. “How does one live on so little?” Clearly, he’d just placed himself lower on her totem pole.
“Easy. I live in the homes I renovate, so I have no overhead,” he lied. “I drive a company car.” He pointed to the used Jeep in the driveway. He’d purchased it before coming to Gi Gi’s Crossing. The fact that it was used and a little battered helped sell the disguise.
The last thing he wanted was for anyone in a struggling town to find out his real career. A venture capitalist. And God help him if they ever discovered the value of his diverse portfolio.
“I’ve even got an expense card,” he added. “Covers gas, food, and a modest clothing allowance.” He glanced down at his flannel shirt and jeans, both from the local hardware store. They were scratchy, dull, and wildly effective camouflage.
