Page 60 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

Three Days Before the Showcase

“The security gate opens up into the property. Pull all the way up. I’ll punch in the code,” Dash croaked. His voice barely passed for human.

The driver nodded and inched the luxury sedan up until the security keypad was right outside Dash’s window. He typed in the digits and the wrought iron gate to Miranda and Cecil’s estate opened. A pre-dawn gray painted the property. Dash hadn’t slept a wink and his body felt like wet cement.

Cecil stood waiting in the driveway, dressed in his robe and cowboy boots, and flanked by several suitcases. Dash and the driver exited the car at the same time.

"Morning, Cecil," Dash spoke, his voice a gravelly whisper.

Cecil shook his hand with a sympathetic wince. "You look and sound like holy hell."

"Let the record show that Dash Benning follows through on his word—even without a voice."

"Say Uncle and we'll end it here. You've made good on our bet. Miranda's a big girl. She can fly solo to Chicago for this shindig."

"And give her the chance to say I didn't go the distance? No way. A bet is a bet. I'll be okay." Dash fell into a fit of deep coughing that lasted a full minute.

"Well, use it to your advantage. If you can't respond, maybe she won't talk your ear off." Cecil squeezed Dash's shoulder.

The two men talked as the driver forced Miranda’s mountain of luggage into the trunk of the car.

"That's just her makeup," Cecil warned. "She's still got two steamer trunks to load."

"I guess we'll have to strap them to the roof," Dash said.

"Like hell. They're Louis Vuitton. For what I paid for those, you can strap Miranda to the roof. Those suckers are riding inside."

Miranda appeared a few moments later, fresh, radiant, and too energetic for the early hour. Dash couldn't help but smile.

"Kiss me, darlin’. If we don't get on the road in thirty seconds, we won't have time to stop for coffee," she said, patting Cecil’s chest.

"Your favorite caramel macchiato is iced, ready, and waiting. I had the driver stop on the way," Dash announced with what little voice he had left.

"Good lord, what happened to you?" She eyed him with motherly concern, then pressed a hand to his forehead. "You sound horrible. I think you're running a fever."

"I'm fine,” he insisted. “Nothing an Irish coffee won't cure."

"You look a little like roadkill, honey. I want you to skip tonight’s dinner party. I need my foxy-fox in tip-top shape for tomorrow's gala."

“Foxy-fox?” Dash questioned.

“Did I not tell you? The opera gala is masquerade-themed this year.”

Dash shot a look at Cecil. “She’s not serious.”

Cecil held up his hands. “Hey, don’t look at me. I offered you an out and you didn’t take it.”

Miranda patted Dash’s shoulder. “You’re going to love the fox mask I had made for you … unless, of course, you don’t think you’ll feel well enough to⁠—”

"Miranda, my love, have I ever let you down?" Dash asked.

The ride to the airport was quiet. Miranda sipped her coffee and Dash watched the city waking up. His mind on overdrive, he welcomed the lack of conversation, but only for a while.

"Miranda?" he finally asked.

"Hmm?" she uttered, not looking up from her phone.

"How did you know Cecil was the one?"