The Ring on Her Finger (33 page)

He was wrong, of course. Yes, she had misled him, and yes, she had lied. But her love for him was honest, and it was real. In many ways, her love for Max was the only thing she’d ever had in her life that felt honest or real. How to make him understand that, though...

She went wooden as the man behind her tugged her hands from around Max’s neck and pulled them behind her back. She heard the soft click of handcuffs, felt the cool steel wrapping around her wrists, but none of it seemed real. What did feel real was the vast darkness that spilled through her when Max released her and dropped his hands to his sides.

“I can explain,” she said miserably. Speaking to the man over her shoulder, but still looking at Max, she said, “Please. Give me a chance to explain. Just a few minutes. That’s all.”

Surprisingly, the man released her shoulder. But he didn’t move away.

Max continued to gaze at her with empty eyes. “What the hell is going on, Lucy?”

She searched for words to describe the chain of events that led her here, but before she could find any, Phoebe embarked on an explanation of her own.

“What’s going on?” she repeated. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. Dave’s going to lose every one of his eleven frigging toes when I get my hands on him.” She turned to the man who had slipped the cuffs on Lucy. “Who the hell do you think you are, Efrem Frigging Zimbalist, Jr.? You can’t put cuffs on her. She’s a frigging Hollander. She comes from one of the oldest, most honorable, wealthiest,” she added, because if there was one thing Phoebe knew, it was that money talked, “families in Rhode Island. Her father could buy the entire frigging FBI if he wanted to. Her ancestors came over on the frigging Mayflower. Now are you going to take those frigging cuffs off of her, or will I have to resort to stronger language than ‘frigging,’ you frigger?”

Lucy heard nothing from the man in response, so assumed he wasn’t swayed by her friend’s threats.

With a much put-upon sigh, Phoebe turned back to Lucy. “Are you okay? Man, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck here for a month, working as a housekeeper. I’m sorry you had to go through such an ordeal, Lucy. I honestly didn’t think it would take this long to work things out. Not that they’ve worked out,” she added meaningfully, glaring at the man behind Lucy. “Yeesh, I don’t know what’s worse, being suspected of murder or having to work as a housekeeper. How did you stand it? I mean, I know I run the company and everything, and, hey, some of my best friends are housekeepers—my own mother included—but, really, it amazes me what my employees—not to mention my own mother—will do for a living. It must have been hell for you, living the way you’ve had to live here.”

She expelled a sound of disgust and gave a visible shudder of distaste. “But it’s okay now,” she continued. “Dave promised all you have to do is talk to these goons, and everything will be fine. They found that moron Archie, and he says you’re innocent, but you need to come back so he can prove that. Oh, and God knows why, but he said to be sure and bring that hideous ring he gave you. Actually, he didn’t use the word ‘hideous,’ but I mean, how can anyone talk about that hideous ring without using the word ‘hideous,’ you know? It would be like mentioning the word ‘Archie’ without the word ‘moron,’ and that’s just not going to happen.”

Lucy said nothing. She knew her friend was trying to make her feel better, but with every word she’d uttered, Max’s expression had darkened more. He said nothing, either. Not that he really needed to say anything. His anger was almost palpable. Worse, so was his pain. It was coming off of him in waves.

“Where is the hideous ring, anyway?” Phoebe continued, clearly oblivious to the turmoil she was wreaking. “I see you were finally able to remove it. That must have been a load off. Literally.”

“It’s in my apartment,” Lucy said. “In the carriage house. In the top middle drawer of the dresser in the bedroom.” At her admission, one of the other men headed in that direction.

She was about to say more, but Phoebe continued relentlessly, “You’ll be home just in time for Sissy Devane’s housewarming. Well, mansion-warming, actually. Not that her house is any bigger than yours. But it’ll be a good way to chase away all the bad memories of the past month. Once you’re back in Newport, you can forget you ever set foot in this place.”

Lucy listened helplessly as Phoebe prattled on and Max looked more and more desolate. She told herself it was inevitable. He was bound to have found out eventually what kind of life she lived away from Harborcourt. Maybe he could have learned it with a little more tact, but he would have drawn the same conclusions he was drawing now, even if Lucy had been the one to explain.

When Phoebe finally stopped talking, he said, very softly, “You, uh...you don’t usually make your living as a housekeeper?”

Lucy shook her head.

Phoebe barked with laughter. “Oh, please. She doesn’t have to work for a living. Her family is worth millions. She does volunteer work for the Junior League to fill her time.”

“Phoebe, stop,” Lucy said.

She threw her friend an entreating look, and only then did Phoebe finally seem to understand that Lucy was worried about a lot more than the handcuffs circling her wrists. She gave Lucy a puzzled look, then turned her attention to Max, who she seemed to finally notice was an incredibly handsome man. She looked at Lucy again, then at Max. When she turned back to Lucy, she was gaping softly and blushing. Phoebe finally understood. And that, if nothing else, left her finally silent.

“And your name isn’t really Lucy French,” Max said, stating, rather than asking now.

“No, it’s Lucy...Lucinda...Hollander.”

“And you’re not from Roanoke.”

“No. Rhode Island.”

“And you obviously didn’t grow up the same way I did.”

“No,” she said miserably. “Not in the economic sense, anyway.”

He eyed her in thoughtful silence for a moment. Then, very quietly, he said, “You told me you didn’t wear white lace for your debut.”

“I didn’t,” she replied just as quietly, feeling sick to her stomach. “I wore white silk.”

He nodded, but his jaw clenched tight. “Good to know there was something you didn’t lie about.”

“Max, I never meant to lie to you,” she said, pleading now. “I had no choice. Things just got really—”

“So I guess we really were playing the Chauffeur and the Heiress all along, weren’t we?”

“Oh, Max.”

“Or was it the Murderer and the Chauffeur?” he asked coolly.

She managed to scrape up a little indignation at that. Not much. But some. “We weren’t playing either of those things. It wasn’t like that.”

He nodded dispassionately. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I guess what we were really playing was the Fugitive from Justice and the Schmuck Who Loved Her.”

Lucy closed her eyes but said nothing.

“When did you plan to tell me the truth?” he asked. “Hell, did you ever plan to tell me the truth?”

“I was trying to just now.”

“Yeah, because the cops were hot on your trail.”

“I would have told you,” she said feebly.

“Would you? And even if you had, even if you weren’t wanted on a murder charge, for God’s sake...” He punctuated the comment with a strangled chuckle. “How long would it have been before you got tired of all this and wanted to go home?”

“I am home,” she told him.

“No. You’re not. You’re not home, and you’re not...” He shook his head slowly and fixed his gaze on hers. “You’re not who I thought you were.”

“Yes, I am.” Tears began to sting her eyes. “Max, I—”

“No. You’re not.”

“Max, please...”

“Go,” he said, taking a step backward. Then he laughed joylessly at his own remark. “As if you have a choice.”

He lifted a hand and covered his eyes, rubbing his forehead hard. Without another word, without another glance, he spun around and began to walk back toward the carriage house.

“Max!” Lucy called after him.

Another man joined the first and, each of them gripping one of her arms, began to walk her backward in the opposite direction.

“Max!” she tried again.

But he continued on his way, not looking back once.

WWDD? Lucy asked herself as she watched him go. That was another easy one. First, Dino would fix a drink. Then he’d fix another. And another. And another and another and another. Then he’d call Sinatra and the boys, but they probably wouldn’t answer. Then he’d be carted off to jail. And then he’d slur out a rousing rendition of “Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone.”

Oh, God. Oh, Max...

“I’ll call you!” she shouted lamely. “We really do need to talk!”

But she was pretty sure Max didn’t hear her. He was too busy walking out of her life for good.

He really was a schmuck.

As Max lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, balancing an exceptionally bad, warm beer on his belly, he called himself every version of fool he could think of. Jerk. Dork. Imbecile. Blockhead. Bonehead. Pinhead. Nitwit. Dimwit. Half-wit. Twit. Oh, yeah. He could be here for a while. And hey, since talking to Sylvie a couple weeks ago, he’d remembered a lot of Italian and some French too. He could call himself an idiot in three languages. Ignorant dolt. Sciocco ignaro. Cancre idiot. He was just getting warmed up.

He watched the setting sun stretch long rays of orange, yellow and pink over the whitewashed walls of his bedroom and wondered why he was so surprised by the day’s events. How could he have been dumb enough to think things with Lucy would go well? How could he have been thinking maybe he’d done enough penance for his sins, and that maybe he’d finally earned a shot at happiness? How could he have believed that she was his reward for having lived so long with so little? Hell, all she was was a new kind of torture. And this one really would make his life intolerable. Because now he knew how good life could be. Now he knew what it was to be truly happy. And now he knew what it felt like to have that ripped from him for good.

At worst, Lucy was a cold-blooded murderer. At best, she was a wealthy, glamorous heiress who came from a world to which Max absolutely did not belong. Either way, she wasn’t the woman he thought she was. Either way, she wasn’t a woman for him.

Obviously, he hadn’t completed his penance for his sins. Obviously, his penance was just beginning. Regardless of whether Lucy was guilty of the crime she’d been charged with or not—though, truly, Max knew she wasn’t—there was no way Lucinda Hollander could ever be a part of his life, or he a part of hers. And Lucy French... Well. Lucy French didn’t exist.

Yep, he was a schmuck all right. A schmuck who loved a fugitive from justice. He wondered if reality TV had a place for him on some freak show. Because, at the moment, Max didn’t feel like he belonged anywhere else.

“Oh, my, you are a lovely creature, aren’t you?”

Still dressed in the floral jumper and sandals she’d worn to take Abby to the park that morning, Rosemary stroked the muzzle of the newest member of Justin Cove’s stables. The mare towered over her, its chestnut coat gleaming, its black mane glossy, its dark eyes bright and intelligent. She could certainly understand why her employer made a wager to win the beast, whatever the cost. She just wished he had been decent enough to wager something besides his daughter’s nanny.

Rosemary had thought briefly about quitting her job after the terms of the wager were brought to light. But she could no more abandon Abby than she could her own child. So stay she would, even with the awkwardness of the situation. The elder Coves weren’t exactly lovable people to begin with, so it wasn’t like she would be losing anything with regard to her relationship to them. They had never commanded her respect or loyalty—that was all given to Abby. So Rosemary decided to continue as she had since coming to work for them and simply do her best to avoid them when she could.

She wished she could avoid thoughts of Nathaniel as easily.

Unfortunately, the last two weeks had been filled with memories of him and the time they spent together. As much as she tried, it was impossible for her to hate him. Whatever he might be in truth, for a little while in her heart, he had been someone else. Someone who made her happy. Someone who made her forget the difficult times of her past. Someone she was able to love.

The horse had been delivered that morning, a crisp, blue Saturday, two weeks to the day after Justin Cove lost his bet with Nathaniel, and Rosemary lost so much more. Now it was late afternoon, and surprisingly quiet at the house. Alexis had taken Abby to see a specialist in dyslexia, and the little girl hadn’t balked at all. Discovering Miss Lucy suffered from the same condition she did, knowing she wasn’t alone in her challenges, had brought a huge change in Abby’s behavior. For the past two weeks, she’d spent hours tagging after the housekeeper, asking questions about Lucy’s childhood and learning more about herself. Lucy had forged a bond with the child like none anyone else had managed. She’d reached Abby on a level even Rosemary hadn’t been able to reach. And Rosemary loved Lucy even more for it.

Rosemary wondered where she was. She hadn’t seen a sign of her since returning from the park with Abby just as Alexis was returning from the salon. Abby had literally climbed from one car into the other, and Alexis had driven off again, with barely enough time to make their appointment. Max, too, seemed to be making himself scarce.

She smiled. Well, of course they’d be making themselves scarce, with their employers gone. Rosemary knew exactly where the two lovebirds were. They were where they’d been every time they found a free moment together. Rosemary just hoped they found a place more accommodating than the linen closet this time. She was still finding stray pillow feathers in the hallway.

Thinking of Lucy and Max naturally reminded Rosemary of herself and Nathaniel, and how they might have had a chance to scatter some pillow feathers of their own if things had been different. How long would it take before every thought in her head stopped leading to memories of him?

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”

When she first heard his voice, Rosemary was sure she must have imagined it, since she had just been thinking about him and wishing for what could never be. But when she heard the soft rustle of straw behind her, she turned to find Nathaniel standing in a slice of dusty sunlight that slashed through the door behind him.