“This is fucking stupid—it’s a book! I’ll have a new one delivered for you first thing tomorrow. What else do you want me to do? Tell me and I will.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
I open the door a bit wider, leaning closer, and looking straight into his eyes.
“Leave. Me. Alone.”
He flinches, brows falling helplessly. “I can’t do that.”
I shrug, channeling Miss Havisham’s cruel protégé, Estella, from Great Expectations.
“Then you’re not really sorry, are you?”
His fists clench and his body coils, like he wants to punch something. Strange, but I’m not the least bit afraid. Because to the depths of my soul I know without question that while Henry has hurt me, he would never, ever hurt me.
“If you didn’t mean to let me in, why the hell did you open the door in the first place?”
Estella’s smile tugs at my lips. “So I could do this.”
Then together, Estella and I slam the door in the Crown Prince’s face.
I WENT BACK TO MY room, lay in bed and tried to sleep through the annoying racket of the cameras—and failed. I’m scheduled to spend the morning filming with Penelope, which I take as a sign that perhaps God hasn’t completely written me off. Because Penelope is bubbly and outgoing and, unlike her sister, she likes me—she’s always liked me. Having her on my side may not get me into Sarah’s pants—though a man can dream—but it could help get me back into Sarah’s good graces.
Vanessa arranges us like Beach Barbie and Ken dolls. “Hold hands and walk slowly down the beach. Talk to each other and laugh like you’re having fun.”
I can’t believe I thought this shit-show would be a good time. Christ, I’m a moron.
Vanessa backs off and calls to the cameraman, “Hold the wide shot. Make sure you get that sunrise in the background.”
I take my chance with the younger Titebottum sister. “I wanted to talk to you about Sarah—”
“Are you miked?” She cuts me off, her smile frozen in place.
“Uh . . . no. Vanessa just wants the visual, no sound.”
“Good.” She stares off across the water. “Then there’ll be no one to witness me saying you’re a piece-of-shit bastard and I hope you die screaming.”
It’s conceivable Penelope doesn’t like me as much as I thought.
“Come again?”
“Prince or no prince, if I could, I would cut your balls off, ground them into a fine powder, mix them in water, and make you drink them.”
I swallow hard.
“That’s . . . creative.”
She’s still smiling serenely, making the entire exchange all the more bizarre. And unnerving.
“Have you all gone mad? Christ, it’s a bloody book!”
“Not to her. You see, Prince Prick,” she continues, “your family loves you. Whatever fucked-up intrigue or drama goes on in the palace, they truly love you. Not everyone has that. Our mother is off her rocker and our family wouldn’t give two shits if Sarah and I rolled off a cliff and disappeared forever. It’s always been that way. Except for dear Auntie Gertrude. She’s the only one who ever gave a damn about us. Before she died, she summoned Sarah and me to her estate to give us our inheritance, because she knew, despite her will, her arsehole children wouldn’t have.”
Penelope’s hand holds mine in a strangling death grip.
“Aunt Gertie gave me her jewels, because she said I was hard and sparkly. She gave Sarah her rare collection of books, because she said Sarah was a dreamer. She told her she could sell them for a pretty penny or keep them for herself—but either way, Sarah would have her dreams. They mean the world to my sister, and you tore one apart. Which makes you a big, fat, limp, useless dick.”
“I . . .”
Have no clue what to say.
The chance to reply passes when Vanessa moves in front of us, framing us with her fingers for the photographer beside her. “Get the still shots, Jerry. Gorgeous.”
Without missing a beat, Penny turns into my side, throws her arms around my neck, kicks up one leg behind her, and smiles bigly for the clicking camera.
Like a professional sociopath.
Fucking hell.
In the afternoon, I’m supposed to picnic with Laura in a flowered valley straight out of that awful Twilight film. I can’t bring myself to call these orchestrated excursions “dates,” even in my own mind. My sense of humor is not quite that delusional. In any case, the picnic is not happening. I have more important plans to execute.
Covert, off-camera plans.
And for them to happen, I need James.
He stands between the lighting tripods, arms crossed, eyes ever watchful.
“Here’s the deal,” I tell him quietly, “I’m bugging out for the afternoon. I’ll let you tail me as long as you hang back and,” I point toward Vanessa’s custom camera-pimped SUV, “as long as your men keep them from following. This one’s strictly off the grid. Agreed?”
His nod is quick and tight. “Of course, Sir.”
Half an hour later, Mission Ditch Matched is implemented successfully. And I’m in the convertible, with only James following behind, on my way to the library.
I find Willard in the catacombs of Concordia Library—Sarah explained this is where they do the preservation and restoration work. It’s two floors below ground level, but a surprisingly modern, well-lit, and dust-free white room. A precious little old woman with—thankfully for me—poor eyesight directed me here from the otherwise empty front desk area.