Read Online The Ring on Her Finger by Elizabeth Bevarly - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Bevarly
Tags: General Fiction
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never—be his. Adding Lucy to the mix, knowing she would never—could never—be his only compounded that punishment. He ought to be overjoyed by her arrival.
After wiping off his hands as best he could, he tossed the rag into a basket with the rest of his dirty laundry—well, the dirty laundry he could see, anyway—then switched off the lights. In the bluish end-of-day light that filtered through the carriage house windows, he almost felt as if he’d been carried back in time. Justin didn’t keep any cars out here that had been built after World War II, and from where Max stood, he could see first the Bugatti, then the 1933 Duesenberg SJ Arlington Torpedo sedan, then the 1937 Mercedes-Benz 540K Special coupe, an exceptionally beautiful machine. And then came the 1930 Isotta-Fraschini 8A SS cabriolet, with its spectacular radiator mascot, an Art Deco angel with wings spread back and arms stretched forward, as if she were reaching for the sky itself.
Then, suddenly, Max was thinking about Lucy again.
He expelled a soft sound of frustration, raked an oily hand through his hair, and tried to banish the thought. He remembered he hadn’t had supper and wondered if he could catch Mrs. Hill or Rosemary up at the big house. He remembered, too, the way Lucy had looked at him earlier that afternoon, the clear curiosity etched on her face when he’d been reluctant to enter the kitchen. He hadn’t known what to say to her then, so he hadn’t said anything except that entering the house wasn’t allowed.
But that wasn’t because Justin and Alexis didn’t want him in the house, as he was certain Lucy had concluded. It was because Max didn’t allow himself there. The place reminded him of too many things he’d just as soon forget, of a life he’d never have again. A life he didn’t deserve, or even want, so what was the big deal? Still, he wondered if Mrs. Hill or Rosemary might still be up there, and if they’d bring him something to eat. If not... Well, he probably had a box of crackers or something in the apartment.
Or maybe he could see if Lucy—
No. He couldn’t do that.
The clock hanging at the far end of the carriage house read nearly nine-thirty—boy, time flew when you were working on beautiful cars and thinking about pretty housekeepers—so he knew Mrs. Hill would be gone. Rosemary, too, would probably have turned in by now, because she never strayed far from Abby once the girl was in bed.
His stomach rumbled softly. He wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he had something to eat. Ah, what the hell? Justin had made it clear when he hired him that Max had the run of the house. Of course, Alexis had quickly countered that that meant the public rooms only. Not that Max had ever considered any part of Harborcourt to be public, since the Coves restricted guests to only the cream of polite society. Still, he shouldn’t feel uncomfortable in a house where he’d been told he was welcome, right? Especially since there had been a time when he’d been the cream of polite society himself. Well, society, anyway. He’d never much been considered polite back then. And maybe he’d been more of the spoiled cream. Still, he shouldn’t feel uncomfortable in Harborcourt. Even if he did.
When he rang the bell at the back of the house, it was—of course—Lucy who opened the back door to him. She still wore her clothes of earlier in the day, and Max’s gaze went right to the scooped neck of her top. Immediately, he found himself wanting to run his open mouth along first one delicate collarbone, then the other, to see if she tasted as sweet as she looked. Oh, yeah, he was getting hungrier by the minute. But not for the dinner he’d initially come for.
“Hi,” Lucy said.
He told himself it must just be a trick of the light, the way her eyes seemed brighter and her cheeks looked rosier, and her lips appeared plumper than they had that afternoon. Then he remembered that it was nighttime and there was no light to be
After wiping off his hands as best he could, he tossed the rag into a basket with the rest of his dirty laundry—well, the dirty laundry he could see, anyway—then switched off the lights. In the bluish end-of-day light that filtered through the carriage house windows, he almost felt as if he’d been carried back in time. Justin didn’t keep any cars out here that had been built after World War II, and from where Max stood, he could see first the Bugatti, then the 1933 Duesenberg SJ Arlington Torpedo sedan, then the 1937 Mercedes-Benz 540K Special coupe, an exceptionally beautiful machine. And then came the 1930 Isotta-Fraschini 8A SS cabriolet, with its spectacular radiator mascot, an Art Deco angel with wings spread back and arms stretched forward, as if she were reaching for the sky itself.
Then, suddenly, Max was thinking about Lucy again.
He expelled a soft sound of frustration, raked an oily hand through his hair, and tried to banish the thought. He remembered he hadn’t had supper and wondered if he could catch Mrs. Hill or Rosemary up at the big house. He remembered, too, the way Lucy had looked at him earlier that afternoon, the clear curiosity etched on her face when he’d been reluctant to enter the kitchen. He hadn’t known what to say to her then, so he hadn’t said anything except that entering the house wasn’t allowed.
But that wasn’t because Justin and Alexis didn’t want him in the house, as he was certain Lucy had concluded. It was because Max didn’t allow himself there. The place reminded him of too many things he’d just as soon forget, of a life he’d never have again. A life he didn’t deserve, or even want, so what was the big deal? Still, he wondered if Mrs. Hill or Rosemary might still be up there, and if they’d bring him something to eat. If not... Well, he probably had a box of crackers or something in the apartment.
Or maybe he could see if Lucy—
No. He couldn’t do that.
The clock hanging at the far end of the carriage house read nearly nine-thirty—boy, time flew when you were working on beautiful cars and thinking about pretty housekeepers—so he knew Mrs. Hill would be gone. Rosemary, too, would probably have turned in by now, because she never strayed far from Abby once the girl was in bed.
His stomach rumbled softly. He wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he had something to eat. Ah, what the hell? Justin had made it clear when he hired him that Max had the run of the house. Of course, Alexis had quickly countered that that meant the public rooms only. Not that Max had ever considered any part of Harborcourt to be public, since the Coves restricted guests to only the cream of polite society. Still, he shouldn’t feel uncomfortable in a house where he’d been told he was welcome, right? Especially since there had been a time when he’d been the cream of polite society himself. Well, society, anyway. He’d never much been considered polite back then. And maybe he’d been more of the spoiled cream. Still, he shouldn’t feel uncomfortable in Harborcourt. Even if he did.
When he rang the bell at the back of the house, it was—of course—Lucy who opened the back door to him. She still wore her clothes of earlier in the day, and Max’s gaze went right to the scooped neck of her top. Immediately, he found himself wanting to run his open mouth along first one delicate collarbone, then the other, to see if she tasted as sweet as she looked. Oh, yeah, he was getting hungrier by the minute. But not for the dinner he’d initially come for.
“Hi,” Lucy said.
He told himself it must just be a trick of the light, the way her eyes seemed brighter and her cheeks looked rosier, and her lips appeared plumper than they had that afternoon. Then he remembered that it was nighttime and there was no light to be
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