At the Billionaire’s Wedding (17 page)

Her phone buzzed. “Bloody hell,” cried Pippa. Dance music throbbed behind her voice. “What the hell is going on?”

“Beats me, but it’s big.” She checked the clock. “Are you at a club at three in the afternoon?”

“But no one lives there! We used to traipse over the hill to have smokes when we were kids because it was deserted.” A high-pitched laugh shrilled in the background. “Hang on, let me see if Amaryllis knows.” The line went dead.

Natalie stayed where she was. After extensive trial and error and a great deal of cursing, she had mapped the irregular spots of cell coverage on the property. This spot right inside the kitchen door offered up to three bars, which was excellent by local standards. Near the window in the front bedroom upstairs one could usually get two bars, and the back bath sometimes got two. Pippa had warned her that she’d have to walk up the hill to get a steady three bars, or even four if the gods were feeling kind, but that was too much trouble. Natalie just left her phone in one of the more likely locations with the ringer turned up. Not that she wanted people to call her, as she was supposed to be a hermit these two months, but her mother would freak out if she didn’t answer.

A few minutes later the phone went off again. “Oh my God. I swear I had no idea—Amaryllis says the Melburys decided to renovate the house and turn it into a hotel or some such.” Pippa sounded mournful. “I am so sorry.”

“Is it open?”

“I have no idea! Amaryllis said they have a website now. Hang on a mo.”

Something butted Natalie’s elbow. Oliver, the resident cat, pushed his round head under her arm, demanding a good pet. She scratched his ears, careful not to step out of the tiny bubble of cell reception.

“Sorry,” said Pippa breathlessly. The noise behind her waned a bit. “Just ran into the coatroom. The house is called Brampton House. Google it, maybe you can find out what’s going on. Although honestly, the last time I saw that house it looked like the roof would fall in, so I can’t imagine how much work it needs.”

That would explain the many vans and trucks struggling up the road. Natalie let her head fall back and stuck out her tongue at the ceiling. Just her luck. Oliver meowed again and jumped down. He padded to the door and began circling expectantly, so she went to let him out. She wasn’t entirely sure Oliver belonged to Primrose Cottage, but there was a bag of cat food in the pantry. Because Paul was allergic, the Corcorans had never had a pet growing up, and Natalie found she rather liked it. Oliver was the perfect male: soft and furry, easy to feed, and he purred like a vibrator when someone scratched under his chin.

“So much for peace and quiet,” she said to Pippa. “Well. The hotel is a good mile away or more. If it needs that much work, it can’t be open yet, so I only have to suffer the traffic…” She threw open the door and Oliver bounded out, only to draw up short and hiss. Natalie stared in furious disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What?” Pippa demanded. “What did you say?”

“Just tell me where the hose is,” Natalie replied grimly. “There are two people—probably guests at the so-called hotel—having sex on your stepmother’s patio.”

It was a fifteen-minute walk to the gazebo, which did command a magnificent view as Mr. Delancey had promised. Unfortunately, the manager must have sent every other guest up the hill as well; three other people were already there when Archer reached it. A tall young man in a yellow hoodie was pacing in circles around the gazebo, talking computer code into his phone. A dark-haired girl was sprawled on one of the cushioned benches in the gazebo with her phone pressed to one ear, while an older woman was giving orders for dress alterations between hungry draws on a cigarette.

Archer walked upwind and pulled out his phone. To his relief it found signal and began downloading e-mail, though at a snail’s pace. The programmer circled him—“You’re killing the CPU by doing it that way…”—and the older woman lit a new cigarette—“I don’t want it down to my ruddy ankles, I’m not some crusty old dowager!”—while the girl began filing her nails—“I can’t believe we have this whole place for a week! It’s, like, really old and shit…”

He hit two-dozen messages and walked a few steps away, trying not to overhear. Ten more messages, when there were probably two hundred waiting to download. He scrolled through, deleting most of the e-mail as banal or unimportant, but they were all from the previous night. One by one, ten more appeared on the screen. The programmer came around again, this time agitated and waving one hand—“I don’t want it to call the server that often, it will crash the whole app!”—the older woman had moved on from the length of her dress to worse—“I want some beading. What do you think? Would beading around the neckline make me look jowly?”—and the younger woman fished out a beer from a cooler beneath her bench—“Check it out! I think I can see Windsor Castle from here! Do you want me to send you a picture?”

Archer eyed the signal indicator. Three bars, flickering up to four from time to time. He drifted a little farther down the far side of the hill. If Brampton House was in a valley, shielded from cell service by that hill, then there ought to be cell service many places on the other side of the hill, not just at the top. The signal held and he walked on, watching the messages slowly accumulate. The ground flattened out into a broad gentle slope of lawn. He was almost at the bottom of the hill, but he could still hear the older woman going on about her dress: “It has to match the shoes! Don’t do the damn beading if it won’t match the shoes!” He kept walking.

There was a line of trees, with a thin trail leading through and beyond it. Still scrolling through messages, Archer absently followed it. A muffled noise caught his attention, and then another. He looked up, and did a double take. Just behind the trees, a guy was lying on his back in the grass, with a girl grinding on top of him. She was clothed—barely—but her skirt hid any proof of actual intercourse. Whatever was going on under her skirt, both of them were obviously enjoying themselves a great deal. Archer averted his eyes and went the other way.

It was blessedly quiet out here and the air was crisp and fresh. For the first time he started to see why Jane Sparks had liked the place enough to drag her friends and family across an ocean. It was remote, sure, but that also meant privacy. Just last week Duke and Jane had struck a deal with a major magazine for exclusive wedding photos in exchange for a generous donation to Jane’s favorite charity, and having it in the middle of nowhere would make it harder for the paparazzi to find them. Archer made a mental note to keep an eye out for anyone suspicious; it would certainly be easy for someone to sneak through the woods and angle a telephoto lens on Brampton House.

And then, out of nowhere, an alert popped onto his screen, asking if he wanted to join a Wi-Fi network. Archer stopped in his tracks. He tapped an app on his phone, and realized the Wi-Fi signal was nice and strong. It was also, unfortunately, password protected.

He deliberated. It was probably unneighborly to steal someone’s Wi-Fi, but he had no idea where the neighbor actually was. It wasn’t even his neighbor. He tried a few common passwords, none of which worked. Well, if he couldn’t stealthily join the network, maybe he could talk his way in.

The track curved and wound through a meadow, where the grass was taller. A tall hedge ran along the side, and he realized it screened the road to Brampton House. So this was what lay on the other side of all those trees. Now that he wasn’t risking life and limb along the twisting road, Archer could acknowledge that it was picturesque. Still very remote and primitive for a techie wedding, but beautiful.

Around a bend in the path he found the source of the Wi-Fi signal. A house of gray stone sat in the middle of a garden, with a small patio facing him. And—he actually stopped walking and took a deep breath—the most heavenly smell drifted from the open windows.

Led by his nose, he walked right up to the edge of the patio. It smelled of chocolate and coffee, and made him realize he hadn’t eaten lunch, nor anything else today other than a wholly inadequate roll from an airport kiosk, washed down with a bottle of warm water. Oh God, what he wouldn’t give for a good cup of coffee right now, and if it came with a slice of chocolate cake—

The door opened with a bang, and a woman stalked out toward him. A very attractive woman, with light brown curls bouncing around her head and a mesmerizing sway to her hips. Archer started to smile, but it fell off his face as she drew near. “Whoa!”

“This is private property,” she said acidly in an unmistakably American accent.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” He took a step backward and kept his eyes on the large meat cleaver she was pointing at him. “There’s no sign marking the boundary of the hotel grounds.”

She seemed to bristle. “You’re staying at the hotel?”

“Yes,” he said warily. Her tone indicated that was not a mark in his favor.

“What the hell is going on up there?” She waved her free hand at the road. “A dozen trucks a day go up and down that road.”

“Just a wedding.” He kept his voice calm and unthreatening. She was holding the cleaver like she knew how to use it.

“A wedding. It’s not even supposed to be open!” She shook her head, and curls spilled over her face. She swiped them back, and shaded her eyes to peer up the hill. Unthinkingly Archer gave her another quick once-over. A long white apron hid most of her, but her fitted shirt showed off a nice pair of breasts. On her feet she wore clogs, but her legs to the knee were bare. Cleaver aside, she was damn fine.

“Could you please tell everyone else at the hotel that this house, and this garden, are not part of the hotel grounds? If I find one more jackass out here—”

“I don’t recommend you cleaver them, even if they trespass,” he said when she pursed her lips in disgruntlement.

“What?” She stared up at him. He’d thought her eyes were brown, but now he saw they were more hazel, with gold and green sparks and only brown around the edges.

“The…” He motioned with one hand, still upraised in the universal gesture of surrender. “The meat cleaver. I don’t think English law would pardon the use of a cleaver even on a very rude trespasser.”

“Oh.” She looked at it, and her face eased. All the hard lines of fury disappeared, and the look she gave him was almost sheepish. “Sorry about that. I was chopping up a chicken for pot pie when I saw you.”

“And here I thought I smelled chocolate and coffee,” he said. “It must be the English countryside.”

She laughed—just for a moment, but enough to make his breath catch. When she smiled, she was gorgeous. “No, it’s coffee and chocolate now. Chicken later, if Oliver doesn’t eat it.” Her eyes grew round. “Oh my God, if that cat eats my chicken—”

“That cat?” By a lucky stroke, he’d caught sight of a big gray cat napping in the sun at the edge of the patio. When the woman whirled around to see where he pointed, then exhaled in relief, Archer felt an irrational burst of relief himself. Oliver was a cat, not a guy. He wanted her to stay and keep talking to him. Preferably without the cleaver raised in his direction.

“Yes,
that
cat. He likes to help himself…” Her voice tapered off and she stood a little straighter. The smile disappeared from her face. “I’m sorry it looked like I was going to chop off your head. People from the hotel have been wandering down here and making themselves at home.”

“There’s no cell service there. The manager is telling everyone to go to the top of the hill, and it’s gotten a bit crowded. I was just in search of peace and quiet.” He showed her his phone as if it would prove his innocent intentions.

Her lips quirked. “And the couple having sex on the lounger awhile ago? I didn’t see any phones, but maybe they’d left them in their clothes.”

“You’re kidding.” She gave him a dour look, and he choked back a laugh. Apparently the horny couple had retreated to the woods only after being chased off the patio. “Okay, I have no reply to that. But I swear I was just trying to check my e-mail.” He decided to take a gamble. “In fact, I noticed you’re broadcasting a nice, strong Wi-Fi signal. Is there any chance you’d be willing to let me borrow your network…?”

“No.” She turned and headed back toward the house.

Archer scrambled after her, shoving his phone into his pocket. “The entire hotel has no Internet service; technical issues with the cables or something. I brought a lot of work with me that I just have to get done. There’s a woman on top of the hill right now, shouting into her phone about beads on her dress, and whether they’ll make her look jowly or not.”

“Too bad,” she said without turning her head. “Not my problem.”

“Of course not, but I’m not asking to impose on you. I can work out of sight. I’ll pay your Internet bill for the month,” he added in desperation.

She had reached the door of the house. This close to the windows, the scent of coffee and chocolate was intoxicating, and overwhelming. He felt like a junkie, shaking and salivating at the prospect of a fix. And his phone was still laboring to download messages at the slow, slow speed of British rural data networks. But the woman stopped on the step, barring the door, and crossed her arms in an unmistakable refusal. “No. I don’t know you, I don’t know who you are, but the answer is no. First it’s just you, then half the hotel guests will be here. I do not need anyone hanging out around the patio, for Wi-Fi or afternoon sex or anything else.”

“Uh.” He blinked, distracted by the way she said “afternoon sex” with a tart lilt that made him wonder how opposed she really was to the idea. He was lightheaded from hunger and the tantalizing smell of chocolate, but mentioning afternoon sex was really unfair on her part. Now he had to think about it. And the way she folded her arms plumped up her breasts even more. “Right. But I swear to God I won’t tell a soul where I’m getting Internet access. I don’t know ninety-nine percent of them anyway.”

Her brows went up in disbelief. “Really? Then why are you here?” She went inside and closed the door.

Archer jumped to the open window. “For work,” he called in.