Free Priceless by Raine Miller Page A

away, I didn’t care.  Dirty clothes were not my problem right now, getting home was.  That and the thought I might be coming down with some kind of vile flu.  I was so lost right now, and it wasn’t just in the physical sense.
    I felt utterly exhausted and weak.  The energy expended in self-loathing and embarrassment had taken its toll on me.  I downed two more Nurofen to help with the massive pounding going on in my skull combined with the body aches, and gathered up my bag.
    What if I had to face Mr. Everley in person again?  I couldn’t.  I just didn’t have the strength to deal with that man at the moment.
    Or any moment.  Ever.
    M inutes later I was praying to this fact as I made my way down the grand staircase with my suitcase.  I gave it my best Spiderman-stealth-walk and made for the mudroom where everything had gone down last night.
    I needed my jacket and remembered he’d hung it up for me dripping wet after our mad dash from the garage through the rain.
    Yeah, just before he realized exactly who he’d brought into his home.
    He thinks you’re a prostitute trying to blackmail him.
    A wave of hysteria threatened to overturn me once m ore and I suddenly felt too overcome to fight it.  Just shrugging into my jacket was proving to be a major effort.  Thank God it had dried in the night.
    I headed for the door, still unsure of how I was go ing to make it back to my car.  The drive up last night from where I’d left it had to have been a couple of miles at least—
    “Good morning, Miss Hargreave .”
    I spun around to find Mr. Finnegan regarding me solemnly, sans smoking jacket.  He was dressed in the typical country gentleman uniform of corduroy and tweed.
    “You’re up very early,” he said gently, eyeballing my suitcase.  “Will you have some breakfast?”  He gestured his hand toward a lighted hallway.
    “ No, thank you,” I said in a pathetically feeble voice.  Mr. Finnegan must think I was the biggest freak in the world.  “I have to l-leave.”
    “Are you certain, my dear?  I have some fresh scones just out of the oven.  A mug of tea?   You must be starved by now.”
    His kindness broke me.
    Why couldn’t Mr. Finnegan have been the owner of this place and the plethora of artwork I was supposed to inventory?  I’d made an express effort to avoid looking at any of the paintings on the walls as I’d come down the stairs.  And there had been a shit ton of them to my great dismay.  I didn’t want to be distracted or waylaid on my course of fleeing, but still, it was really disappointing.
    I shook my head and knew I’d started crying again.  Between my blubbering , the frustration in realizing I’d never get to see any of the art, feeling like crap, and the injustice of having to beg, I managed to ask my question as I stood there silently weeping. “Mr. Finnegan, will you h-help me get back to my rental car?  P-please?  I just have to…get away from here—and then I’ll be gone—and…Mr. Everley won’t ever have to see me again.”
    I can say he was a gent leman about my emotional outburst.  And he didn’t try to pry my reasons for going out of me.  It looked like he might have rolled his eyes just a bit when I mentioned his employer’s name, though.  Whether he did or not, Mr. Finnegan calmly led me down to the garage and helped me into the same Range Rover I’d ridden in last night.
    Th e day was rain-free so far, and I hoped it would stay that way until my ass was planted in a seat at thirty thousand feet bound for London Heathrow.
    He drove me right to my Volkswagen rental, which hadn’t been swept over a cliff in the night, thank God, as if he’d known precisely where it would be parked.
    Maybe Mr. Everley had told him all about me , and he already knew about our shameful meeting at the gala, too.  At this point, with freedom in my sights, I didn’t even care.
    Mr. Finnegan did insist upon leading me out to the main road, and pointed me in the