The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(41)

Then there was also the matter of Cleopatra happening to have enticing ankles.

“Mr. Thorne? You wanted to see me regarding the design plans?”

Startling, Adair looked to the head builder overseeing the reconstruction of the Hell and Sin. Large sheets open in his hands, the builder, Phippen, stared expectantly back at Adair. He silently cursed. “I did.” Withdrawing the pages from inside his jacket front, he unfolded the designs. “I wanted to make changes to the earlier agreed-upon plans.” Holding them out, he guided the builder toward the back of the hell. “We’d originally had private tables set along the back. I’d have that area moved.”

Then you give them a place for that. Apart from your main floors.

He glanced over to see if Phippen followed his requests. Brow wrinkled, the young builder blotted his forehead with the back of his forearm. “And the hazard and faro tables?”

“They’ll remain, as we’d originally discussed. The deviation will be that private tables are now scattered between, along both sides of the club.”

“Hmph.” That single-syllable utterance conveyed his disapproval, and also an inability to challenge Adair. Unlike Cleopatra . . . who was part of Adair’s world, more than the businessman before him. Regardless of her age, gender, or connection to Killoran, the woman was right. He swallowed a groan. He’d come here with the purpose of setting Cleopatra from his thoughts. Instead, since he’d arrived more than ten hours ago, she’d maintained a manaclelike grip over his thoughts.

“Do you have the space to add private rooms with tables?” he asked Phippen impatiently.

Studying the page in Adair’s hands, he stared a long while. “It will be difficult.”

Difficult but not impossible. “We own the adjoining building,” he reminded him. There should be space aplenty for the requested changes.

“There is a problem with that.”

Of course there was. Nothing had gone right since his club had burned down. “What is it?” he asked. Folding up the revised plans he’d made, he tucked them back inside his jacket.

Near Adair in height, the architect, who’d not hesitated to take part in the building when it was called for, gave no hint of unease at Adair’s sharp tone.

Holding up the plans in his own grip, the other man directed Adair’s focus to the area in question. “This wall here.” Phippen adjusted the page in his hand, attempting to point at the same time. Muttering to himself, the builder again shifted the sheets in his hand. “That is . . . here.” He gave another awkward jab.

Wordlessly, Adair took the page and stalked up the cracked steps. The din of the construction grew deafening in volume as he walked over to a hazard table now covered with an enormous white sheet. Adair laid the building plans down, spreading them open to the previously indicated page.

As in command of his employees as Adair was those in his hell, with a single lift of his hand, Phippen brought the men working to a jarring halt. “As I was saying, Mr. Thorne, there is a problem . . . here . . . with this wall.” Pointing first to the sheet, the head builder then gestured to the area in question. “The fire burned through the plaster and penetrated even the stone wall between your establishment and the adjoining one.”

Adair frowned, eyeing that spot. Since they owned that property, it should hardly be a problem to merit Phippen’s catastrophic response.

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Of course it is,” he mumbled. Because nothing since the fire had gone even remotely to plan where the rebuilding of the club was concerned.

“If you’ll look here.” Not waiting to see if Adair followed, he strode to the wall. Several builders hurried out of his way, clearing a path. Those same men hastily averted their eyes, just as they did every time Phippen revealed another flaw in the old structure. “The burned plaster revealed cracks and holes inside the adjoining brick wall.”

Joining the builder, he assessed the flawed stones. “Can’t you have a bricklayer replace the ones that were damaged?”

Phippen gave his head a negating shake. “This damage, I suspect, is unrelated to the blaze. Upon peeling additional plaster away, it’s shown a consistent pattern.” He doffed his hat and mopped at his sweaty brow. “If I had to make a venture, it expands all through the entire building.”

Moving closer, Adair inspected the ruined stones. He touched the damp portions.

“Lime near the surface destroyed them,” the builder said with a frustrating matter-of-factness.

“What does that mean for the timetable?” he asked, already knowing before Phippen even spoke.

“All the plaster needs to come down, and new bricks need to be laid.”

Bloody hell. His mind raced. The damned timetable of one month to completion had originally been given with a rigorous, nearly day-and-night long building plan . . . that had not taken into consideration warped stones and faulty beams throughout the club. “How much longer?”

Phippen jammed his hat back atop his head. “If I’d to hazard a guess?”

He bit his tongue to keep from saying he’d already demanded a guess from the man.

“At least another month.”

At least, which indicated a possibility of more errors. A sure possibility.

A large crash echoed around the barren-but-for-workers hell. Phippen immediately cursed and went rushing off, calling out orders to his men.