Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(26)

“Hadley!” her father roared.

The sound of his voice penetrated the fog of her anger. Good sense flooded through.

Father knew it was her specters—he knew, he knew, he knew!

Oh, God. What had she done?

With monumental effort, she pushed the Mori away. They vanished into the ceiling as she despaired, shouting, “Run!”

Too late.

The second cable snapped. And like a car tumbling off a cliff, the glittering glass plummeted. Screams pierced the air.

Lowe’s chair skidded backward. He threw an arm around her father and pulled him to the floor as the chandelier crashed onto the table in an explosion of glass and splintering wood.

Lowe crawled beneath the shuddering carcass that teetered precariously on the table above, dragging her father to safety. She flailed against Oliver’s arms and shoved away from him, nearly falling on her face as she ran.

“Father!”

“I’m fine,” he barked, using the wall for the leverage he needed to stand.

Lowe brushed glass from her father’s shoulder, then glanced at his own clothes.

“Are you—” she started.

“In one piece? Think so.” Slightly dazed, he shook out his jacket and glanced around at the destruction, mumbling, “What in the world just happened here?”

“You,” her father said, his face red with emotion. “You and your petty anger. Your mother would be ashamed.”

As shouts and animated conversation blew through the hall, Lowe narrowed his eyes and shifted a suspicious gaze between her and her father.

God only knew if her father’s pronouncement of shame was on the mark—she didn’t remember much about her mother. But he was right to be angry. She’d nearly killed him. And Lowe. And other guests. She glanced around at the chaos. No one seemed to be injured, but the poor staff was in a panic.

Tears threatened. Before her father could spit out another word, before Lowe could decipher her father’s accusation, Hadley turned and marched out of the house.

EIGHT

HEAVY FOG CLUNG TO the rooftops lining Broadway. Her father’s driver had taken her to the party, a small detail she remembered once she made it outside. It was also nippy, and not only had she forgotten her gloves, which she’d removed for dinner—they’d likely fallen from her lap during the fiasco—but she’d also failed to collect her coat. Now what? Go back inside with her tail tucked between her legs?

“Hadley.”

She turned to see Oliver striding down the sidewalk.

“Are you all right?” he asked in a calm, businesslike voice as he slipped into his greatcoat, which looked warm and tempting to Hadley’s chilled body. Maybe he’d be a gentleman and offer to return to the house and collect hers. “I think we should talk about what just happened.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nothing shocks me when it comes to matters beyond this realm.”

So he had seen the Mori. Rare that she encountered anyone who did. Very rare.

“I happen to have a lot of knowledge about the underworld,” he said.

Funny way to put it, but, yes, she supposed that was as good a label as anything, though she really didn’t know for certain where the Mori came from. She’d researched it over the years herself, but only found bits and pieces of information, nothing practical or definitive. It was like picking at a sweater: before long, the whole thing unraveled and one was left with a useless pile of yarn.

“A man of your wealth and stature?” she said. “I thought your obsession was Mexican ruins. When do you have time to research the underworld?”

“You’d be surprised what I’ve had time for over the years,” he said. “Why don’t we talk about it, yes? Maybe I can help you. Come back inside and let me—”

“I do appreciate your concern.” He’d always been kind, since the moment he’d first introduced himself. Kind, handsome, interested in her work—supportive. And though she was quite sure by the way he stared at her that he wanted more from their relationship than the occasional shared luncheon or tea, she just wasn’t sure if she did.

Silly, because she should. It wasn’t as if men threw themselves at her every day. She hadn’t even so much as kissed anyone since college. And, her personal touching issues aside, Oliver was probably the right sort of man for her, practically speaking. Yet the elusive spark that fueled a new romance seemed to be missing.

Maybe the fault was hers. Maybe she was broken and damaged. Wired incorrectly. Because instead of being interested in the right man, she was still thinking about the man who’d just conned the museum position away from her. The absolute wrong man.

The man she’d very nearly killed in a moment of poor impulse control.

“Let me help you, Miss Bacall,” Oliver said. “Put your trust in me. You won’t be sorry.”

She let out a long breath and gathered her wits. “I don’t know what you think you saw. But right now, I prefer to be alone.”

“Come now,” he said in a sharper tone that took her aback. “You’re hysterical. You’ve been agitated since before dinner. Let’s go somewhere and talk about it.”

Hysterical. No, that was one thing she never was. Angry, yes. Depressed. Cold. Aloof. Cursed. But not hysterical. And that single word soured her mood even further.