Lacybourne Manor (Ghosts and Reincarnation #3)(28)

“I’ll get a taxi,” she announced.

“Don’t be absurd, you live five minutes from me,” Colin returned.

This was true. And a taxi from Bristol to Clevedon would cost her thirty pounds. Not that she didn’t have thirty pounds but she could think of a great number of things she’d prefer to spend her hard earned money on.

“I’ll get a bus,” she decided.

Obviously, he disagreed. Without a word, he turned and then started moving forward, taking her with him. Divesting her of her drink, he deposited it on the bar without breaking stride, the whole time he brought her along with him with a firm but gentle hand on her arm.

“Mr. Morgan –” she began, looking at him and having to quicken her pace to keep up with his casual advance.

“My name is Colin,” he said distractedly and stopped. She was about to open her mouth to say something but looked around as to why they stopped.

They were standing by Steve and his group of friends. Colin’s hand had dropped but not away from her. His arm slid around her and settled tightly around her waist, not, she noted not-so-vaguely, as if she was a trophy to show off. Instead, his hold was proprietary, blatantly so. Colin Morgan was claiming her right in front of her date, an aggressive, ruthless move that stole her breath and any words she might have been able to utter.

Steve’s friends noticed Colin and Sibyl first and their open-mouthed stares made Steve turn around.

“I’m taking Ms. Godwin home,” Colin announced the minute he had Steve’s attention. Before Steve could put into words the angry, stunned surprise on his face, Colin guided Sibyl out the door.

Sibyl moved with him mostly in order not to make a scene.

When they were outside the club and walking down the pavement was when she asked angrily, “Well that… that… I don’t even know what that was. Why did you do that?”

“I would guess he’d eventually go looking for you, I saved him the trouble.” Colin had dropped his arm from around her waist but caught her hand in his as they walked.

She was too taken aback by his behaviour to recognise the familiar intimacy of his hand holding hers while guiding her down the pavement. Before this dawned on her, he turned into a car park that was two doors down from the club and she was forced to admit to a secret relief that she wouldn’t have to trek for miles to get to his car (even when she didn’t quite understand how she’d managed to get herself in the awkward position of accepting a ride from him in the first place).

He strode purposefully, and she noticed distractedly, with immense masculine grace, towards a gleaming, black, sporty, convertible Mercedes, all the while holding her hand.

She stared at the car in horror.

“You own a Mercedes?” she breathed.

He had stopped at the passenger side and dropped her hand. At her comment, he looked at her sharply.

In an about turn of everything she’d experienced a week ago at Lacybourne, that entire night he’d been regarding her with amusement and even, possibly (if she could credit it) admiration.

Now, however, he was staring at her with an expression of distaste, something about him with which she was far more familiar.

He also did not answer, possibly because the answer was obvious.

He unlocked the doors with an expensive-sounding “bleep” and, without a word, he pulled hers open, guiding her in before closing it with more force than he needed to use.

Once he’d settled into his seat, started the car and expertly reversed, she couldn’t help herself, she’d lived too long in Mags’s house to let it go, she had to say, “What kind of gas mileage does this car get?”

“I’ve no idea.” His voice suddenly sounded bored.

Sibyl ignored his tone and persevered. “Mr. Morgan, I know it’s none of my business and I dislike people who lecture about this kind of thing, but as this is a sports car, you should know that it’s likely it burns fuel like nobody’s business. In this day and age, considering the state of the environment, everyone should have a car with fuel economy. You should consider a hybrid at the very least.”

Even though he was driving, she felt his body go somehow still.

After a moment, in a voice not bored in the slightest, he asked, “I beg your pardon?”

Sibyl felt like an idiot, lecturing him on fuel economy and decided to stand down.

“It’s none of my business,” she muttered.

“Sibyl,” he said her name for the first time and she felt the effect of it physically, almost as if the sound of her name on his lips, uttered in his rich baritone, pulsated through her body, and she caught her breath. He continued without noticing her extreme, and bizarre, reaction. “This is a high performance vehicle. The fuel economy is excellent. You can save yourself from worrying that you will be tainted with guilt-by-association by riding in my car. I’m not unduly destroying the environment.”

Sibyl was inordinately pleased his tone held no anger or even the slightest hint of it (not to mention the fact that he wasn’t “unduly” damaging the ozone layer).

“That was rude. I apologise. My mother is an environmental activist and sometimes it spills over, but, um… that said, I agree with Mom that we should all do our bit.”

He didn’t respond and she tried not to look at him but instead felt the lovely, smooth nearly soundless ride of his “high performance vehicle”. She’d never ridden in a Mercedes (all her cars, and her family’s, were jalopies that they rode into the ground before buying other, used, jalopies) and she had to admit (even though she would never tell Mags), she enjoyed it.