Author's Notes: thank you to those who reviewed! Virtual handshakes and hugs to all of you. I do hope you're very patient people, because I'm about to tax you unduly with this next chapter.
2. Cinq Minutes
The concierge regarded the pair before him with an air of distaste; this was precisely the type of person he'd hoped to avoid contact with by working at one of the more upscale establishments. To begin with, after cancelling the reservation via the telephone, they'd arrived anyhow--a day late, no less, with hardly a word of apology for the inconvenience--and then, when a room wasn't immediately available, they'd simply dumped their bags in the lobby while they went out to disport themselves.
Just now, they'd come dashing into the lobby from the Promenade, hand in hand, laughing riotously, like a pair of overgrown schoolchildren; both of them were flushed and windblown, and breathing heavily, as if they'd sprinted the whole way there. Didn't they know that this was a respectable hotel? The other patrons were bound to be unsettled by such wanton frivolity.
The woman in the grotty dress was the worst of the two; the concierge was quite certain, in spite of the matching wedding bands, that she was no better than she ought to be. Bare-armed, hair flying about her shoulders... she was a shameless one. This was the third time he'd called her by the name she'd signed in with earlier, and she still hadn't responded.
"Madame," he said again, impatiently. "Madame O'Connell."
The man nudged her. "Evie, that's you."
"Hmm? Oh!" she exclaimed, tittering. "It is, isn't it? Sorry... yes?" She wasn't even embarrassed to be caught out.
Trying to avoid letting his feelings show in his face, the concierge informed her that there had been a telephone call for her while she was out.
"For me?"
"Oui, madame."
She looked puzzled. It was probable, thought the concierge, that none of her family or friends knew she was here, pretending to be on her honeymoon. "Was there any message?" she asked.
"No. The gentleman did not wish to leave his name. Further to that, I did not inquire."
"Well, what was he like?"
"Madame, I did not see him. I merely spoke with him. Briefly."
"Yes, but--"
"The room's ready?" interrupted the man rudely, proffering his hand.
Without a word, the concierge relinquished the key. The man nodded, then took the woman by the arm and towed her in the direction of the lift. As they stepped onto it, the concierge heard the young woman inform her companion, "But I don't know any gentlemen!"
He sincerely hoped he wouldn't regret letting them stay.
The moment the lift doors closed, Rick attempted an encore performance of his earlier maneuver on the sidewalk. He couldn't quite seem to manage it, though--mostly due to the fact that Evelyn was pacing back and forth in front of him, her brow creased in thought, talking animatedly. For someone who'd professed, mere moments ago, to be on fire for him, she was doing a damn fine job of concealing the fact.
"It couldn't have been someone from the museum," she pronounced, one tiny finger waving erratically in the air. "I didn't tell any of them where we were staying. I told our solicitor, but he wouldn't have called unless it was really urgent, and he would have left his name--don't you think?"
"How much did you have to drink at dinner, anyhow?" he demanded. Not that she wasn't a very cute drunk, but he definitely wanted her to remember what was hopefully about to happen.
She shot him a quizzical glance--what in heaven's name did that have to do with anything? "Half a glass of wine," she replied, unconsciously side-stepping his grasp yet again. "Ooh! Now, it might have been..."
Rick planted his feet firmly, folding his arms across his broad chest. He was not about to chase her around an elevator while she chattered away about some damn phone message. His head was all fog and thunder, but she seemed able to turn her desire for him on and off like a tap. "Evelyn," he said quietly.
She barely stopped talking long enough to breathe. "I very much doubt it was someone from the Bembridge committee--although it would be like them to want to contact me now, wouldn't it?"
"Evelyn," he repeated.
"Hmm?"
"Hold still."
Evelyn stopped pacing, stopped gesticulating, and blinked up at him, as though she'd just remembered he was there. A moment later, she seemed to have remembered why he was there, and, by extension, why they were there, for she flashed him a wicked little grin. That was more like it. Now that he had her full attention, he gathered her up for a renewed attempt. This was somewhat more successful than his previous efforts, but Rick was understandably taken aback when his wife suddenly exclaimed, "Jonathan!"
He dropped her, perplexed. "What?!"
"It must have been Jonathan who left the message," she elucidated. "Who else could it have been? He's never been able to get along very well without me. He probably needs--"
"Bail money?" supplied Rick.
"People who live in glass houses oughtn't to throw stones, dear," she replied mildly, patting him on the shoulder. The lift doors opened, and they exited onto the fourth floor, Evelyn leading Rick by the hand. "Still, I wonder why he wouldn't leave his name? I hope he hasn't gotten himself into serious trouble... Here, I think it's this one."
At this particular moment, Rick honestly didn't give the proverbial rat's ass about his brother-in-law's motivations for calling and disrupting their evening. As he reached past her to unlock the door, he said, "Promise me something."
"Anything, darling."
"Don't ever--ever--yell out your brother's name when I kiss you."
"Why would I do that?" she queried, confused.
He didn't bother to reply, but threw the door open. The room was relatively small, but clean and comfortable looking, done in pastel shades of pink and blue. Their bags--Rick's one and Evelyn's seven--had been stacked neatly along the far wall. To the right, a curtain separated the canopied bed from the sitting area, while a door on the left presumably led to the bathroom.
Evelyn started to walk in, but Rick placed a firm hand on her shoulder and yanked her back out. "Not so fast," he told her. "I'm supposed to carry you."
She rolled her eyes dismissively. "Are you aware of the origins of that silly tradition?"
"Nope." He swept her up into his arms and carried her into the room, kicked the door closed behind him, and switched on the nearest lamp, all apparently without effort.
"Aren't you even the tiniest bit interested?" she persisted.
"Right now? Not really."
Evelyn continued talking anyhow, which didn't particularly surprise him. "It came about originally because the bride was often forced into a marriage that wasn't necessarily congenial to her. Later, it became the fashion for the innocent bride to be seen as reluctant to enter the bedroom with her new husband. She would protest, and so he would have to carry her." She placed both arms around his neck, regarding him with wide, dark eyes. "Do I seem... reluctant... to you?" she breathed, in a husky voice that turned his knees to water. "Are you afraid I'm going to run away, Rick?"
"I'm not taking any chances," he told her, depositing her on the bed without breaking stride. When he attempted to join her, however, she edged away from him, scooting up towards the headboard. He moved towards her, lightning-quick, but she held up her index finger, halting him mid-pounce. Rick was not a man often given to prayer, but in that instant he actually, honestly prayed she wasn't going to make him sit still for a historical lecture.
"Would you think me an absolute beast if I took just five minutes to clean up?" she asked, fixing him with a pleading look.
When she phrased it like that, it made him feel like a jerk for even briefly considering saying yes. "Course not," he muttered, turning away from her and flopping down unceremoniously. "Take as long as you need."
"Cinq minutes." Her lovely face appeared above him, intriguingly inverted. "I promise." She hovered a moment, then leaned down and kissed him. Such a soft, slow kiss; teasing, exploring, their relative positions infusing every familiar move with exciting new potential. To Rick, it seemed to go on forever. When he began to sit up, she placed both hands on his shoulders and pressed down, effectively stilling him. He remained supine, surrendering to her, his body so full of pent-up energy that he thought he might just explode if it went on for even another second. Trust Evelyn to find another way to drive me crazy, he thought, head spinning, blood racing. He got the sense that, before the night was over, he was going to wonder how on earth he'd ever managed to peg this girl as shy and innocent.
They were both breathing fast when she finally broke it off; his eyes were still closed, but he felt her slide off the bed, and heard her rifling through the collection of bags she'd insisted on bringing. The bathroom door opened and closed a moment later. All was silence for a time, and then, barely audible above the sound of running water, he detected Evelyn's off-key warbling. Laughter welled up from someplace deep inside him, and he was chuckling before he could stop himself. Not because his wife couldn't carry a tune in a ten-gallon tub; he'd known that long before he'd even thought of proposing, and it didn't particularly affect him one way or the other. But that tiny detail, the fact of her singing, made everything exquisitely real for him. He was married to Evelyn, and he was, possibly for the first time in his entire life, so happy that he didn't know what to do with himself. And so he lay on the bed, and laughed, and waited for his wife to emerge.
And waited.
And waited.
"Five minutes, my ass," he groused, rolling fluidly to his feet. It had been almost half an hour, he was certain of it. After all that torture, she was probably asleep in the damn tub--or reading! She'd brought so many suitcases that it was impossible for him to believe that she hadn't packed books in at least one of them. It was fortunate that Rick O'Connell was a confident fellow; there weren't many men who could endure this sort of treatment on their honeymoon and not take it personally.
He went to the door of the bathroom and knocked once; no answer. He tried again, louder, then rattled the doorknob for good measure. She was a pretty light sleeper, and if she had dropped off in the bathtub, that should be enough to wake her. "Evie?" he called. He heard movement inside--scuffling along the tile floor, perhaps--but still no response to his inquiry. Irritated, he thumped on the door with the heel of his hand. "Come on out of there already." Confidence may have been one of his strengths, but patience most certainly was not. He could definitely hear her rattling things around in there now. Whatever new game she was playing, it ended here. "Evelyn," he intoned gruffly, "either you come out, or I'm coming--"
Which was when he heard the sound that made his blood turn to ice.