Page 139 of Go Back to December

“That troublemaker.”

“Total manwhore. The Virgin was modeled after a lady of the night.”

“Racy,” Baz murmurs, studying the Madonna and Child on the wall.

I lead him past half a dozen professionally decorated showrooms, and the enormous kitchen, and point out the elevator hidden in a closet.

He cocks his head. “For Professor X’s wheelchair?”

I giggle a little maniacally, because he’s rolling his shoulders and tensing that beautiful jaw and it’s all I can do not to reward his frustration with a thousand kisses, and a thousand more for putting up with me.

“Seriously, who lives here?”

I press a hand to my chest. “Why don’t you think it’s me?”

He steps closer to my space next to the elevator. “Even if you robbed a bank, and a jewelry store, and won the lottery, you would never spend money on a house this size, unless you filled it with orphans and indigent addicts.”

“Well, certainly not together.”

His resounding groan rattles the reclaimed wooden floors.

“The house belongs to Bev and Lionel Graham. They met my parents on their holiday cruise.”

“Oh.” Baz frowns. From the pull of his mouth, he’s going to say something snarky, but he controls himself.

I hum a familiar refrain about gold-diggers.

“I wasn’t thinking that.” His frown morphs into a scowl.

“Careful, your face will freeze that way.”

I’m giddy, bobbing up and down on my toes as we approach the reason I’ve dragged him here. “Come on, I saved the best for last.”

At the end of the corridor, I open a set of small French doors, which lead into a wood-paneled room. The office is straight out of central casting: large wooden desk, oversized leather office chair with built-in bookcases rising behind it.

Every other inch of wall space is covered in photos.

“Lionel’s brother was a celebrity photographer,” I say as Baz wanders through a parade of pictures. Film stars, politicians, Olympic medalists are all caught in candid, unguarded poses.

“His biggest client was Rolling Stone.”

My voice trails off as Baz finds the photo we came for. It’s a large black-and-white snap from Live Aid, 1984, Wembley Stadium. It’s shot from backstage, looking out at the crowd. Freddie Mercury is in profile. He’s twisting away from the audience, lowering his fist. A secret smile lights his face. The rest of the band bracket him like bookends, grinning wider than is legally permitted in the British Isles.

Baz is so focused on the photo, he doesn’t blink. As I draw closer to him, his fingers entwine with mine. We stare at it for another few minutes or hours. Long enough for the last of the tension to drain out of Baz’s body.

“You know,” I finally say, “since I’m a successful lottery-winning bank and jewelry thief, I might persuade the owner to part with this piece.”

He glances thoughtfully at the wall. “But where would you put it?”

“I’m glad you asked.”

I lead him out of the study, through the kitchen and out the back door that leads to the driveway and the detached oversized garage.

“This is where you park the Jag,” Baz says, still playing.

“Aston Martin,” I correct him. “Money green.”

His soft laugh pulls at the strings around my heart.