“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.

“You may call on me at the museum next week. Good night.” She began to walk away, but he blocked her path.

“That’s enough, now, Hadley. I’m—” He stopped mid-sentence when a shadow darkened his face.

“I believe she said good night.” Lowe stepped from behind her and menacingly towered over Oliver. “And now I’m saying the same. Go on back to the party or go home. Just go.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Did you escort the lady to the party?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then you aren’t leaving with her, either.”

Oh my.

Oliver stuck his finger out, but seemed to have second thoughts about whatever he’d intended to argue. His forced smile seemed to mask whatever he was feeling. “It was enlightening to meet you, Mr. Magnusson. I look forward to crossing paths with you again. Good evening, Miss Bacall.”

She watched Oliver march down the sidewalk until he got inside a parked car, unsure whether she was relieved or angry. She threw a mental die and decided on angry. “You didn’t need to chase him off. He was only concerned about my well-being.”

“Didn’t sound that way to me. Here. It’s cold as hell out here.” Lowe held out her black mink. Why did he have to be the considerate one of the two men? Still, no sense in turning it away. She quickly slipped her arms inside the silk-lined sleeves.

“Is this your hat?” He held out an elaborate feathered thing. Garish red.

“Good God, no.”

“Didn’t think so, but wasn’t going to waste time arguing with the doorman.” He hung it on a nearby fence post bordering someone’s yard and shrugged into his own coat. “If it makes you feel better, the staff lost my hat, too.”

“No, what would make me feel better is if you just hadn’t lied to my face with all your seductions in the courtyard before you colluded with my father to steal my damn job!”

Her shouted words bounced around the quiet street. He should be grateful her specters had already exhausted themselves for the time being, or she might have been tempted to give them a second shot.

Lowe held up an index finger. “First of all, I told you I wouldn’t lie to you tonight, and I meant it. Second”—another finger joined the first—“I did not ‘collude’ with your father. He’d mentioned something about the department head position when I met with him at his office, but that was the last I’d heard of it.”