Gwendolynne crawls out backward from beneath a row of my best Italian wool trousers. Wisps of her hair—normally silky and black—have escaped from her messy bun and are hanging in frizzy waves around her flushed face. She’s still wearing that horrible baggy cardigan, and beneath its loose neckline her normally pale chest is reddened too, all the way down to her—
I snap my gaze back up to her face and scowl. “I asked you a question, Chan.What are you doing in my room?”
She must have snuck in, not expecting I would be back so early.
After the explosion at the gala, I’d fought through the crowds to locate my father, only to find him already giving an interview to some reporters.Fine, I’d thought, bunching my fists in my pockets. It wasn’t unexpected, really: that he’d be more interested in doing damage control than finding out whether his only son was safe.
So, not bothering to say goodbye, I had walked out the door, hailed the valet, and promptly left.
And now my evening has only got worse. What are the chances I’d return to my room to find Gwendolynne Chan rummaging through my wardrobe?
After how shifty she’d looked earlier, and how obvious it wasthat she was hiding something beneath her clothes, I am immediately suspicious of nefarious intent. I’m so certain of it that I’m willing to stake my considerable inheritance on the fact that she is trying to sabotage me. By what? Blowing my door apart and breaking into my room? Creeping into my wardrobe and planting something to get me in trouble?
As ifIwould truly get in trouble. Frankly, the idea is laughable. Just like every other time, Father would make a phone call, gift a hefty donation to Seamere, and everything would be smoothed over by supper.
Not that he cares about me, of course. He just wouldn’t like the optics of his son causing controversy at one of England’s most prestigious colleges.
Gwendolynne straightens her shoulders and blows a strand of hair from her eyes. “I…” she starts, then swallows, the smooth column of her throat rippling. “I was looking for my cat.”
I stare at her. “You don’t own a cat.”
She raises her chin. “I do.”
My eyes narrow; so do hers. “No you don’t.”
“Listen, Briggs—” Her voice has taken on a slightly hysterical edge. “Just because you’re toopriggishand self-centered to notice anyone else around you and whether or not they actually have a cat doesn’t mean that I do not have a cat! And I do have a cat!” She takes a step toward me, fists clenched. “So there!”
I step forward too, until we’re chest-to-chest. She’s bluffing. I know she is. I’ve watched her for the past seven years and never once have I ever seen her with a blasted cat.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it? Very well, then. Why don’t you show me the reason you’re trespassing in my room? Why you’ve blown a hole through my fucking door?” I allow the corners of my lips to curl up into a sneer. “Go on, Chan—show me this alleged ‘cat.’ ”
She shoots me a look of unfettered loathing before dropping back onto her hands and knees and crawling back under my clothes racks. I watch her narrowly, trying not to make eye contact with her backside, though it’s difficult considering it’s stuck high up in the air and her jeans are hugging her curves in all the right places—
Fucking stop it, Briggs.I swallow, tearing my gaze away from her wiggling arse. Gwendolynne is theenemy. She’s snuck into my room, she’s trying to frame me for something, she’s trying to steal the top spot from me, and she’s…
She’s holding a cat. Bloody banshee’s balls. She actuallydoeshave a cat.
I glare at her as she climbs to her feet, hugging a black ball of fluff to her chest.
“See?” she says, victorious. “I got him.” Her eyes meet mine and she blushes again. “Thanks for, er—letting me look for him. I’ll just be off now, yeah?” She’s looking nervous. She shuffles closer, trying to push past me, heading for the wardrobe door.
Realization clicks into place. Was this what she was concealing under her clothing earlier? When she was on the way home from Saint Gertrude’s? Nothing but a goddamnedcat?
“Wait.” I put a hand on her shoulder to stop her, and she sucks in a breath. I freeze, my muscles rigid, then snatch my hand away. She was warm, so warm, beneath my palm.
I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever touched her.
In all of seven years.
“Why?” she snaps. She’s annoyed now.
Flustered, I rake my hand through my gelled hair. I am well aware I’m not looking my best. My robes are scorched and I’m pretty sure I have a smudge of charcoal somewhere on my forehead. “Is this cat one of your patients, Chan?”
She begins to tremble, just slightly. We’re standing entirely tooclose in this confined space. I can feel the heat radiating off her and smell the scent of her chain store perfume.
“No,” she says.
She’s a fucking terrible liar.
