Or maybe…maybe he just needed a little more practice before he went after the big target again. After all, as his father had always told him, practice made perfect in this world. And perfection was the goal.
Chapter Five
The shower water poured onto her head. Sloane stared down at her bare feet, watching the water swirl and slide down the drain near her toes. Such dark water as she washed the dirt from her hair. Her fingers scrubbed and scrubbed her scalp. She was on her third hair washing, and Sloane still did not feel clean enough.
His shower. Preston’s house.
She hadn’t said much during the limo ride back to his place. Mostly because it was incredibly hard to begin a conversation by saying…
Hey, so…you always wondered about your biological dad, right? Well, wonder no more. I’m a psychologist who is currently researching the adult offspring of serial killers, and, guess what? Your dad was one of the worst of the worst. A real gem who buried his victims alive in handmade coffins. And, yep, he buried you, too. Only you escaped. The cops chased him, they shot him and he fell into a river, but no one could locate the body after that and so…I got curious.
Yeah, all of that was not something you really just casually dropped in a person’s lap.
Besides, they’d still been covered in dirt. Wearing scrubs. Riding an adrenaline wave that was going to crash. Staying silent had seemed like the best option.
When they’d finally reached his mansion—because the man lived in a mansion, not some typical three-bedroom house—there had been deputies waiting. Of course, deputies would have been there. That had been the abduction site, after all. But the limo had driven past them. And guards had been waiting near the front door of Preston’s mansion. The kind of big, burly guys who screamed private security. While she’d been getting checked out at the hospital, he’d apparently been busy stepping up his bodyguard game. A good idea, in her book. The more bodyguards, the better. He could bring in his own army, if he wanted.
Sloane winced when her fingers skimmed over the tender lump on the back of her head. Though, really, lump wasn’t the right word to describe the spot, not anymore. The swelling had gone down considerably. She didn’t actually remember hitting her head, but she figured it must have happened after the guy had punched her and she’d tumbled down to the pavement. Smack.
Her eyes closed as she ducked her head under the spray of water.
Bonus, though, the doc had said her cheekbone wasn’t broken. Not even fractured. Sloane had a bruise, one that was darkening, but she hoped—fingers crossed—that some strong makeup would hide the situation. The doctor had worried that she had a concussion. Yeah, totally possible given the events that had occurred. The doc had even talked with her about staying at the hospital for observation.
But when Preston had offered to whisk her away, she’d been more than ready to jump at the chance in order to stay close to him.
She backed away from the spray and peered down at her toes once more. With slightly rough hands, she soaped up her body. Third time for that, too. The water wasn’t dark when it poured from her any longer. A good sign. Maybe she’d finally get out of the shower. She began to hum as she washed off. Maybe she’d get out and curl up in the massive bed in Preston’s guest room, and she’d close her eyes and not immediately get transported back into a tight hole in the ground.
Or maybe not.
“Sloane.”
Her head whipped up. She stopped humming instantly. Through the foggy glass of the shower, she saw his outline. One of her hands flew out and swiped over the glass so that she could get a better view. He is here. Right in front of the shower. Far too close to her naked self.
“What are you doing?” she yelped.
Preston stood there, wearing a pair of black jogging pants and a tight, white shirt that flexed across the powerful muscles of his chest. He stared at her as Sloane stood inside the shower, stark naked.
“Turn around!” A yell from Sloane. “Turn!” Why was she always having to tell the man to do that important task?
He turned. “I…called your name. Several times.”
She wrenched off the water.
Drip, drip, drip.
With her narrowed eyes on Preston’s broad back, she thrust open the door. It made a loud screech.
“Do not dare look over your shoulder,” she warned him. Her searching hands grabbed for a white, fluffy towel. She yanked it over her body, left her hair dripping wet, then she scuttled out of the shower and launched toward the big, blue robe that had been left hanging on a hook.
The robe swallowed her when she put it on. But that was fine, at least she wasn’t naked.
“Are you covered?” he asked, voice tight. Emotionless.
“Yes. I am.”
He didn’t move.
She huffed out a sigh. “You can look at me now.” Steam drifted in the bathroom.
