Page 89 of The Stranger

The Lucien du Beaumont special is situated smack bang in the middle of the space between my ear and the base of my neck. It refuses to be camouflaged by makeup, and there isn’t a scarf or turtleneck in this world—not that I have either in my suitcase—that could hide the damn thing.

I fold down the collar of my white shirt because it makes me look like I’m auditioning for a part in the movie Grease. With a defeated sigh, I turn away from my reflection. The sight of the hickey is so… urgh! It really isn’t a good look for someone in charge of children. But short of stapling my braid to my neck, I can’t do anything about it.

I suppose I’ll just have to brazen it out if anyone asks. And by anyone, I mean Zoe.

It was quite a shock to see it in the mirror this morning. And, honestly, more than little bit titillating. And the aftershocks of pleasure the visual caused were surprising.

So much for Emmy saying his bark was worse than his bite.

But my gosh, the man is huge—huge! And I can barely believe half the things that happened—half the things I said! Being stripped naked—being coaxed to take him.

I press my hands to my radioactive cheeks. Hottest thing ever.

And I’ve never been bare-backed by a woollen sweater before, never mind…

I’ve got to stop indulging this morning. I’m like that frog who belatedly realizes the water around her is a tad too warm—that she’s not in a pond but in a pot.

A pot she can’t climb out of.

I open my bedroom door, and my footsteps immediately falter as my heart does a weird two-step. His bedroom door is almost immediately opposite. I almost ended up in there, I think as my hand tightens on the handle, and a fleeting moment from last night flashes in my mind in a gloriously sensual Technicolor.

After Luc left the kitchen, I’d scooped my cake into the bin, no longer hungry, sated in other ways, I suppose. I’d turn off the lights and climbed up the grand staircase on still-wobbly legs, only to find him standing in the hallway, his shoulder pressed to the frame of his door as though waiting for me to appear.

My heart misfired, and I couldn’t look at him as I walked the long corridor. I’d stopped on the opposite side of his door, my toes curling in the thick cream rug.

“Is she okay?” I’d asked of Sylvie, my voice as low as the light coming from a lamp on a console at the opposite end of the hallway.

His eyes seemed to shine in the ambient light. “Just a bad dream.” With the soft murmur, he’d closed the gap between us. “She’s asleep again.”

My God, the way he looked at me as his fingers slid up my bare arms made me quake. His gaze seemed softer than it had been in the kitchen, but no less passionate. As he pressed his lips to my cheek, my eyes fluttered closed. I heard myself sigh as they’d coasted to the corner of my mouth, his tongue slipping along the seam.

He made a noise of pleasure before his touch melted into a kiss that was achingly slow and sweet. A tiny, rasping moan vibrated between us, but I couldn’t be sure who made it as his hand hooked under my knee. I thought we were just kissing goodnight, but I could feel how hard he was again. My insides felt suddenly hollow, and I ached to feel him inside me.

“I want you.” The scrape of his teeth against my neck was unnecessary—I was already done for, my insides screaming yes. “I want you in my bed, spread out under me, crying out my name.” Yes, God, yes. Between his touches and his kisses, he whispered how I should stay with him for the night, how we should finish what we started, how he needed me.

But those temptations were in French, so I knew he didn’t really mean them. Or maybe it’s more that he knew he shouldn’t. So I’d pulled away. I said good night and made my way over to my own bedroom door. He didn’t follow. And now, the following morning, it’s like the air between our rooms still carries that charge.

Please don’t come out, I find myself thinking.

Please come out.

This is ridiculous. I make a frustrated noise and swing left, forcing my feet to move one step after another. Down the sweeping staircase I go, because there’s no servant’s staircase here.

Servant. Domestic helper. That’s what I am—who I am to him right now.

Primrose Elizabeth Whittington, you almost had sex with the man you despise.

What were you thinking?

What was he thinking? What was he drinking?

This is not how you safeguard Emmy’s job. You’re supposed to be looking after his children, not kissing him in darkened kitchens or letting him make a meal of you.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner right there on the countertop. The man does have an appetite.

For God’s sake—get your brain out of the gutter!

I am the good Whittington. The sensible one. I’m not prone to flights of fancy, and I don’t let men turn my head. Or generally have them make me come so well I see stars born in my head.