Page 14 of Bumpy, the Gargoyle Slayer

The room he leads me to is like something out of a princess dream. It’s all shades of white, with pale pink roses in a vase next to the bed, and a pale-pink blanket folded at the end. It isn’t girlie, but it’s feminine in exactly the way I like.

“Were you expecting me?” I ask, gesturing to the flowers.

“I called ahead and told my housekeeper I would be entertaining company. Good thing you agreed to be my girlfriend.”

“Fake girlfriend.”

“That’s what I said.”

But is it fake or fate? I don’t know about destiny, but a little niggle erupts in my belly and shoots through my blood as I look around, because this room… this room is exactly what I’d choose for myself if I had all the money in the world with which to decorate.

The furnishings are hard lines and soft contours. The spread on the bed is velvety soft and tactile, as is the area rug below my feet. The rest of the floor is white stone. The hardscape bounces the gentle lights of the crystal chandelier.

I’ve always wanted a crystal chandelier. I love sparkly. And pink and white.

When he opens a walk-in closet door, I find mirrors facing me from the other end, and a platform in the middle of the wide space, designed so that the person who inhabits this room can see herself from all angles. It would be a great spot to have kinky sex. I could watch gray hands slip down my body…

He slides behind me, filling the doorway from which I gape, his hands landing on my waist as he leans over, just exactly as if he reads my mind—or my red face. Our eyes lock through our reflection. My breathing stutters, stops, and then races like it has something to prove.

“Beautiful from all angles,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.

Shivers ride my veins as the space below my belly grows heavy and too full.

“I’ll fill the wardrobe for you. First thing, we’ll have a modiste come to measure you.”

“What?” A modiste? Is he serious? Do they even exist anymore?

“And second,” he adds, raising his hand to flutter back the hair along my face, “some lessons on etiquette. Just a few,” he adds, as I turn quickly in his arms, ready to lambaste him. My etiquette is perfectly fine, thank you. “Just because we have a dinner to attend in a few nights with the President.”

“President of what?” I ask, making sure to glare at him.

But I don’t ask him to remove his hands from me. I don’t pull away. I feel myself succumbing to his seductive powers, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Good enough that I’m not falling into him, I guess.

“The United States.”

And okay, fine, I gawk at him once he says this.

Swallowing is hard. My heart is beating so fast, I can’t slow it enough to catch another breath.

His thumb rolls over my cheekbone before he sighs and steps back, his touch disappearing, leaving me strangely bereft. “You’ll find the bathing chamber through that door.” He nods to the right. “I’ll ask the housekeeper to find you something suitable to wear tonight. We’ll stay in. You look tired. Besides, tomorrow is going to require you be rested and ready.”

And then he leans forward. My pulse beats in my eyes. Everything grows watery. My lips part, waiting for him to make contact with mine.

Instead, he kisses me on the forehead before walking away.

Disappointment fills me. What the hell is happening to me?

+++++

A knock on my door rouses me from a nap that I fell into after showering. I’ve got the cashmere pale-pink blanket pulled over me, but otherwise, I’m naked.

Before I can call to enter, the door flings open. A woman with a graying bun and stern lines marches in, her eyes anything but kind. “Miss Winters. Mr. D’Ange wishes you to dine with him in the main dining room. I have brought a change of clothing for you as he indicated that your luggage was lost.”

Belatedly, I notice that she’s carrying a large box with a pink satin bow upon it. I struggle to sit up, clutching the blanket above my breasts. “Oh, I thought…”

Clothes, Alain mentioned. A box tied like a luxurious present, he left out. Suddenly, I’m wide awake.

And, okay, I’m sort of a sucker for pretty things. I don’t like to admit it to many people, but Morrie is convinced that I’ll die while being distracted by a fabulous dress in the middle of slaying. Or heels, which he also says I shouldn’t wear. But I maintain that if I can slay in a pair of designer shoes that make me six inches taller, I can slay in anything. Plus, my legs would look so much better in fine shoes.