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The Bishop mansion is large and there’s obviously been money for centuries, but the style is completely different, with more of the rooms needing TLC than not. My own bedroom is on the small side, maybe a little larger than this oversized bathroom. I always wondered why Carlton gave me that one while so many larger, better furnished ones sat empty. Not that I cared, I was just curious. I knew to be grateful because the alternative to him taking me in was probably the street.
“Not to mention the residual musk of arousal,” Jericho says, drawing me back to the here and now. I realize what he means. He’s talking about how I smell.
My heart races. He knew. “What a keen sense of smell, but you’re off on that last one. I’ll give you fear though. Your cellar is haunted.”
That makes his face go funny for a split second, but it passes so quickly I’m doubting I saw it at all. But I take my advantage and continue.
“This is your bedroom. Your bathroom.”
He nods and I note how his face is not set in that arrogant way he has. What I said has thrown him.
“Won’t your wife mind that I’m going to shower in your shower?” My heart pounds as I watch the play of emotions across his face. Again, they last a moment but it’s enough to give me a glimpse into this man who wants to appear as if he’s made of steel. He’s not.
But then his mouth settles into a hard line and his eyes narrow, their laser-like glare on me.
I’ve hit on something.
And I’m about to pay for it.
“Strip,” he says, voice tight, almost hoarse. His hands are fists at his sides, and I see his chest move as he drags in a long breath, exhales as slowly.
I try to swallow but my throat is too dry. I see a glass on the counter by the sink. “Can I have some water first?”
He studies me. Nods once.
I go to the sink, exhaling with relief. I turn the tap, cup my hands beneath the flow of water and drink. The running water reminds me I have to use the toilet, but I won’t ask for permission. That’s going too far, even given what he’s already done.
When I look back at him, he’s standing exactly where he was, those hard eyes trained on me as if he’s reciting inside his head all the reasons he hates me. The sight of him like this, looking at me like this, sends a shiver down my spine.
“What did Carlton do to you?” I ask, my voice quiet. Because whatever it was, it was bad. And God, I hope it didn’t have to do with this man’s wife. Because there is no wife, I am ninety-nine-point-nine-percent sure of that. Please don’t let Carlton be the reason for that.
Jericho St. James doesn’t answer my question. “Strip.”
I nod, start to unbutton his shirt, my fingers fumbling when I alternate between looking at him and concentrating on the task of unbuttoning. I give up and pull it over my head. I hold it out to him, and he takes it.
His gaze doesn’t leave my eyes this time as he gestures to the shower and leans against the door frame, folds his arms across his chest.
I step into the all-glass shower enclosure, and switch on the water, jumping out of the way when the first icy blast hits me before it warms up. I look over my shoulder as I step under the flow and confirm he’s still there, still as stone, watching me.
So, I shower. I scrub my face then shampoo my hair with his shampoo, note the absence of conditioner, and pick up the still-sudsy bar of soap and wash myself. It’s strange this part. Too intimate. Using his bar of soap, rubbing it over my skin. Is he thinking about that?
When I’m finished, I switch off the water and glance to the rack of folded towels. He doesn’t move so I step out of the stall and reach for a towel, aware of the water sliding off my body, aware of his eyes on me.
That’s when he moves.
Our eyes meet as he lifts a towel, lets it unfold. I look up at him. He wraps it around my shoulders tight, too tight, and tugs me toward him. I instinctively put my wet hands on his chest to stop from falling into him. I can feel the contour of muscle beneath the soft sweater, feel the heat of his skin. I swallow and meet his midnight and steel eyes.
“You don’t get to mention her. Ever.”
Shit. I was right.
“Do you understand?”
I nod.
He tugs, pulling the towel tighter, uncomfortably squeezing my arms and shoulders. “You don’t ask questions about her. And you don’t say a word to my daughter about her mother. Do you understand me, Isabelle Bishop?”
The way he says my name it’s like he’s spitting it. He hates me. God. He hates me.
