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I can feel them judging me, scorning me, all of them thinking I’ve somehow connived my way into a “special” place in Mr. Rochester’s life—-
Which of course is exactly how Mr. Rochester wants it to be, damn him.
As I step inside of his office, Mr. Rochester says lazily, “Close the door, please.”
Asshole, I can’t help thinking even as I turn around to do as bid. Reaching for the knob, I catch sight of Virginia glaring at me murderously all the way from the reception counter—-
Shit. I have a nasty feeling my attendance sheet’s going to suffer after this. I close the door with grimly, feeling like I’m hammering down on the last nail of my own coffin. Turning around, I see Mr. Rochester smirking still, and my temper can no longer take it.
“Congratulations,” I snarl. “You’ve succeeded in ruining my reputation. Everyone thinks I’ve become your mistress overnight now so I hope you’re happy.”
“I didn’t think you were the type to care about what others think.”
“And I don’t, but only when it’s something I’m really guilty about. But this is—-”
“Not anyone else’s business except ours, don’t you think?” Mr. Rochester’s broad shoulders move under his perfectly tailored jacket in a dismissive shrug. “Like you, I have never been bothered by other people’s opinions, Ms. Reed. But unlike you, mine isn’t selective. I simply feel that letting yourself affected by how other people see you is a sheer waste of time. Hopefully you’ll come to realize this for yourself as well.”
Before I can tell him that only rich people can afford such “realizations”, Mr. Rochester gestures to one of the leather seats across his desk, saying, “Please sit—-”
I raise my chin again, saying proudly, “I prefer—-”
Perching himself on the edge of his desk, Mr. Rochester pats his lap, drawling, “Sitting here, perhaps?”
Again, my mouth opens and closes, and my mind has a mini breakdown as I find myself envisioning Mr. Rochester placing me on his lap—-
Aaaah.
Fire slithers its way down my body, making every inch of it burn.
Shit.
But no matter how hard I try to fight against it, my body just keeps getting hotter.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
How is it that this man arouses me so easily?
“Well, Ms. Reed?”
“I’ll take a seat,” I mutter.
Mr. Rochester sighs. “A pity.”
Pretending I don’t feel his amused gaze following my every movement, I make my way to the leather seat and plop down ungracefully. In the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Mr. Rochester reach for a pen on his desk and start twirling it between his fingers—-
Every movement is picture-perfect, and for some reason I find myself reluctantly enthralled by the sight.
“Now.” Mr. Rochester’s tone is musing. “Where were we?”
Where were we indeed, I wonder vaguely as the movements of his fingers continue to mesmerize me. Will those fingers be just as skillful when they’re caressing a woman’s flesh—-
SHIT.
I jerk in my seat, face flaming as the fire in my blood burns hotter. Oh God. Why is it that every little thing Mr. Rochester does is capable of sending my mind to the gutters?
The pen in his fingers suddenly stills.
And then I hear him say, “You’re blushing.”
Shit.
His words are infinitely embarrassing, but there’s something in his voice that’s even more worrying, and I blink in bemusement even as my heart starts to race. I feel like I’ve forgotten something...but what?
Our eyes meet again...and Mr. Rochester starts to smile. “Oh, Ms. Reed.” His voice is filled with mock disappointment. “Have you somehow convinced yourself that last night was a mere whim of mine? Or an empty threat perhaps?”
Oh.
OH.
I’m unable to answer, dismay and shock turning me into a statue in my seat as I realize he’s right. I have made myself forgotten—-
But not anymore.
Now, I remember very clearly how Mr. Rochester looked at me when he said, Listen very carefully, Ms. Reed. Because the next words I’ll be speaking will determine the course of your life.
The memory makes me cringe, and the knowledge that the worse is yet to come more so.
“EARLIER, I HAD A BIT of time to myself before the surgery, so I thought I’d make use of it by asking security to send me everything they have on you.”
His voice might be deceptively casual, but I knew a threat when I heard one. Infuriated that he thought I could be so easily intimidated, I lifted my chin, saying proudly, “I have nothing to hide.”
“I’m glad you think that.” Mr. Rochester paused. “But if you’re thinking I’m referring to the fact that you were a runaway in your childhood, it’s not what I’m talking about.”
Since that was exactly what I thought he meant, his words left me annoyingly stumped, and all I could do was glare at him, asking ungraciously, “Then what?”
“Can you truly think of nothing you’d want to hide from me?” Mr. Rochester’s voice is taunting.
