Page 15 of Girl Anonymous
“A woman who engenders loyalty…and a woman who doesn’t hesitate to enforce her decisions.”
Code forDo what I say or I’ll kill you. “Really? Mrs. Arundel? Really?”
“Really. She had enemies.”
Maarja had never seen that in her, but—yes. As his father’s heir apparent, Dante had been too young to take over the organization, but not too young to die, and Mrs. Arundel had been physically helpless. Someone had had to move swiftly to ensure their survival, and that somebody had to be Mrs. Arundel. “Is that why they wanted to eliminate her?”
“Yes.”
The next logical question—“Who arethey?”
“I intend to find out.” Grim tone. “Some seek their own power. Some prefer the old ways. Some think anarchy will open up a brand-new world, so they’ll bring it all down and start anew, and damned to who gets hurt.” He finished rinsing her hair and returned the handheld to the hook. “If you can feel better about today’s events, please know my mother is better off out of it.”
Indignation made her want to slap him. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“It holds its own truth.”
For the first time since he’d stepped into the shower, she looked at him, really looked at him. The man who had been everything that was kind and caring to her had been hiding histrue emotions, for he strained like a black wolf, captured and at the end of his fetter. The muscles in his shoulders, arms, and chest flexed against the soaking white cotton, she could clearly see his dark hard nipples and… Her gaze dropped. She hadn’t meant to notice, but his heavy wet sweatpants sagged low on his hips and only one thing was keeping them up.
Okay. He hadn’t been aroused when she was a sobbing wreck—she knew because she’d been sitting on his lap—but she’d relaxed from her tight curl of misery, the snot had ceased running, and, oh, gee, as he said, she was naked.
She glanced up and discovered his lids half shuttered his eyes, allowing only a polished obsidian gleam to escape—and that gleam focused on her.
She was naked, he had noticed—well, sure, he’d been standing over top of her washing her hair—and to contain the sudden surge of her breath, she slowly reached up and touched her breastbone over her heart.
Her fingers caressing her own skin held a fascination for him, and he couldn’t seem to look away.
This was it, then. The moment she’d feared and put off. But this time, the right circumstances: a cocoon of steamy safety, a past that unwillingly united them, and a dangerous man with a tender touch.
Abruptly, like a demon fleeing a burst of light, he turned and lunged for the door.
“Wait!” She grabbed for him, caught the sweatpants. The elastic released and left him standing in a pool of French terry. He wore soaked white boxers that molded his erection. “Dante, would you…?”
“No!” He stomped his feet to free himself from the heavy wet material.
She reached for him. “I want!”
“No. You don’t like to be touched and I’m going to respectthat.” The door latch clicked. The door opened. “As soon as I get out of here!”
“Dante!”
He froze. Every muscle in his shoulders, back, and neck flexed and strained.
She whispered, “Don’t leave me alone now.”
Still he stood, brittle with tension.
How to explain what she knew? “Dante, it’s been a horrible day for you, too. You need me.”
With a sigh, he turned and picked her up by the shoulders. “Yes. I do.” He sounded almost…resigned.
He kissed her: lips formed to hers, tongue curious, gentle, alien to her. Breath that was not hers. Flames that kindled between them. A tangle of thorns. A thicket of passion. Emotions she had never comprehended, ever, in her whole life.
Before she could decide, he pulled back and stared at her, his dark eyes now wide, urgent, primitive. “Second thoughts. For me. For you.”
“Not me.” Why did he say that? Could he taste her uncertainty?
“You’ve had a terrible day. One shock after another. Grief and heartache. I shouldn’t—”
