Page 6 of Rogue Voice
As luxurious as her suite was, every night Bea cried herself to sleep, wishing she could move to one of the rooms on the opposite end of the courtyard, further away from her uncle. But she knew better than to suggest such a thing, knew just how much it would anger him if he knew.
Once upon a time she’d loved her uncle, but that had been a long time ago, before her father died. Ever since her uncle had become her legal guardian, ever since he’d taken her out of the convent school and brought her to this strange, empty house, their relationship had become strained.
Now, nothing she ever did was enough. The only way to please him seemed to become …less… in every sense of the word. Sometimes, she looked at herself in the mirror and barely recognized the version of herself staring back.
Recently, he’d begun looking at her strangely, as if she were an object he had plans for. Bea didn’t want to contemplate what those plans might be, but if it had something to do with the newcomer, Bea had to know. She couldn’t afford to stick her head in the sand like an ostrich, as she’d been doing over the last year.
Bea didn’t have any friends anymore, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew what a friend would say. A friend would tell hernothing’s going to get better unless you make it so.
If she had to guess, her uncle’s guest would be sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms overlooking the gardens. Those rooms were all connected by a long balcony that ran along the outside of the house.
Bea steeled her spine against what she had to do, knowing it was now or never. This was no time to second guess herself.
She crept along the upper inner balcony, listening intently for any sounds. At this time of day, her uncle was always downstairs, and staff members had no reason to be up here once they were done cleaning.
She stood outside the first door, straining to hear anything beyond the sound of her beating heart. There was nothing—only silence. Before she could change her mind, she turned the knob and made her way inside, breathing a sigh of relief as she confirmed it was, indeed, empty, and quickly closed the door behind her.
Though outside the sun was shining, the room was in half-shadow because of the heavy curtains blocking out most of the light. Her uncle insisted all rooms should be kept this way, arguably, to keep the heat out and protect the valuable items of furniture from the light of the sun.
Bea sighed. She hated darkness. If she ever had a place to call her own, she’d tear down the curtains and live perpetually in the light.
Her ballet flats made no sound against the antique Persian rug. She stepped gingerly around a heavy armchair that would have looked more at home in a French palace than in a Colombian hacienda. She reached past the heavy curtains to unlock the balcony door latch, inhaling sharply at the resulting click. A part of her wanted to run back, but she’d come too far to do so now. She forced herself to step forward and into the light, careful to leave the door behind her ajar in case she needed to make a quick getaway and to avoid locking herself out.
She walked forward, heading slowly towards the next window.
The curtains were open.
Bingo.
Craning her neck to look into the room, she kept the rest of her body plastered against the wall. Her muscles tensed as she caught sight of the man. He was alone, still wearing the same faded blue jeans and a black T-shirt. Now that she thought about it, he hadn’t been carrying a bag.
He’d taken off his boots and was fiddling with something on the sole of one boot. As Bea watched, the man took out a small square object and placed it behind some books on the bookshelf.
What the hell is he doing?
She was one hundred percent sure she hadn’t said the words out loud, nor had she made any sound, but something—some sixth sense—seemed to alert the man to her presence. He looked up.
Bea flattened herself further against the wall, her heart threatening to burst out of her mouth. When nothing happened, she relaxed lightly, pushing her head back against the stone.
Then the balcony door clicked open. She could imagine him popping his head outside.Please stay inside. Please don’t come out.
She strained to hear something, her heart pounding so hard she wondered if this was what the beginning of a heart attack felt like.
And then he was there. He’d moved so silently she hadn’t even realized he’d stepped outside.
Bea turned, ready to run, but once again the man was too quick, blocking the way. She realized now just how much taller than she he was. Tall, with broad shoulders and slim hips. Not that she was looking down at his hips.
“Hello there.” His deep voice held a trace of surprise.
Despite her fear, a part of her mind remained detached enough to confirm her earlier assessment of his Australian accent. The rest of her struggled, panicked.
Who cares where he’s from? You need to get out of here!
“I’m Rogue,” he continued, as if her silence made no difference to him.
Rogue.Bea committed the name to memory. It suited him. With his brown hair tied back in a messy ponytail, his chiseled jaw, and those intense stone-gray eyes, he looked rakish and …dangerous. Very dangerous. Fear—sour and liquid—filled her. She should have stayed in her room. She should have known better than to approach any friend of her uncle’s.
Run.
