“Blue balls,” he grumbles under his breath, but I’m secretly thrilled. He might have pulled away, but he still wants me. I’ve just got to figure out why.
“Ten minutes, Jules,” Sylvie interrupts. She pulls off her shoes, shoves them through the banister railings, and drops them downstairs. Dax shakes his head. “That’s enough time to shower and change if you light a fire under your butt. Hurry! And wear the cute fluffy sleep set. It will be comfy for sofa time with the movie.”
“Is this becoming a girlie sleepover thing?” Dax groans.
The strangest little thrill thrums through me at the idea. It would be my first, but I’m no longer a child—I never really have been—and the irony of trying to flirt seductively with Dax while simultaneously feeling excited about a childish sleepover isn’t entirely lost on me. Not to mention, the last thing I want is for Dax to look at me like he does Sylvie; like a dependent.
“Yes!” Sylvie yells, just as I snap, “No!”
“It is, but you’re invited too, Dax. Now come on. Cold pizza is only good for breakfast.” With that, she jogs up the stairs and slams her door behind her.
“Cute fluffy set?” he asks. I blush. She’s destroyed the seductive image I’ve desperately been trying to conjure.
“Don’t ask me. I have no idea of half of the clothing in those bags.”
Dax laughs loudly. “I had Mrs Grainger hang them in the closet for you.”
“Mrs Grainger?” I ask, heading for the stairs. He follows at my back.
“Margaret Grainger, our housekeeper.” I hover, trying to think of something else to say that doesn’t focus on the house or Sylvieor silly fluffy Pyjamas and sleepovers. There’s nothing. Dax must realise it too. He cuts the silence between us with a sigh. “Go. Get these fluffy things and get comfortable. I’m looking forward to having you on my couch.”
Having me?Interesting choice of words. He grins the second my eyes widen at his potential meaning.
He lets me climb the first stair before he stops me with his hand on my wrist and his head on my shoulder. He speaks against my neck. “Let’s keep Sylvie happy and then you and I can have a discussion about sexy red lingerie.”
Climbing two steps, I glance back and give him a soft smile, unsure of how to respond. I could tell him the truth, that they were Sylvie’s idea, but I like the playful way he teases me. We’re easy together again and, as pissed as I feel about the way he treated me, I want to know why more than I want to punish him for it.
He double-taps my butt. I scoot up the stairs, determined to be on that couch and ready before the tingle disappears.
My room is immaculate. The scent of lemon and verbena hits me as soon as I open the door. Only one thing draws my attention to being out of place. The full-length mirror hanging on the wall is now swung out at a right angle, revealing an opening. I peek my head around the fake wall and my jaw literally drops. There’s an entire hidden closet behind the wall. On my immediate left, two fragile lamps illuminate an alcove decorated in floor to ceiling mirrors. In front of them, flush with the opening, is a mirrored dressing table complete with a plush stool tucked underneath. To my right, reflected in the mirrors, is the closet itself, arranged across three walls. Sleek, fitted white shelves line the space. On either side, I could hang every stitch of clothing my family owned, and directly opposite the mirrors are enough cubbies for at least forty pairs of shoes.
Straight ahead, a short corridor leads down to another open section of wall, that if I’m not mistaken, opens into the adjoining bathroom. I hadn’t noticed that either.
Just as Dax said, my new clothes are hung neatly on the left wall. My old clothes, Dax having probably rescued my bin liner of belongings from his car, are ironed, folded, and laid out on a modern, duck-egg blue upholstered bench. I pull open a selection of drawers to find my lingerie laid out, the matching bras on a rail above. In the drawer below are the two pairs of pyjamas and the three chemise nighties that Sylvie insisted were “too damn cute not to buy.”
I grab the fluffy set and lay it on the chaise. I strip and dress quickly. While my reflection assures I don’t look like a total idiot, I secretly wish I’d insisted on a few items that bridged the gap between homely and seductress.
A rustling sound in my room snaps my attention back. Sylvie? My red set is missing, but I suspect it is still laid out wherever Dax took that photo. I grab the little black number, identical to my red set, that Mrs Granger must have assumed was mine, and slip out into the room.
“Is this what you are looking for?” I tease, waving the lace on my outstretched finger.
“No, but if you wear them, this might not be such a wasted effort.” Ben leers, eyeing the material and then tracing my body, wrinkling his nose at my choice in bed wear.
My hand drops, the lace scrunches in my fist. “What…what the hell are you doing in here?”
“Asking myself that same question,” he grumbles. “What did he say to you? They said he spoke to you alone. I want to know what he said.”
They? The guards or doctors? Who was spying for him?
“Yeah? Well, I want you to leave, but I think we’re both going to end up disappointed.”
“I can’t go.” For a split second he actually looks sorry, but as quick as the guilt rises it fades again. “I need to know what he said.”
“Why don’t you just come clean?” I argue. “Get it all out in the open and stop playing games? Surely you don’t enjoy this? Was ityou? Did you shoot Tom?” I’m brave or dumb to confront him, but I’m done playing games. I want to know things too. I want to know why they were on the stairs in Olive Tower. I want to know why he’s hiding his involvement and why he thinks I know anything. If Ben attacked Tom, he’s had ample opportunity to sneak into the hospital and finish the job. Instead, he’s stalking me.
Ben shoots up from the bed and walks me backwards straight into the dressing room. He shuts the door behind him, leaving us trapped in the smaller, windowless room. “Is that what he told you?” he growls. The fury in his reddening face and tight lips suggests he’s not the one who pulled the trigger…or if he is, it wasn’t intentional, perhaps?
“He didn’t even mention you,” I admit, struggling to keep my back straight and chin up as he leans over me. God, I’m so sick of aggressive men. “He only wanted to thank me.”
