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She padded into the bathroom. Another work of art, she thought with a small smile, and larger than her childhood living room. The claw-foot tub she’d soaked in last night had been installed before a bay of windows, which, by the light of day, she could now see also overlooked the rose garden and the sea. A shower made of black tile and a wall of glass with not one but two waterfall showerheads in the ceiling took up most of the back wall. Marble counters and gleaming silver fixtures shone under the glow of elegant wall sconces.
A distant knock pulled her out of her reverie. She walked out into the bedroom just as the door swung open.
“Wait!”
“Miss Sutton...”
Griffith’s voice trailed off as his eyes landed on her blanket-clad figure.
Shock froze her in place. His gaze moved from her face down to the thin material she clutched to her breasts.
The atmosphere shifted, heated as his eyes sharpened, traveled down over her legs and bare feet before moving back up to her face. Her nipples hardened into tight points and pressed against the fabric. Mortification and desire clashed, melded into a heat that spread throughout her body.
Their gazes met, locked. In the bright light of day, his scars were more vivid. Most were paler in color, but the one that cut through a thick brow and around his eye was still red.
The wounds didn’t detract from his sheer handsomeness. They added complexity, depth to the chiseled features. The cleft in his chin interrupted the nearly perfect line of a strong jaw covered by a well-trimmed beard.
And his eyes...right now they glimmered, a dark blue that somehow burned as he watched her.
A voice whispered in her ear, dared her to do something outrageous like let the blanket fall. To place the ball in his court and see what happened next. She’d been waiting her whole life for the right man, the perfect man, to share her body with. Each man she’d gone to dinner with, kissed, had fallen short somehow. Some had simply not been a good fit. Others had been cordial, kind, interesting.
But none had done this. Set her body aflame with a single look.
“I knocked.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
God, was that her voice? Breathless, husky?
“The tree fell onto the bridge.”
She blinked and just like that, the fire was gone from his eyes. The cold, controlled man from the night was back, his voice authoritative and sterile.
“What?”
“The tree,” he repeated, as if she was a child not paying attention. “It fell onto the bridge.”
Unease fluttered in her stomach.
“So...what does that mean?”
“It means until someone can come up here and remove the tree and test the bridge, make sure it’s safe, you’re to remain here.”
She stifled her alarm, took in a deep breath.
“Okay. I understand. When will someone be by?”
“Probably a week.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“A week?”
“Yes.”
“But...why so long?”
“Because that will be the first time Madame Beatrice and her husband will be back to restock the kitchen and any missing supplies.”
