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My cheeks heat with embarrassment, as he hands me a book, its cover a shirtless man groping the exposed thigh of a woman whose dress is hiked up, his face buried in breasts that bulge out of a demi-cup bodice. Recalling Laura’s earlier comments about her husband’s disapproval of her reading, I frown harder, my forehead practically cramping with the effort. I swipe the book out of his hands. “Nothing wrong with it, if it did.”
“I never said there was.”
I finally lift my gaze to his, just catching the diversion of his eyes. A downward glance shows my own cleavage sticking up from this stupid dress, and I quickly straighten, rolling my shoulders back.
A gentle grip of my arm stiffens my muscles, and when he turns my forearm over to the scars, his brows lowering with what I’d interpret as disgust, panic blooms inside my chest. I want to pull away, but my body is frozen in shock, while I wait for him to ask why I did this to myself. How could I mutilate my own skin, and worse, for what purpose?
It’s a question I can’t answer myself, except that it felt good at the time. It felt good to release that pain and rage that left me feeling like I could explode. As if I was releasing all of the toxins in my life and decontaminating my blood of all the demons, like an exorcism.
His thumb passes over a cluster of skinny scars, the worst of my pain permanently written in my skin, and my face feels like a sealed-up volcano, with all the pressure and mortification kettled inside my head.
Without a single question about them, he releases me and passes me the last book. Stack clutched tight to my breasts, I do my best to hide the flush of my chest. The evidence of my humiliation.
Fingertips grip my elbow, the soft strokes from before still lingering on my forearm, casting a chill across my skin as he guides me to my feet. Once upright, he releases me, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“I don’t suppose a set of side mirrors would do you any good.”
The tension from seconds ago is tamped down by my offense. “No more than a horn for you.”
His jaw shifts as if this amuses him. A gesture that I don’t find amusing. “Yet, you’re the one who can’t seem to avoid running into things.”
“Maybe if those things didn’t blend into the wall, I’d take notice of them.” Oh, my God. I didn’t even mean to spew that one. The fact is, this man is unblendable, if such a word exists. He’s the kind of mysterious, imposing presence that could shrink any room he walks into. Intriguing and majestic, in spite of his scars.
The humor in his eyes hardens with malice. “Nice dress. I’m sure my mother loved picking it out for you. I’ve no doubt it gets boring dressing up dolls all day.”
“I am not her … dress-up thing.”
What?
Again, his lips twitch as if he’s holding back a laugh, which only stirs my frustration. “I suspect you’ll have a closetful of dresses by the time she’s done playing with you.”
My jaw comes unhinged, while my mind scrambles for a proper insult to throw back at him. Gaze dipping to his outfit, which, if I’m being honest, really does look good on him, a fact that only pisses me off further, I tip my head with a smirk. “I see she chooses your wardrobe, as well.”
What is it about this man? Twice now, he’s brought out this nasty side of me, like he wants to fire me for my insolence.
He steps toward me, to which I step backward, until the wall behind me is pressing against my spine. Planting a hand against the wall, he leans forward. It’s not his face that scares the shit out of me right now, but the proximity of his body, and I’m suddenly very much aware of his size compared to mine. How small and delicate I must look beside him. Small. Delicate. Totally breakable.
“Careful, girl,” he whispers in my ear, casting a shiver of goosebumps across my skin with the dark promise in his tone. The air of authority that radiates from every cell of his body like the crack of a whip. He pushes away from me and gathers up the books from the table behind him--references for music composition, I notice--and taps his knuckles on the wood. “At least I get to wear pants.”
As he steps past me, leaving a delicious trail of whatever cologne he’s wearing, I exhale a breath and shake my head.
Stupid dress.
* * *
Arms brimming with a selection of books, I exit the elevator, and at the sounds of screaming, I rush toward Laura’s bedroom, shoulder slamming into the door. “Laura?”
From beside the bed, Nell pins down her arms, while Laura squirms, trying to break free.
“Amelia! Why aren’t you answering me? Answer me!”
I drop the books onto a nearby chair and dart across the room to the opposite side of the bed. “What happened?”
“You can’t leave without telling me.” The anger in Nell’s voice strikes like a slap across the face.
“She sent me down for some books. I was only …. I was only gone a few minutes.”
“I found her out on the balcony, calling for Amelia.”
