water washing away the dirt and grime from the night before. Arching her back, she turned up to the rainlike spray, let it run down her head and face, trickle over her chest and slide down her body.
“Feel better?”
The roughly masculine voice jolted through her, prompting her to draw her arms across her chest. Through the glass blocks she could see the outline of his body, tall, broad, but no detail. Pray to God he saw the same.
“I’d feel better if you left me alone,” she said, and like so many other times, he treated her to one of those slow, dark laughs. Predatory, almost. The sound swirled around her, much like the warm water against her naked flesh, but quietly he turned and walked out the door.
For a few minutes Brenna didn’t move, just stood beneath the spray, waiting, not at all convinced he wouldn’t be back. She didn’t take him for the kind of man to force himself on a woman, but nothing was as it seemed in the rabbit hole, and too well she knew men with their backs against the wall knew no limits. She’d walked into some kind of odd chess game, and if she wasn’t careful, she could easily get caught in the crossfire.
Cautiously she reached for the bottle of liquid soap. Hibiscus scented, she noted, squeezing a blob into her palm. Trying not to think about Ethan, or the fact that she stood naked and all that separated them was a door and his honor, she slid her hands along her body.
The flash froze her. The heat electrified. It was only her hands splayed against her body, but too easily she felt those square palms and strong fingers, the calluses that made no sense for a polished city lawyer.
Not a premonition, she told herself. Dear heaven, not a premonition.
She let the water wash away the lather, the unwanted images, and quickly shampooed and conditioned her hair. She kept her mind blank, refusing to allow thoughts of Ethan Carrington and those fascinating hands of his seep through. She didn’t need to imagine them on her body, tangled in her hair. Even if he didn’t believe she was on Jorak Zhukov’s payroll, there was no room for a man like him in her life. She’d learned the price of loving, the price of letting herself care. She’d felt the sting of betrayal, cried the tears, attended the funerals.
Ethan Carrington would be no different.
Abruptly she turned off the water and glanced through the thick glass blocks to make sure he’d not slipped back into the bathroom. When she saw nothing, she opened the door and reached for a thick peach towel, wrapped it around her body, secured her wet hair in a smaller towel. Through the foggy bathroom mirror she caught sight of her face, noted the deep flush to her cheeks, the darkness to her normally pale eyes and damned her body for betraying her.
Brenna wasn’t a woman for primping and pampering, but she couldn’t resist squeezing rich, hibiscus-scented lotion into her palm and smoothing it over arms and legs, her chest and stomach. Then she brushed her teeth and dried her hair, stepped into the lemon-yellow panties and secured the bra, pulled on the soft cotton sundress.
A wide assortment of makeup lay scattered on a mirrored tray, but she ignored it all, reminding herself she was not here to look good for Ethan Carrington.
“It’s all yours,” she said, opening the bathroom door and letting the steam roll into the surprisingly cool room.
Nothing prepared her for the sight of him sprawled on the big bed, his deep tan and raven hair a stark contrast to the crisp white linens and netting. He looked even more imposing lying down than he did standing up, with his chest and shoulders dominating a ridiculous display of frilly pillows, his long legs bent and crooked open.
Slowly his lips curved into a breathtakingly sensuous smile. “Angel, I’ve heard people compared to a breath of fresh air before, but until this moment I’ve never seen it with my own eyes.”
The words rushed through her, softening the hard edges she’d tacked
“Feel better?”
The roughly masculine voice jolted through her, prompting her to draw her arms across her chest. Through the glass blocks she could see the outline of his body, tall, broad, but no detail. Pray to God he saw the same.
“I’d feel better if you left me alone,” she said, and like so many other times, he treated her to one of those slow, dark laughs. Predatory, almost. The sound swirled around her, much like the warm water against her naked flesh, but quietly he turned and walked out the door.
For a few minutes Brenna didn’t move, just stood beneath the spray, waiting, not at all convinced he wouldn’t be back. She didn’t take him for the kind of man to force himself on a woman, but nothing was as it seemed in the rabbit hole, and too well she knew men with their backs against the wall knew no limits. She’d walked into some kind of odd chess game, and if she wasn’t careful, she could easily get caught in the crossfire.
Cautiously she reached for the bottle of liquid soap. Hibiscus scented, she noted, squeezing a blob into her palm. Trying not to think about Ethan, or the fact that she stood naked and all that separated them was a door and his honor, she slid her hands along her body.
The flash froze her. The heat electrified. It was only her hands splayed against her body, but too easily she felt those square palms and strong fingers, the calluses that made no sense for a polished city lawyer.
Not a premonition, she told herself. Dear heaven, not a premonition.
She let the water wash away the lather, the unwanted images, and quickly shampooed and conditioned her hair. She kept her mind blank, refusing to allow thoughts of Ethan Carrington and those fascinating hands of his seep through. She didn’t need to imagine them on her body, tangled in her hair. Even if he didn’t believe she was on Jorak Zhukov’s payroll, there was no room for a man like him in her life. She’d learned the price of loving, the price of letting herself care. She’d felt the sting of betrayal, cried the tears, attended the funerals.
Ethan Carrington would be no different.
Abruptly she turned off the water and glanced through the thick glass blocks to make sure he’d not slipped back into the bathroom. When she saw nothing, she opened the door and reached for a thick peach towel, wrapped it around her body, secured her wet hair in a smaller towel. Through the foggy bathroom mirror she caught sight of her face, noted the deep flush to her cheeks, the darkness to her normally pale eyes and damned her body for betraying her.
Brenna wasn’t a woman for primping and pampering, but she couldn’t resist squeezing rich, hibiscus-scented lotion into her palm and smoothing it over arms and legs, her chest and stomach. Then she brushed her teeth and dried her hair, stepped into the lemon-yellow panties and secured the bra, pulled on the soft cotton sundress.
A wide assortment of makeup lay scattered on a mirrored tray, but she ignored it all, reminding herself she was not here to look good for Ethan Carrington.
“It’s all yours,” she said, opening the bathroom door and letting the steam roll into the surprisingly cool room.
Nothing prepared her for the sight of him sprawled on the big bed, his deep tan and raven hair a stark contrast to the crisp white linens and netting. He looked even more imposing lying down than he did standing up, with his chest and shoulders dominating a ridiculous display of frilly pillows, his long legs bent and crooked open.
Slowly his lips curved into a breathtakingly sensuous smile. “Angel, I’ve heard people compared to a breath of fresh air before, but until this moment I’ve never seen it with my own eyes.”
The words rushed through her, softening the hard edges she’d tacked
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