Mr. Rochester stares down at me, those austere features hawkish and impatient.
He doesn’t need to tell me twice.
I rise off the stool on unsteady legs, smooth down my skirt, and meet his cold gaze before walking toward the door. It had been stupid of me to hope he wanted companionship. Men like Mr. Rochester aren’t interested in the help. Even if they were, it wouldn’t last longer than the time it takes for the cum to cool.
As I leave, he calls out, “Miss Burlington, one more thing.”
I turn back, hope fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird.
“Address me as Mr. Rochester or Sir. We are not familiar.”
The last of my hope dies a quick, ugly death. “Of course. Mr. Rochester.”
I leave the study with whatever dignity I have left, but the house feels colder. Darker. The hallways seem longer, the shadows deeper. Every portrait on the walls seems to be judging me for thinking I had a chance of impressing the master of the house.
By the time I reach the second floor, I’m questioning why the hell he even summoned me to his study. And did I imagine that moment when his gaze lingered on mybreasts? I’m probably so desperate for male attention that I’m mistaking indifference for interest.
A plate of food waits on the floor outside my room. I pick it up, lift the metal dome to find two slices of bread, a slab of meat, a pickle, and a blob of pale butter. No cutlery. No tray. No note. Mrs. Fairfax’s meals have become progressively more basic. It’s like I’m a prisoner being fed through a slot.
Sighing, I take it into my room, close the door, and lean against the wood. I kick off my shoes and try to console myself that tonight wasn’t really a disaster. He wasn’t even that attractive, but then no one falls in lust faster than a fugitive with nowhere else to stay.
I take the food to the small desk by the window and arrange the meat into a semblance of a sandwich, while I replay every second of our encounter. Mr. Rochester’s detachment. His clinical assessment of my body. The way he looked at me like I was something to be cataloged and forgotten.
Maybe murder has made me lose my edge. Maybe I never had much of an appeal. The night I met Gil, I was more interested in his boss. But Gil swooped me up, took me to a storage room, and made me feel like dynamite. Now, it’s obvious I was being handled. Powerful men always seem to be immune to whatever I’m selling.
I take one bite of the mystery meat sandwich, finding it overly salted, and follow it with another and another, washing down the dry fare with my refilled water jug. By the time I’ve finished, my eyes droop, and my stomach feels like lead.
A sharp knock against the window makes me freeze with a glass of liquid halfway to my mouth.
Then there’s another knock, sounding like a pebble hitting the pane.
My pulse kicks up again, my system flooding with anticipation. I set down my water and walk to the balcony doors, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor.
Through the glass, I find the masked man standing in exactly the same spot as that first night. Moonlight cuts across the gardens, turning everything to silver and shadow. He stares up at me, unmoving, patient as death.
Then he waves.
This time, I don’t hesitate. I raise my hand and wave back.
He rocks forward on his feet, and even through the mask, I can sense his pleasure. He beckons me down with one gloved hand. When I don’t move, he mimics turning a key in a lock.
Panic shoots through my chest like electricity. I stumble backward, away from the window, my heart thudding. What the hell am I doing? What the hell is he asking me to do?
I shut the curtains, grab my water and down its contents. What the fuck? After making sure the doors are locked, I undress, retreat to my bed, and pull the covers up to my chin. Not like they can protect me from whatever game he thinks I’ve just agreed to play, but I’m out.
But even as I squeeze my eyes shut, I can still feel him down on that lawn. Watching. Waiting. Willing me to open that balcony door. And that pulse between my legs tells me I want to go to him more than I want to stay safe.
TWELVE
THE KEYHOLE
Annalisa, here I come.
THIRTEEN
Hours later, a sound jolts me out of sleep. It’s the soft scrape of metal against wood. My eyes snap open in the darkness, my heart already racing before my brain catches up.
He’s here again.
