Yolk spills onto the Hollandaise sauce, and I try not to make a mess. The meal is exquisite. I can’t help but wonder why Mrs. Fairfax only pulls out all the stops when Mr. Rochester is at home.
“I have a favor to ask you.” He sets down his fork and gazes at me like I’m the only woman in the world.
Tension explodes through my chest like a bomb detonating. This is it. He’s going to acknowledge last night. Ask if we can make this a more permanent arrangement. I picture myself floating around the manor in beautiful dresses during the day and sleeping with him in the master bedroom at night.
But what if I’m wrong? He’s had enough time to check my bogus references. He might even accuse me of something heinous. Or tell me to pack my bags and blame me for being inappropriate.
“What kind of favor?” I rasp.
“Adele’s condition worsened overnight,” he replies with a frown. “Mrs. Fairfax took her to the mainland for proper medical treatment.”
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Mrs. Fairfax is gone. So is the little girl. Which means I’m alone in this estate with Mr. Rochester and whoever else might be lurking in the shadows.
And just like that, the fantasy of my perfect hiding place evaporates into steam.
“Are you asking me to leave?” The question tumbles out before I can stop it, my voice cracking with panic. “I mean, if there’s no child to care for...”
If they don’t need a nanny, they don’t need me. And if I have to leave this island, I’m dead. If Gil’s people don’t find me within hours, the FBI will drag me back in handcuffs.I’ll be facing murder charges and a death sentence before I can explain my innocence.
“Quite the opposite,” he says, his voice smooth as satin. “With Mrs. Fairfax away, I was hoping you might handle a few household tasks.”
Relief floods through my system so fast my head spins. I still have shelter. Still have time to figure out my next move.
“Of course,” I blurt. “Whatever you need. I’m happy to help.”
He inclines his head. Gives me a wintry smile but doesn’t reply. My breath quickens. Why isn’t he accepting my offer?
I lean forward, trying not to sound desperate. “I can do everything around the house. I can clean… cook. I know all the basics and can make fancy dishes. Just as long as there’s a recipe book.”
His eyes flicker with something that might be interest. “Then I look forward to tasting you.”
My brain stalls. My pussy clenches. Every nerve ending springs to life. Did he just...
“Excuse me?” I ask, my voice breathy.
“Your cuisine,” he says, but there’s something in his eyes—a smoldering heat, a touch of humor—that makes me think I didn’t imagine the double entendre.
“Right. Cooking.” I take a gulp of coffee. “I won’t disappoint you.”
He stands with that same fluid grace. Then he slides on the jacket with an elegance at odds with how he handled my foot last night. Each gesture is controlled, deliberate, like he’s choreographed his entire existence.
“Wonderful,” he says, pushing in his chair. “I’ll leave you to settle into your new responsibilities.”
He strides out of the room, leaving me alone with my throbbing heart and his manly scent.
I sit at the table, stunned, unable to complete this beautiful breakfast. My pulse won’t stop racing. One brief conversation has thrown me from hopeful to fearing for my survival, and back to hope. No matter how many times I replay his words, I get stuck on one thing: he wants a taste of me.
Not my food. Not my feet. Me.
I study the chair he vacated, trying to reconcile that calm, controlled man with the desperate beast who came in his pants while humping my bed. The disconnect is staggering. Rochester moves through the world like he owns it, completely self-possessed. But the man in my room was hungry. Feverish. Almost reverent in his need.
Could they really be the same person? Or am I so eager for answers that I’m seeing connections that don’t exist?
Maybe the isolation is getting to my head. Maybe I’m losing my mind on this Godforsaken estate, creating elaborate fantasies to cope with the loneliness.
But the bruises on my ankle are real. So is the memory of his tongue on my skin. A man was definitely in my room last night. The same man who left me that note asking me to wave back.
The question is: who?
