“What are the best bits?”
She shakes her head with a small laugh. “I don’t know. It’s just something you say, isn’t it?”
“Can I help clean up or something?” When she stares at me with a confused expression, I say, “I had enough to eat at breakfast and lunch. I just came down because I’m bored being stuck in my room.”
She takes me by the shoulders and steers me towards the door. “If you’re bored, ask Baxter for work. He’ll find you something. Now go, eat.”
Everyone stares at me as I enter the dining hall and I’m grateful when Yuri pulls out the chair beside him and I have a goal to scurry towards. I’m less enthused to find Baxter on my other side.
Even after I sit, people still send inquisitive glances my way but as they settle into conversation with each other, or stop talking long enough to eat, their curiosity lowers.
“Way to make an entrance,” Baxter whispers to me. “As if you weren’t drawing enough attention in those terrible clothes.”
The repeat insult prompts me to check out everyone else in the room. Every man is in a suit, the women in gowns. Each outfit looks about a thousand times more formal than it needs to be.
“There’s a dress code,” Baxter says, keeping his voice low. “I’ll get you started with a few garments, then give you an allowance so you can select your own.”
“Wow. Pocket money.” I bat my eyelashes. “How much do I get, Daddy?”
Something hot and feral sparks in his eyes, like he’s seen a different meal seated at the table and wants to feast. A muscle clenches low in my belly as his gaze lingers on me for so long that I have to glance away, feigning interest in the meal before me, though my stomach is now so tight I doubt I can eat.
“That depends,” he says in a low drawl. His fingers dance onto my thigh, dropping between my legs before slowly grazing higher. He bends his head low enough to talk directly into my ear. “How hard are you prepared to work for it?”
That voice—thatgrowl—does something strange to my body. A flurry of urgent messages fire along every one of my nerves and I don’t dare to glance in his direction.
His fingers make a lazy circle on my inner thigh. Even through my yoga pants I can feel the roughness of his hands. The strength of them. The thickness of his fingers.
Sweat gathers at my hairline. The room is hot.
I’ve forgotten how to swallow.
Then he removes his hand and the mad signalling dies to a background murmur. A rush of disappointment makes me almost giddy.
“Could you pass the bread?” he asks in a normal voice, and it takes me a second to follow his gaze and grasp the plate in front of Yuri.
He ignores me for the rest of the meal. I pass a few words with my bodyguard, or rather I ask questions he refuses to answer, then men and women rise from their spots, a few staying behind to talk in small groups, before dispersing.
Baxter pushes back his chair, then hesitates. “Sophia asked if you could read her a story tonight.”
“Didn’t we just do that last night?”
He smiles and lays his hand atop mine for a brief second, my skin flushing at the touch. “You only lasted a few pages.” He appears unsure, frowning at the floor. When he next speaks, his voice is a whisper. “You make her feel safe.”
I stare at him, wondering if there’s another admission hidden behind the words. Not about me making Sophia feel safe but regret that his presence doesn’t.
“Sure, I guess. It’ll make a change from my plans of doing nothing until the blessed release of sleep claims me.”
“Such exciting plans.”
I throw my napkin at him. “Come back to me when you’re put on house arrest in a stranger’s home, then we can compare.”
“We’re not strangers.”
This time, when Baxter puts his hand on mine, he leaves it there. His gaze locks with mine and my lips tingle. His thumb rubs in a small circle and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Snatching it away, I babble, “Why did you take my bottle away this afternoon?”
His expression doesn’t alter as he says, “The decanter belongs in the study and there’s no reason to start drinking in the afternoon. Being drunk doesn’t suit you.”
