No one else is in there. No one should care if I take a few moments before the fire.
There’s a long line of paintings on the opposite wall andI glance at them, then move over for a more thorough examination. The large oil on canvas triptych steals my attention first off.
It looks like a Colin McCahon, aggressive strokes, muted colours, overlaid text, but not one I’ve seen before.
From habit, I hunt for a signature but the glow from the fire isn’t a great help there. My eyes steal to the door I came through, the switch there, then return to the art. It’s one thing to wander into a room by accident and quite another to draw attention by turning on the lights.
My primary motivation is still to escape this mansion but since I’m warming my bones anyway, a few more minutes of gawking at the fantastic works can’t hurt. I step closer, straining my eyes to make out more and more details in the dimness.
Then a man clears his throat.
The sound comes from half a room away, but to my overtaxed mind it might as well be an inch. The adrenaline spikes in my bloodstream.
Every hair on my body stands on end. My senses douse me with so much information that I’m giddy.
The time it takes for me to spin around can probably be measured in seconds, but it feels longer, ridiculously long, like someone took one of those fanciful scientific theories about string and wormholes and dark matter and twisted it all around to make each tick of the clock take hours, years.
Something that would be great in a movie and is far less thrilling when applied to real life. My neck turns so slowly a creaking noise wouldn’t be out of place.
There’s a polished shoe. That’s the first thing I spot. Shiny patent leather that reflects the dancing flames across its smooth surface. A shoe you’d wear to a funeral.
Then my eyes crawl upward to find Patrick’s torso twisting towards me, face glowering, the studded leather chair so large hedisappeared behind its tall back. His gaze rests on mine for a second, then he puts his drink aside on a small table next to him, getting to his feet.
He swivels my way, pulling at the cuffs of his shirt to straighten it, smoothing his tie, and pulling at the lapels of his jacket.
With each slow, staged adjustment, my blood pressure increases until it feels like my eyes must be bugging from my head. I inhale but no oxygen reaches my bloodstream. My lungs scream for air even as I breathe in, hold it, then suck in another breath.
In the light from the fire, Patrick seems made of flickering shadows. He was pleasant earlier, smiling, but there’s no trace of that persona on display. His eyes are hooded, mouth pressed in a straight line.
He rubs a finger across his top lip, then steps my way.
I calculate the distance to the door and my chances of making it there. Not good. Not with my knees locked in place and my heart pounding like it’s about to knock a clot free, send it pinwheeling into my brain, offering me the mercy of death.
My skin bunches into gooseflesh. The cotton fabric of the shirt feels thinner than tissue paper. I scarcely have time to raise my hands, the shoes still dangling from one, then Patrick’s there, right there, standing over me, his face so hidden in shadows that it turns menacing.
“Hey, George,” he says in such a low tone it sounds like a rumble of thunder.
His finger hooks the top button of my shirt, pulling it out far enough to amply show I’m not wearing a bra under the flimsy garment. A slow smile winches up the right side of his mouth, lips twitching at the strain. “Didn’t Lock warn you about wandering around our house after hours?”
He moves slightly to my right, letting the flickering glow from the fire light my form. His eyes dance from one feature to another, their resting gaze so heavy I can feel their passage as they wander over me. I try to back away but I’m already flush against the wall. There’s nowhere to go.
Patrick inches closer, reaching up to brush my hair back from my face, his body pulsing with so much warmth he’s a better heater than the fire. I tilt my head back to meet his eyes, but his gaze is occupied elsewhere. His finger slowly edges along the buttons on the shirt, lightly touching each one before sliding down to the next.
When his gaze returns to mine, he raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have an answer for me?”
My shoulders tremble as I jerk my mind back to his words. “N-no, he didn’t,” I whisper, all the air evaporating from my lungs.
“Negligent of him, though I’m sure I remember Creighton appointing you a chaperone.” He ducks his head low, bringing his face near to the curve of my neck and inhaling deeply. When he breathes out, the cognac scented warmth sidles along my collarbone, making my skin prickle. “You agreed not to wander around the house alone.”
A vague memory flickers. The maid in her ridiculous outfit. I did agree. My stomach plunges to the soles of my feet. “I f-forgot.”
He sniffs me, moving his head from my neck to my shoulder, then angling back across my chest. “You especially shouldn’t be walking around dressed in nothing more than a shirt.” His tone is lighter now, amused. By some strange feat, it doesn’t lessen the threat any. He sniffs in another deep inhalation. “And not when you absolutely reek of sex.”
One of his hands cups my shoulder, rolling over the ball ofthe joint before pressing it firmly against the wall. My breath hitches, fear rising until my lungs are too compressed to take in another.
Like he can smell that as easily as everything else, Patrick nudges closer, my heart now so fast I can’t discern the individual beats.
Tears well and spill from my eyes, escaping while the going’s good. With his lips now close to my ear, I doubt he sees. I doubt he would care.
