The furniture is old and the decor dated, but it smells clean. There's a queen size bed and nightstand, a dresser with an old television, and a small table with only one chair. Beyond is a small bathroom.
"You rest. I'll keep watch," Dallas says, setting our bags down.
"Don't you need sleep?" I sink down onto the bed. It's surprisingly comfortable.
He shakes his head. "If I need to, I'll rest for a few minutes in the chair."
The chair looks too rickety to hold his weight, and the foam padding looks like it gave out in 1982, but I'm too exhausted to argue. It has to be after midnight.
I worked a full shift at Sweet Scoops before getting dressed up for dinner with my father and the fundraising gala…
My chest constricts until it's hard to draw a breath.
The gala. He was so excited about it. Bragging about the celebrities and wealthy business associates who would be there.
I wonder how many of them knew the real Arthur Townsend. The man who was happy and good-natured—as long as he got what he wanted. When he didn’t, he lied, schemed, and manipulated anyone and anything until he did.
Like he manipulated me into signing those papers.
How many of them helped him buy land ahead of infrastructure deals or funnel bribe money and kickbacks?
How many of them knew they were using me to keep their hands clean?
I look down at my hands, seeing his blood even though I wiped most of it off. He’s dead, and they’re still dirty.
A strangled sound rips from my throat.
Dallas kneels in front of me and takes my hands. His thumb strokes over my palm in a soothing circle. "You've been through a lot. I know you're scared. Why don't you go clean up?"
Memories from the gala rush back, closing my throat.
"Come on, honey." He pulls me to my feet and grabs my bag, then guides me into the bathroom. It’s so small there’s barely room for the both of us.
He sets the bag aside and twists the handle to turn the shower on. "I'll be outside if you need help."
"Dallas, wait. My dress. Could you start the zipper?"
He hesitates in the doorway. But as his gaze moves down over my dress, it lingers on my hips and the high slit. “Of course.” His voice is rougher, when he says, “Turn around, Gemma.”
I turn my back and lift the strands of hair that fell from the pins hours ago.
He steps in closer, and the heat of his big body envelops me.
One second passes.
Two.
The air changes, growing thick with awareness. I can feel how close he is. Smell the crisp, warm scent of him. It goes to my head, making me feel needy. My nipples harden, brushing against the satin gown.
The thick pads of his fingers skim the base of my neck and trail between my shoulder blades. "You're beautiful in this dress, Gemma," he murmurs. "When the stage lights shone on you, I couldn't look away. The way you moved. The tantalizing sight of your legs."
His fingers skim the outside of my thigh where it’s bared by the side slit.
“How you smiled for everyone.” Dallas’s lips skim the shell of my ear and he whispers, “I wanted your smile all to myself. How could I hurt someone knowing you would never smile for me again?”
He hesitated. Because of me.
I swallow hard.
