The air between us crackles, alive and waiting.
She doesn’t move.
Well, well, what are you afraid of, little rabbit?
Chapter Fourteen
JULIET
Iagree reluctantly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Okay." The word slips out before I can swallow it back.
The last thing I want is to be alone with him. He makes me feel all hot and shivery just being near him, his presence like a magnetic field pulling at me, making my skin flush despite the air-conditioned chill. But I don't have a choice—refusing would shatter my cover, raise questions I can't answer—so I nod, forcing a small, brittle smile on my lips.
He stands, his shirt stretching across his broad chest, and I follow him out of the dining room, the polka-dot sundress swishing against my knees with each step. The house feels even larger at night, the lights dimmed to a soft glow, and shadows pooling in the corners of the hallway like secrets waiting to be uncovered. Outside, through the open tall windows, I can hear the waves crashing faintly in the distance, a rhythmic pulse that matches my erratic heartbeat.
We head back to his study, and I sigh inwardly as he pushes the door open, the space enveloping us in its regal intimacy—dark walnut panels absorbing the light from a single desk lamp,leather-bound books lining the shelves like silent sentinels. A crystal decanter of amber scotch catches the glow. It's even more intimidatingly intimate at this hour of the night. This room is so him—powerful, controlled, with the faint scent of masculine cologne. Doesn't help that I'm dressed like I’m going to a picnic. I feel exposed and underdressed next to him, like a peasant wandering into a king's chamber.
He heads in, and I shut the door behind me with a soft click, the sound sealing us in. My hand lingers on the knob. My nerves are buzzing out a warning.
Danger, danger. Run, Juliet. Run.
I ignore the portents and follow him. Then he turns around suddenly, and I almost bump into him—God, he's so close, his chest inches from my face. I smell his scent: cleanliness, warmth and masculinity. As rich as aged leather and spice with a hint of citrus underneath. It wraps sensuously around me like smoke.
I swear, I nearly swoon, my knees weakening. I tilt my head back to look up at him—he's so goddamn tall, towering over me in a way that makes my breath hitch. He was sitting earlier, contained behind that desk, but now, standing, I barely reach his shoulder, my eyes level with the hollow of his throat where his pulse beats steady.
The urge hits me like a flash—I just want to mount him, wrap my legs around those hips and ride, feel that rock-hard body under me, driving deep until I forget my own name. What the hell? I should slap myself for the thought. Heat flooding my face, mortified by the raw want surging through me, my swollen clit throbbing in response.
He stares at me as though trying to see into my soul, those icy-gray eyes locking onto mine, intense and unblinking, searching for something I pray he doesn't find. My heart stutters. I suddenly become scared. Terror coiling cold in my belly, because maybe he has noticed, maybe I’ve been toocareless. The differences are screaming at him: the nervousness, the casual dress, the breaking of Carolyn’s rigid dietary rules, the way I can't hold his gaze without trembling. What if he has already figured out that I'm not his wife?
That I'm an imposter. Oh my God. I’m going to prison. Emma will have to visit me in prison.
"What would you like to drink?" he asks, breaking the silence, his voice low and smooth, like velvet, sending a shiver down my spine.
My brain is so scrambled I can't remember what Carolyn likes to drink—she did mention her poison of choice in the briefings, but no way can I access that information right now. Dear God. What do I do now?
"Whatever you’re having is fine," I mumble, keeping it vague, my words tumbling out a little too quickly.
Thank God, he shows no surprise. “Mmm…” He nods slowly and turns toward the decanter half filled with a deep amber liquid. The crystal stopper comes free, and he pours two fingers into two heavy tumblers, the glowing liquid glugging opulently. He pours as if he is not in any hurry. This is so weird. Carolyn told me many times that he couldn’t bear to spend any time at all with her. A disinterested man. A loveless marriage. A cold marital bed. When he turns back, the glasses are cradled in his large hands. He walks toward me with that worryingly unhurried stride. The room feels smaller with every step he takes.
He stops close, too close. The heat coming off him is immediate, warm skin, faint cedar, a masculine edge that makes my lungs forget how to work. His chest is a breath away from me; if I lean forward even an inch, his shirt would brush the thin straps of my sundress. He lifts the glass, and the scent of the whisky rolls out, peat smoke, old oak, a hint of sea salt, thick enough to coat the back of my throat before I even take a sip.
When his fingers graze mine, the contact is deliberate, lingering, the pads of his fingertips rough against my skin. A spark shoots straight up my arm and rushes down between my legs. The sexual chemistry is undeniable. I almost jerk back, but I don’t. I can’t.
He doesn’t let go right away. Instead, he inhales, slow, deep, nostrils flaring just a fraction as he draws my scent in. His lashes lower, and when his voice comes, it’s lower, rougher, like the scotch has already coated his throat.
“Did you change your perfume as well?”
The question slides over me like a hand. I’m wearing the exact same perfume that Carolyn wears, two careful spritzes at my pulse points, but perhaps it reacts differently on my skin.
I shake my head. “No.”
“It smells warmer, softer, a little sweeter, like sun instead of ice.”
He’s noticing the difference, cataloguing it, and the realization makes my heart slam against my ribs.
I swallow, the lie coming out breathy. “It’s… my new moisturizer, I think.”
He doesn’t answer, just watches me lift the glass to my lips. The first sip is fire and smoke burning a path down my throat and blooming in my belly, pooling right alongside the other ache that’s been there since I entered this room. It’s spreading. Moving everywhere, in my tightening nipples, in the slick throb between my thighs, in the way my toes curl inside my sandals.
