Page 382 of Reign

It’s unlocked.

That feels reckless, but perhaps owning the entire building gives a person confidence ordinary locks cannot provide.

I step inside.

The apartment is smaller than I expected.

It’s beautiful—warm wood, cream walls, enormous windows filling the room with natural light—but it feels like a home rather than a monument to the woman living inside it. A small foyer opens into a sitting area and a kitchen with dark cabinets and a marble island. A hallway disappears toward what I assume are the bedrooms.

Books are stacked on a side table. Fabric swatches cover one end of the sofa. A dress form stands near the windows wearing half of something black and silver.

Then Evelyn St. Clair walks into the kitchen.

My brain stops.

Brown hair falls around her shoulders in a loose, slightly tangled wave. Her face is bare. Her eyes are an impossible bright green.

She’s wearing a robe.

A white terry-cloth robe.

Not silk. Not satin. Nothing embroidered or flowing dramatically behind her.

A robe that looks as though it came from a very nice hotel.

“Oh.” I glance toward the clock on the wall. “I’m sorry. You said one, right? It’s one.”

Evelyn looks at the clock too.

“Yes. It’s one.”

“I can come back.”

“Why?”

“You’re…” I gesture helplessly toward the robe.

“At home?”

“Yes.”

She looks down at herself as though she’s only now remembered what she’s wearing. “I relax at home.”

“Right. Of course.”

“Come sit.”

She crosses to the island and lowers herself onto one of the stools.

I stand there for half a second longer, trying to reconcile Evelyn St. Clair with terry cloth.

Then I join her.

She holds out one hand.

“Let me see.”

My portfolio suddenly weighs approximately fifty pounds.