Chapter 16
W hen I turned around, there was Sinclair.
He sat on one of the chairs from the antechamber, ones I’d thought were simply there for decoration.
Even if so, he was sitting in one and the look on his face reminded me of my father’s, how, when I was much younger, he would take me on a fishing trip and sit patiently, waiting for the pole to bob, announcing that some unsuspecting creature had taken the bait, and he was being rewarded for waiting.
Sinclair was again the hunter.
How long had he been here?
And how had he known I’d been in the east wing?
Worse yet, he looked handsomer than ever.
He wore a tuxedo and his hair was slicked back.
His everyday suits made him look irresistible and gorgeous, but this look moved him up a notch in my eyes.
But he wasn’t observing me with adoring eyes as he had this morning or during all the intimate moments we’d enjoyed all week.
Instead, his eyes were branded with anger, like the blue on the bottom of a flame, ready to burn me up.
“Going somewhere?”
I swallowed but my mouth was dry, as if I’d been vacuuming up the dust bunnies underneath that king-sized bed with my tongue.
It wasn’t that, though—it was that old fear I’d felt for Sinclair when I’d first arrived here.
I knew his temper was scary…
and, even though I’d thought maybe the way our relationship had progressed would make this a more forgivable offense, I knew under the spotlight of his gaze that I’d been sadly mistaken.
In fact, I was beginning to think he was angrier because he’d been growing to trust me—because, underneath the rage simmering in his expression was another emotion…
and I was certain it was something akin to disappointment.
“Um…yes. I’m going back to work,” I said, not knowing if he knew or simply suspected what I’d been up to.
When he stood, he seemed taller somehow, as if he’d grown several inches since I’d last seen him…
but that was only because his presence was intimidating.
With precision, he picked up the chair and carefully moved it back to its place against the wall between two decorative tables—and then he turned back at me.
I readied myself to take the full brunt of his anger.
But his voice was low, like a wolf’s growl.
“Where you should have been already. Would you like to tell me what you were doing?”
It rushed out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“Just looking around.”
“Would you like to try that again?”
Again, I tried swallowing, but he took two steps closer and I could feel his wrath simmering just below the surface.
I could keep trying to tiptoe around, but I was certain he already knew exactly where I’d been and had been sitting there, just waiting for me to reappear.
I could lie—but the truth felt easier.
“I was in the east hallway.”
His voice exploded.
“You were breaching our contract !”
I hadn’t expected that—but I remembered the last time this had happened.
He’d reviewed that stupid handful of papers to tell me exactly which terms I’d broken, at least three of the dozens of clauses I’d agreed to with my signature.
This time, though, I’d broken one or two more, both of which I suspected constituted even bigger infractions.
I had the key and the journal on me, and both of those violated different clauses.
But, more than that, I’d broken his trust .
The only way out of this would be contrition.
Rebelliousness, defiance…
those had simply landed me in more hot water before.
But if I were repentant, soft-spoken, reminding him of our nights together, maybe he would find it in his heart to forgive me.
“I did. I’m sorry.”
Clearly, he hadn’t expected that, because whatever words were on his tongue melted like cotton candy.
But it didn’t take long for him to regain his footing.
“The key.” He held out his hand so I could give it to him.
Carefully, I fished in my pocket with a sweaty palm, hoping I’d tucked the journal deep enough in my jeans to keep the outline from showing through my shirt.
If he knew about that, I had no idea what the consequences would be.
When I handed him the master key from the kitchen, he asked, “Where did you get this?” At least now his voice was calmer.
“The kitchen pantry.”
He shook his head, wrapping his fingers around the key to form a fist. “You are proving to me that you can’t be trusted.”
Was that true?
“I was just curious—”
“Yes, that’s always been the problem. Haven’t you ever heard that curiosity kills cats?”
“I’m not a cat.”
One of his eyebrows arched—and, even though it scared me, it also made me want him to take me in his arms and make love to me like he never had.
“Lucky for me or you might not have been caught.” What did he mean by that?
“Well, kitten, you must be punished for breaking the rules.”
I felt a little hurt—because hadn’t we moved past that?
But I realized he was probably thinking the same thing…
that he thought I’d moved past the need to snoop.
I envisioned myself scrubbing the bathrooms again or helping Henry pull weeds in the flower beds.
Because I’d breached not only the contract but his trust, I would willingly face whatever punishment he had for me.
And then, at some point, I’d have to find the courage to tell him about the journals.
But now was not the time.
“Okay. What will it be?”
For the first time since I’d snuck down the stairs, he smiled.
“I haven’t decided yet. It’s evident to me that the previous punishments didn’t make an impression on you…so I need to come up with something that will.”
That sounded ominous—but I wasn’t about to say it.
I was warring with myself, trying to determine if he actually would do something now that we’d become intimate.
But this was Sinclair Whittier we were talking about.
What would our intimacy have to do with it?
Before I could say anything, he added, “You’re on your own for dinner tonight. I suggest you eat and then spend the rest of the evening in your room.”
“I need to finish up downstairs.”
“Fine. But I want you to think long and hard about this. I might even have you tell me what an appropriate punishment would be.”
The sound of footsteps caused me to look up to see Greg descending the stairs from the third floor—a first. I didn’t see Greg very often, but I understood that if Sinclair would have a late night, so would Greg—unless, of course, the event was here at the mansion like the dinner when I was last punished.
But I would have known about something happening here.
I didn’t know if I should say anything else, so I decided to simply turn so I could head downstairs.
Every second I was out here, I was exposed—giving him a better chance of spotting the journal…
and then my snooping would have been for nothing.
As I began walking away, Sinclair said, “I suggest you stay away from the entire east wing tonight. I’ll know if you’ve been back here, so be smart.”
I couldn’t help glancing back.
Was he serious? Had he installed cameras after my last infraction?
If so, that would explain how I’d been so easily caught.
I felt so stupid. I hadn’t even looked for anything like that.
And in a mansion this ornately decorated, I suspected it might be easy enough to hide monitoring devices.
So I gave him a quick nod and walked calmly to the door that hid the stairs to the dungeon—but I didn’t breathe again until it closed behind me.
Despite Sinclair’s admonition, I planned to push my luck a bit.
After I straightened up downstairs so that I would have a clean slate on Monday, I headed to the kitchen to see what Edna had left in the fridge.
In case there were cameras everywhere that I was unaware of, I acted like nothing looked good and went to the pantry to look over what was there.
But I really wanted to see if Sinclair had returned the key to its proper place.
Of course, he hadn’t.
Still assuming I was being monitored, I acted disappointed that there was nothing in there to catch my eye either.
So I came back to the fridge and pulled out one of the containers again—but I really wasn’t hungry.
I was far too upset that Sinclair was angry with me, a sure sign that I’d fallen hard for the man.
Finally, I grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl on the table and took it with me.
But I wasn’t ready to go upstairs yet.
Technically, I thought, the antechamber wasn’t the east or the west wing.
Instead, it was the center of the house—and although the stairs and balconies of both wings surrounded it, I thought of it as neutral territory.
At least, that would be the argument I would make if I was caught again.
But I only intended to be in the antechamber itself.
And, as I pretended to look at the artwork I’d already examined extensively in the past, innocently eating the apple while I did, my eyes actually focused on the walls up high.
It took some time, but I ascertained that, if there were cameras here, they were tiny and well hidden, not like the big one that pointed at the doorway.
I couldn’t find any other cameras that looked like the ones on the doorways, or even like others I’d seen in banks or on neighbor’s garages.
I also knew that Sinclair could afford the best money could buy—so, if there were cameras here, I didn’t recognize them.
Still, I’d have to find a way to get up to the second floor again—not just to look but also to return the journal.
Or maybe I didn’t need to, I pondered, moving to the west wing stairs.
I already had other journals belonging to his mother.
When I would finally share the information I’d found, I didn’t have to tell him where it had come from.
When I got to my room, I set the journal on the bed.
I wasn’t going to read it until I finished the last one, but I wasn’t sure I was in the mood.
Instead, I was worried about how much I’d damaged my budding relationship with Sinclair.
Had I blown it for good?
I needed to get my head on straight and push those thoughts out of my mind before talking to my father.
I couldn’t talk to him about any of that, because, as far as he was concerned, Sinclair was still our worst enemy.
And maybe he was right.
When I picked up my phone to call my father, though, I noticed a text message notification on the screen.
It was from creepy Mr. Sherwood—but at least he wasn’t so creepy when it was just a text.
He asked, How are you holding up, Anna?
So annoying. How many times had I told him I preferred Lise ?
Maybe he would get it if I put it in writing.
Still…I had that habit of being too friendly, asking politely rather than demanding.
Please call me Lise.
And things are going fine.
Which was a total lie.
They weren’t. I’d fallen in love with the man I was indebted to for a decade—and I was pretty sure he didn’t love me back.
And, even if he did, I’d broken his trust and might not ever be able to get it back.
Everything was peachy.
There was a long gap while I finished eating my apple.
As I tossed the core in the trash, my phone screen lit up again.
Glad to hear that. I’d like to talk to you sometime.
That was the last thing I wanted.
After mulling it over, I came up with what I hoped was a convincing lie.
I’m not allowed a lot of time to talk, and I’m sure you can understand why I’d prioritize talking with my dad.
Again, there was a long pause.
Finally, he texted back something that made me almost reconsider.
That’s too bad. There’s something you need to know about what happened to the Whittier lab at WCC.