Keira
The shower jets are like heaven. Hot water beats against my shoulders, soothing the cold in my bones, but it doesn’t knock a single sensible thought into my head.
Or stop the silly flutters that hit my stomach every time Saint’s eyes land on me.
Washed and warm again, I wrap a big towel around me and rough dry my hair with another. I leave the bathroom, turn left like he’d told me, and step into his bedroom at the end of the corridor.
God it smells like him, and that should not send a shiver through me the way it does.
The domain of a Tallon kidnapper is nothing like I expected. It’s tidy, almost disciplined, with solid furniture built to last a lifetime and more space than I expected for a man who lives alone.
Does he live alone?
There aren’t any photos of him with a woman or signs of a female sharing this room. Then again, I don’t imagine Saint to be a sentimental guy, or a man who’s capable of delivering love.
He’s left out a soft green flannel shirt that smells faintly of laundry detergent, a pair of boxers that could fit around my waist twice, and wooly socks.
The shirt swallows my frame, though it’ll be much more comfortable than a wet party dress.
I pause for a beat, staring at his boxers, thinking how intimate it is to put on a guy’s underwear. Shaking off the thought, I slip into them and roll on the socks that cling to my numb feet.
Staring at the king bed, I can’t help wondering how many women he’s had in it…and whether any of them were brought here the way I was.
I turn away from the inviting bed before my imagination can run any further and sit on the edge of the mattress.
By my reckoning, Saint’s around thirty, old enough to have done everything twice and regretted none of it. No doubt he’s got plenty of experience with women, but he’s never encountered me.
Instead of climbing into bed, I go searching for a drink before I settle for the night. A little wander will offer the opportunity to check where all the feasible exits are and learn my surroundings.
The soles of my feet slide along the polished floorboards as I head straight for the sitting room. A lively crackle and spit breaks the peace, announcing the roaring fire he’s sitting in front of.
Firelight spills across Saint where he sits.
He’s lounging on the sofa, one arm stretched along the back cushion, his hair showered and raked back off his brow. He wears a slate gray T-shirt that clings to his chest and a pair of jersey shorts.
Bare feet rest on the coffee table as he drinks from a beer bottle.
He seems relaxed. Or perhaps he’s simply a predator pretending to be.
I’ve started noticing things I shouldn’t. The way he walks into a space and owns it. The way his brothers look at him before they speak and how he goes still when something irritates him.
Subconsciously, I’ve stored the little details away, and I haven’t decided what use they have for me.
The second he senses me, his head turns in my direction, and his green-gray gaze slides over my bare legs, rising to the shirt I’m wearing, eventually stopping at my face.
Heat crawls under my skin and pools low in my belly, and I have to fold my arms so he can’t see what the cold and the looking have done to my nipples under his shirt.
“I want something to drink,” I say, folding my arms over my chest.
He nods toward the kitchen area. “Help yourself to whatever.”
Even with my quiet footfall, he doesn’t move an inch as if he actually trusts me not to dive into his cutlery drawer and hit him with a soup ladle.
I should, if only to wipe some of that confidence from his face. But this strange truce might be the first real chance I’ve had to lower his guard, and I’m not about to waste it.
I take a cut-crystal glass from the bar beside the kitchen and pour myself a whiskey.
When I take a sip, that slow burn of liquor stings my throat. I knock back the rest because it’s been a rollercoaster evening, and I deserve a stiff drink.
Immediately after, I pour another to take with me back to his room. As I walk behind the sofa, the dancing flames scatter shadows and the warmth calls to me.
I almost laugh at that thought because anything would seem inviting after a night in a drafty loft.
“You know,” he says, not looking at me, “drinking booze alone usually means you’ve got a problem.”
“I do have a problem. I’m trapped here,” I reply. “So given the circumstances, it’s basically my prerogative to get drunk alone.”
He huffs a short breath and glances over his shoulder. “You’re already trouble sober. Fuck knows what off-the-wall shit you’d come up with after a few.”
“Is that your way of asking me to join you?” I move toward the armchair nearest the hearth. “Your bedroom is cold.”
He shrugs. “Be my guest.”
I lower myself into it and draw my knees up, tucking them close to my chest while I take another sip. “So I’m your guest now, huh?”
His gaze slides to mine.
“There’s no blurred lines here,” he says. “Tomorrow, I’ll find somewhere more suitable for ya to stay. This is temporary.”
I take another sip of whiskey to steady myself. Glorious heat loosens the tightness in my shoulders, and for the first time since he’d hauled me back into the loft, the storm outside feels far away.
He looks almost…friendly like this. Legs stretched out, attention fixed on the flames instead of me.
“So,” I say, resting the glass against my knee, “are you dating someone?”
His head tilts just enough for him to glance at me. The beginning of a smirk touches his mouth.
“Surely you’re not fishing to find out if there’s an opening?”
I laugh, because the arrogance is ridiculous. “That’s hilarious, Saint. Truly. I’d need a therapist to consider that. I was asking because I figured your girlfriend might freak out when she hears you kidnapped a woman.”
He chuckles and the deep rumble runs through me like a current.
“You think I’d be with a woman who doesn’t know what I’m capable of?”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
He shifts on the sofa. “Let’s just say I don’t have a woman’s initials tattooed on me.”
When his gaze lifts again, there’s something smug behind it.
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His brows lift a fraction. “The little L on your hip.”
I lift my glass, swirling the whiskey like I’m bored. “Right. And you think that’s for Lucien?”
He shrugs, the movement dismissive, but his jaw ticks once. “Seems plausible. Rumors placed ya in Paris for over a year.”
“Can’t a girl enjoy sex with a hot guy without the whole world assuming she’s in love with him?”
Saint’s eyebrows shoot up. The reaction is instant, unguarded, and absolutely splendid.
“You think women fall in love with every asshole they shag?” I tease. “Seriously, you’re showing your age. What are you, fifty?”
His mouth parts like I’ve managed to catch him off guard.
Only for a breath.
I’m pressing my thighs together in his armchair, and I shouldn’t enjoy taunting him this much. But he’s watching my mouth over the neck of that bottle, and every word I say makes his jaw tighten, and now I want to push him.
Then he sits forward, elbows resting on his knees, the firelight throwing his face into shadow. When he stares at me, there’s a glint in his stormy eyes.
“You just gonna fuck your way around the globe, Harrington?” he asks.
“So what if that’s my plan?” I add, lifting my chin.
The fire pops, the sound punctuating the silence.
Saint sighs, sits back, spine sinking into the sofa, arms spreading along the top edge like a king.
“You’ll gather a lot of initials on that fine body of yours. Random names won’t protect you, though. If you’d had a decent guy by your side at the gala, no other man would have gotten near ya. Then you wouldn’t be sitting in enemy territory.”
His gaze drops to my bare legs and stays a beat too long before the fire takes it back. I press my knees together and swallow down a mouthful of whiskey, letting it burn as I think about that.
“I’ve played the field,” I say, honest in a way I’d never admit to anyone else. “And got bored. My ex is in the past…practically forgotten about. I’m in no rush to replace him, and I certainly won’t pick a man from Black Heath, that’s for sure.”
His eyes darken.
“Yeah, you want the lifestyle your da raised ya in. Private jets and snooty cocktail parties,” he says. “A sugar daddy who’ll take his place and wear ya on his arm like a Rolex.”
I exhale to let out an exasperated grunt from the back of my throat. “Why don’t you stop pretending you know what sort of woman I am. All you know is Alasdair Harrington and his legacy. But you have no idea who I am…or what I want. No one does.”
Saint stands without a word, saunters to the drinks cabinet and grabs a bottle. He heads in my direction and tops up my glass. Whiskey sloshes to the brim, and then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a swig.
He straightens and returns to his spot on the sofa, kicking up his feet again. “I hope ya find what you’re looking for.”
“Well, for now,” I reply, taking a slow sip, “I’m looking to get off your land as soon as possible.”
“Me too.” He doesn’t look at me. “I’d hate to have to make an example of a pretty young thing like you.”
A tingly shiver rolls up my spine, but I keep my expression flat. “You know he won’t stand for this. My father. He won’t tolerate bribery, or blackmail, or whatever you think this is. He’ll send men here to teach you and your family a lesson.”
Saint huffs once, not quite a laugh but it’s flippant. “Let them come.”
He takes another swig of whiskey, gaze fixed on the flames like he’s imagining something burning that isn’t wood. There’s no fear in him.
Silence creeps into the room as we both sit there and drink. After a while, my eyelids get heavy and my muscles relax. “It stands for Lottie…the tattoo. I had it done when I was at uni.”
He looks over at me. “And who is Lottie?”
“My father bought me a pony on my fifth birthday,” I say, the words slipping out before I can think better of it. “She was a spirited wee Connemara from the Clifden sales. Good stock, dappled gray…perfect.”
I watch the fire instead of him.
“I learned how to ride on her. Rode her for years.” My voice tightens and I force a swallow. “And then one day, she had an accident in the field. Broke her leg. He didn’t wait for me to come home from boarding school. The vet shot her and took her straight to incineration.”
A bitter breath leaves me and I clear my throat.
“When I got home that weekend,” I continue, “my father had a new pony standing in her stable. Just like that. He told me to stop crying and go ride the new one.”
My father has always been better at replacing things than grieving them. His sister died when I was young and no one in our family said her name after that.
When I finish the story, I let my head fall against the back of the padded armchair. The fire continues to crackle, and the wind presses against the windows.
Saint doesn’t say a word, though his foot waggles.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I shouldn’t be telling you personal things. I just thought I’d clear that up. I’d never want anyone thinking I’d wear a tattoo to represent Lucien. He was just a guy. And guys are easily replaced.”
His gaze locks with mine for the briefest of moments, and I sense there’s something on the tip of his tongue, until he looks back at the fire and shrugs.
“You don’t owe me any explanation. All I care about is your da signing off on my land. That’s it.”
I nod and think about what I just did.
I told him about Lottie. About my father’s ability to slap paper money over cracks. About the specific shape of a grief I’ve never talked about to anyone.
And I just offloaded it to Saint Tallon.