31. Jamison
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
JAMISON
By the time I went upstairs, I had spent four hours pretending contracts required my full attention when the engagement ring in my desk drawer had become the loudest object in the cottage.
It sat beneath folders and a pistol I had no intention of needing, locked inside a small black case that somehow weighed more than most bodies.
Antique cushion diamond. Platinum. A thin line of black stone hidden beneath the setting where no one would see it unless she took it off and looked closely.
Mine underneath.
That mattered to me.
It should have been simple. I had signed death orders with steadier hands. And, tell a man exactly how his bones would break if he lied again and drink coffee while he decided whether truth had become attractive.
But every time I imagined taking Sienna’s hand and removing the token ring, something tightened in my chest.
Nerves.
Another unwanted fucking emotion.
I had been waiting for the right time, which was apparently what cowards called delay when they had expensive taste and a woman who could ruin them by looking disappointed.
The first time had been after breakfast, until Mila climbed into Sienna’s lap and demanded Honey receive a formal apology for being denied lemonade. The second had been by the lake, until her father announced a competitive family walk that sounded harmless and ended with grown men arguing.
Then I thought after charades, but Sienna had laughed so hard at my lighthouse that I lost the ability to form language in the proper order.
Now the ring waited downstairs, and I had gone upstairs empty-handed.
Fucking nerves. Unbelievable.
I reached the top of the stairs, rolled my shoulders, and stopped.
Every window in the bedroom suite was open.
Every single one.
The upstairs of House Alder had been built in that ridiculous Bellemere way where privacy was treated as aesthetic rather than security. Bedroom, bathroom, sitting area, fireplace, bath, all open under one pitched ceiling and tall glass doors leading to balconies on two sides.
No proper walls between the bathing area and the bed.
And in the middle of that open room, in a deep double spa bath sunk into warm marble, Sienna Bellemere sat surrounded by bubbles.
Bubbles that covered absolutely fucking nothing.
My hand tightened on the banister.
A low lip where candles had been placed, because Sienna had apparently decided to create atmosphere in a house already designed to weaken men. Water moved softly from hidden jets. Her hair was twisted up loosely.
She had one knee lifted beneath the water.
One arm along the side of the tub.
The bubbles shifted when she breathed.
I could see the curve of her breasts beneath them.
I looked away.
At the windows.
Beyond the open glass, the tree line sloped down behind House Alder. My men were out there. Rotating through the perimeter. Watching the fucking windows because that was their job, and Sienna had decided to bathe with half the estate open to everyone.
Unacceptable.
I pulled my phone out.
Reeves answered on the first ring. “Sir.”
“Shift the rear perimeter twenty meters back.”
“Any specific threat?”
“Yes.”
He understood the tone. “Moving them now.”
“Eyes away from the upper windows. Anyone who looks at this suite loses both.”
“I’ll make that clear.”
“Make it memorable.”
“Already done.”
I ended the call and watched movement in the trees. Two shadows withdrew. Another turned his back before stepping down the slope. Good. They were trained and loyal men.
Still men.
Still breathing within possible sight of my woman in a bath.
My mood, already thin from ring nerves and Bellemere afternoon torture, darkened beautifully.
Sienna turned her head, finally noticing me at the stairs.
Her gaze moved over my face, then toward the open windows, then back to me.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re doing the dangerous silence.”
“You have no sense of danger.”
“I’m in a bath.”
“Yes. With every window open.”
Her eyes drifted toward the nearest window, then back to me with a faint, guilty little smile she tried to hide by sinking lower into the bubbles. It did dangerous things to the waterline.
“The trees are pretty.”
“The trees had armed men in them.”
“They’re your armed men.”
“Still men.”
She blinked at me for a second, then her mouth curved. “Are you jealous of your own security?”
“I’m practical.”
The smile she tried to suppress became much harder to ignore.
I crossed the room, stripping the cuffs of my shirt back down as I walked.
I had been in work clothes too long. Black shirt.
Sleeves rolled. Shoulder holster still on.
The heat had followed me upstairs and the room was damp from steam, making the cotton cling between my shoulders.
I took the holster off first and set it on the chair beside the bath, close enough to reach.
Then I unbuttoned the top of my shirt, poured whiskey from the decanter on the low table, and sat on the marble ledge beside the tub.
Sienna watched the glass in my hand. “Are you still grumpy because of charades?”
“No.”
“You seemed grumpy.”
“I was forced to act out a lighthouse in front of adult men.”
Her eyes shone with amusement. “You did a very good lighthouse.”
“I raised one arm and stood still.”
“That was why I guessed it so fast. Very architectural.”
I took a drink. The whiskey burned down my throat and failed to solve anything. “Adult men should never be asked to act out structures.”
“It was family charades, not a criminal sentence.”
“You say that because your word was butterfly.”
“I did a beautiful butterfly.”
“You flapped your hands with a scarf.”
“And you guessed it.”
“Because I know you.”
Her expression softened so quickly it nearly irritated me.
I looked at her hand resting on the bath edge.
Gold and diamond. Pretty. Expensive. She still wore it when family was around because everyone expected her to, even though it had never been mine in any way that mattered.
Administrative compliance. That was what that ring meant.
My jaw tightened.
Sienna noticed. She always noticed now. “Jamison?”
“Nothing.”
“That sounded very much like something.”
She laughed and tipped her head back against the curved stone. Her throat stretched, water sliding along the hollow there. The bubbles shifted again.
I took a longer drink and looked at the far wall.
Fucking sainthood had a limit, and I could feel mine walking toward the edge with purpose.
I reached for a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag. Smoke moved through the steam, above the bath before drifting toward the open windows. Sienna’s gaze followed the cigarette, then returned to my mouth.
She was watching me.
Very openly.
Interesting.
I let the silence go on because I was a generous man when the reward was watching her fail at discretion.
Her eyes moved from my mouth to my hand, to the glass, to the open buttons at my throat. She sank a fraction lower in the water and tried to look casual.
Terrible liar.
“What are you thinking about in that bathtub?” I asked.
She startled slightly. “What?”
“You keep looking at me.”
“I’m allowed to look.”
“Yes, you are. I’m asking what thoughts you’re having while you do it.”
Her cheeks warmed, which told me enough to improve my mood. She traced one fingertip along the bath rim, pushing a line through the steam gathered on the marble.
The token ring caught the light again.
I hated it.
I shifted closer along the ledge until I sat near the middle of the tub. The water lapped gently against her ribs when she moved, still pretending those bubbles were doing any useful work.
They were not.
I set the whiskey down beside the candles and rested my hand on the marble near her shoulder. “Come here.”
She looked at the space between us. “I’m already here.”
“Closer.”
Her smile turned shy. “You’ll get wet.”
“I’ll endure.”
“Very brave.”
She moved through the water toward my side of the tub. Bubbles gathered against her breasts, slipped, gathered again. Her knee brushed the inside wall. The waterline lowered over one shoulder.
I flicked ash into the tray and touched her cheek with the backs of my knuckles.
Mine.
She leaned into the touch without thinking, then caught herself as if the instinct embarrassed her.
I loved it.
The word came too easily now, even in my head.
I slid my fingers along her jaw, thumb brushing a wet strand of hair away from her cheek. “Better.”
Her eyes dropped briefly to my lap.
Her blush deepened.
Sweet little sinner sitting in a bath and pretending she had no idea what she was doing to me.
I took another drag from the cigarette and let the smoke leave slowly. “Careful, baby.”
Her gaze lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked.”
A smile threatened her mouth. Bratty. Brave. My favorite combination, apparently.
Then her expression shifted, curiosity moving in where teasing had been. She rested both arms on the side of the tub, chin near her wrists, looking up at me from the water.
“What do you do when you’re not working?”
I frowned. “What?”
“When you’re not being a syndicate king or ruling Harlan with your brothers.” Her tone stayed gentle, but she was watching me too closely for it to be casual. “What does Jamison Crow do?”
“I work.”
She made a face.
An actual pout.
I stared at it.
She should have known better than to aim that mouth at me while naked in a bathtub. Actually, she likely did know. That was the problem.
“Don’t pout at me.”
“I asked a real question.”
“I gave a real answer.”
“You gave a Crow answer. Those are usually terrible.”
I leaned down and touched her knee beneath the water. Just my fingertips at first, tracing the slick curve where it bent close to the surface. Her breath changed.
“You’re very brave tonight,” I said.
“I’m trying to get to know you.”
“You know me.”
She shook her head, and for some reason that annoyed me. More than it should have..
“No, Jamison. I know pieces of you. I know your roles. What you drink, how you sound on calls. That’s not the same.”
My thumb moved along her knee again. Slower this time.