Page 6 of Elijah’s Whim

“How old are you, gorgeous?”

“My name is Hannah.”

“Stop acting so prim. It’s a compliment. And answer the question.”

“Then…thank you,” I said very quietly while looking past him to zero in on the base molding across the room. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Banks, I’m heading to my room for a long bath and then bed. That clawfoot masterpiece in my bathroom has been taunting me since I got here.”

There. I was polite. I gushed over his gigantic, albeit sterile, house and even accounted for my personal time. Not that it was any of his business. I should be home free.

“Let me get you set up. What kind of host would I be if I didn’t?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a bath. I’m sure I can manage. Plus, you just got home. I’m sure you want dinner, and you normally have a guest over in the evening. Don’t let me interrupt your routine,” I offered, backing out of the kitchen.

And yes, fine. I’d also taken notice of the revolving door leading to and from his bedroom. Whatever. He didn’t owe me an explanation.

The man stared at me for a few seconds too long, and I turned on my heel so fast, I felt my loose hair fan out behind me like a Flamenco dancer’s skirts. I scurried off toward my room at the opposite end of the house.

The suite had a sitting room, bathroom, and bedroom. Like the rest of the house, these rooms were exquisitely decorated with understated elegance. Next time I was feeling like shooting the breeze with my captor—pardon me—host, I’d have to ask him who his interior designer was. Elijah was an asshole on many levels, but he had incredible taste when it came to architecture, fashion, and art. If it pleased the senses, he had it on lock.

Since I was dipping my toe in the pool of fairness, I had to admit he wasn’t holding me here at his home against my will, but this infuriating man could make me uncomfortable with the twitch of a single eyebrow. He could test my patience with his knack for riddling me with too many questions about my process for any number of things, too.

My heart felt like it was hammering in my chest by the time I reached my room, and I slammed the door shut a bit harder than necessary.

I sighed while looking at my reflection in the mirrors around the vanity, where I sat to brush through my hair before getting in the tub. The enormous white clawfoot tub was filling with steaming-hot water from plumbing that came up out of the floor and disappeared into the ceiling overhead. The polished chrome pipes were exposed so one could visually follow the bends and curves down toward the floor. Another separate pipe came up out of the floor and proudly shot straight up and bowed over the tub basin like a faithful man praying. On the end was a mushroom-capped spigot head where the water dispersed however the bather liked it.

The rooms I was set up in were more like a spa than someone’s home. Elijah went all out with everything he took on, and my mind wandered down a dangerous path. There was no way I had what it would take to keep a man like him satisfied, but he would give me some fun fantasy material while I stayed here. I would definitely be grilling Rio the next time I was sure it was safe to do so.

No.

I stared up at the plaster ceiling after pulling my T-shirt over my head.

No, no, no.

I repeated the monosyllabic word in my head over and over and let my arms flop down to my sides. By unclasping my grip on the cotton fabric, my sweaty T-shirt plopped to the floor. It seemed like my good mood was headed in the same direction.

Elijah and I had agreed it would never be safe to talk to anyone else about our plan. We had to stick to the script one hundred percent, or it wouldn’t work. If someone was watching Abstract or me…or both—like he suspected they were—it was only a matter of time before they launched a new attack. Then I would be in even bigger danger than I was before. Before, I was just a random girl in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now, I was an identified threat. A known problem.

A new target.

These were the things I reminded myself of when I got homesick, too. I needed to keep my parents and sisters at arm’s length to keep them out of harm’s way. It was really just that simple.

After disrobing completely, I lifted one leg over the side of the tub and tested the water with my toe before plunging my entire foot in. Cooking all these years had not toughened me up like so many people—namely, my sisters—thought it would. I was still a prima donna where extreme anything was concerned. Careful and comfortable was right where I liked to be. Unless I was ballooning. Then I didn’t have a single care in the world.

The bubble bath I found beneath the sink was heavenly. The suds were like velvet on my skin, and the smell was divine. It was sensual and inviting, yet not overpowering or cloying. I didn’t inspect the bottle, but my guess was that it was amber or sandalwood. Vetiver was definitely involved in the bathroom somewhere, but I wasn’t sure if it was a candle or fabric softener used on the towels. Whatever the combination, it was complete perfection. I could have easily fallen asleep. With my eyes closed and my head resting back on the turned lip of the tub, I was in my own little cocoon of tranquility.

“I have never wanted to be soap suds so badly in my life,” I thought I heard a deep—and, might I add, sexy as sin—voice say.

I popped one eye open to look around the room, about eighty percent sure I’d lost my mind and was hearing voices now, too. But no, my imagination was not toying with me. Elijah Banks, my current landlord, was kneeling there, bent arms on the tub, chin in the cradle of his palm, staring down at me with deep consideration.

And let me just say Mr. Furley he was not. But shit—he could come knock on my door. My first impulse was to leap up and grab for my towel, but I quickly remembered I never pulled one off the towel bar in the first place. That action plan would’ve had me standing in front of the dude for way longer than I was comfortable. Right now, a half second would’ve been longer than I was comfortable.

Well…unless he kept looking at me exactly the way he was. But only then.

My second inclination was to yell and curse and shake my fist in his beautiful face and demand to know what gave him the nerve to think he could just barge in here like he owned the place and say—oh, wait…shit. He did own the place.

Well, there went that argument. By sliding a little deeper in the water, I made sure all my unmentionables were completely covered.

“Are you always this modest? You know it’s just us in this entire house. Most of the time, anyway,” Elijah said while keeping his stare riveted to mine. A lazy grin quirked up the one side of his mouth as he finished his comment.