Page 38 of Payback

“That’s the wardrobe.” Henry wrapped his arms around my waist and guided me out of his closet. “Here’s the bathroom.” He walked me to the next door down.

It opened up into what I could only describe a stone room. Charcoal-gray slate lined the walls and the floors, with black marble forming the worktops. In one corner hung a stainless-steel shower head the size of a platter, and opposite stood a huge bathtub large enough to fit two.

“We’re already in enough trouble today,” he murmured into my ear. “Why don’t we go for a long soak?”

It was tempting, but Aunt Idette’s cruel voice still rang in my ears. The thought of her bursting into the bathroom while Henry and I soaped each other down dried up all my enthusiasm for getting in that tub. I turned back to Henry and said, “Another time. Let’s hurry and see if we can still make it for dinner.”

After the quickest and most platonic shower I’d ever taken with any member of the triumvirate, we dried off. Henry entered his walk-in closet while I rifled through the shopping bags with a fluffy towel over my head.

I slipped on the caramel satin dress and nude shoes Mrs. Bourneville had chosen and added the rose-gold earrings and matching bracelet. Then I rushed back to the bathroom and blew-dry my hair, so it didn’t look so much like a stringy mess.

I stepped out into the bedroom. Henry stood by the door, clad in a navy jacket that was clearly tailored to fit his muscular physique. He wore it with a blue-and-white striped shirt, unbuttoned to the collarbones, and a pair of fitted, ivory slacks. My gaze flicked up to his face. Caramel-colored curls, still damp from the shower framed his tan skin and highlighted his sharp cheekbones. I swallowed hard. He was so fucking handsome. How could I have resisted him for so long?

Henry’s green eyes gleamed with delight. “You look like a girl who’s just been fucked.”

I smirked. “You look like a boy who’s just been robbed of his virginity.”

“Yes, yes,” growled Aunt Idette from behind the door. “Save the lovey-talk for the dinner table, so we can all enjoy it.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Go away.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I mouthed.

“She’s Father’s minion and agrees with everything he does,” he whispered back.

I checked myself in the mirror and frowned. My hair wasn’t quite dry but was passable, but my swollen lips and flushed cheeks were incriminating. Henry hadn’t been joking when he said I looked like I’d been fucked.

“I can’t go out like this!”

He strolled over and combed through my hair with his fingers, making it even more of a mess. “There. It’s very Brigitte Bardot, now.”

I shoved his fingers away and tried to smooth out of the auburn rats’ nest on my head. “Do you have a brush or something?”

His arm wrapped around my waist, and he guided me to the door. “Let’s go.”

“To dinner?”

“Another hotel.”

“Don’t you think your mother—”

“She’ll understand.” He turned the door and pulled it open.

Mr. Bourneville stood in the hallway next to Aunt Idette, his face the color of her burgundy pants suit. Aunt Idette’s features were twisted into a smirk of triumph.

I furrowed my brows. Why on earth would she be pleased Henry was in trouble again?

Mr. Bourneville bared his teeth. “Of all the stunts you’ve pulled, this has to be the most desperate.”

“What are you talking about now?” Henry snapped.

My heart resounded in my chest. The sounds of Mr. Bourneville’s angry breaths filled the hallway. His hazel eyes burned with a fury so fierce, I glanced away. My eyes dropped to Aunt Idette, who mirrored his body language, only with that manic look of glee in her eyes.

Schadenfreude.

It was a German word that meant the delight in someone else’s misfortune. Aunt Idette had it in droves. I blocked out the father-son stand-off to focus on what I knew about the peculiar woman. Wasn’t she the mother of Jonas Bourneville, the person they announced in The Times would become new heir to the business? If her son had already been given Henry’s birthright, why was she hell-bent on destroying what little goodwill he had left with his parents?

“What is this,” his father snarled. “A desperate ploy to prove you’re not queer?”