Page 38 of Strict Confidence (Rochester Trilogy 2)
“Of course you can.” I won’t show her my sudden, irrational fear. Beau has security systems installed at the inn. Nobody is going to get in here without tripping an alarm. It’s perfectly safe for me to walk to the kitchen and pour Paige a glass of milk.
I run the brush through her hair one more time, sweeping it back from her face.
Paige studies me in the mirror. “Jane?”
“Yeah?” There’s no sense in upsetting Paige with this, so I give her my biggest, warmest smile.
She smiles back. It’s not a full-on cheesy grin, but after all she’s been through, I can’t say I’d expect it. Paige’s smile squeezes my heart. “Can we play Monopoly tomorrow?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Beau Rochester
Marjorie startles when I enter the kitchen. Her shoulders tighten at a board creaking under my foot, and she snaps her head around with wide eyes. “Mr. Rochester.”
She’s rinsing her hands in the sink. The dish towel she reaches for has been ironed and hung neatly over a hook near the sink. She’s the kind of innkeeper who pays attention to details like dish towels matching the drapes.
I imagine it’s one of the only things we haven’t disrupted.
“Is there something I can do for you?”
My own blood pounds in my veins. I want to go back upstairs to Jane. I want to take her face in both my hands and kiss her the way I would if we had all the time in the world. “You took down a message for me. I need to know more about it.”
Her hands flutter down to her skirt. Emotions cross her face in rapid succession—fear, defiance, guilt. The guilt is interesting. “I didn’t want to write it down.”
“But you did.”
“It was crazy.” She meets my eyes with a kind of desperation. Marjorie’s not the type to get mixed up in anything like this. She runs a tight ship at her inn. It doesn’t matter that I wouldn’t blame her for someone leaving a message. “I decided to throw it away while I was out, but you already found it by the time I got back.”
The same prickling paranoia I felt at the house taps the back of my neck. “What did she sound like? Were there any noises in the background?”
Marjorie’s eyes get wider. “Do you think she would come here to find you? I just assumed she was one of your—” A flush creeps up her cheeks.
She’s talking about the photos of me that made it to the tabloids.
Damn those photos.
At the time, being photographed like that felt like success. It felt like I’d finally arrived. It painted a picture I didn’t mind. That I enjoyed a beautiful woman every night in my bed. That I had the money and skill to be sought-after. It was such hollow bullshit compared to what I want now—only one beautiful woman.
Jane. Upstairs right now. Cheeks stained pink from how I made her come in the hallway, backed against the hall. Off-limits. Completely off-limits.
The more times I run up against that limit, the more I want to tear it down. I’ve already blasted through it more than once. Always swearing it will be the last time.
It’s never the last time. Even now, I’m dying for the taste of her. This kitchen seems like another world compared to the dark upstairs hallway. Compared to her bed.
“You didn’t hear any sounds in the background that would tell you where she was? Anything at all? People in an office? At a club? The ocean? A train?”
“No. I thought you knew who she was. She left her name.”
“Zoey Aldridge claims she didn’t call.”
Her pale green eyes widen. “I don’t think—”
“Any other voices, even. Anyone trying to speak to her.” I don’t know what it would tell me even if someone had stood behind the mystery caller and whispered an address. She could be anywhere, calling from any cell phone, with anyone else on the planet.
But any information is better than no information. I can’t live in this house knowing that I’ve left a stone unturned when it comes to figuring out who the hell is after us.
And proving that it’s not Emily back from the grave to haunt us.
It sounds utterly ridiculous. And somehow reasonable at the same time.
Emily is dead. It’s why I have custody of her daughter. There’s no such thing as ghosts, but stranger things have happened in the world. They never found her body.
But if so, why the hell would she light a fire in the house where her daughter slept? Every time I turn this around, I find another angle that doesn’t fit. The only thing that fits is the fear sinking to all the low points in my blood. It’s here to stay until I can solve this.
“I’m not sure, Mr. Rochester. I can’t say.” Marjorie bites her bottom lip with her teeth. Her gaze glances furtively to the old-fashioned rotary phone. “I’m not sure I want to say.”
