Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
The faint scent of paper and lemon oil that greeted me made me giddy. Moonlight spilling in through the large windows lit my path, making it easy to navigate between the rows and rows of bookcases. My fingers skated over the beautifully bound leather spines. Some new, some ancient. The titles in various languages: English, French, even a little German and Latin. I wondered how long it took to accumulate all those books. Generations, I figured, some looked to be first editions. One title caught my interest. I pulled out an English copy of Love in the Time of Cholera and sat down, curling up on the floor cross-legged.
I was just getting settled when I heard muffled voices outside the door. Every muscle in my body turned to stone when a woman’s voice became quite clear. God, no… please don’t do this to me. My chest tightened unmercifully, wringing every drop of air out of my lungs. I rubbed the tiny cross hanging around my neck and prayed for divine intervention. Please keep walking, please keep walking, please keep walking.
The doorknob squeaked and the voices entered the room. Apparently God wasn’t taking requests at the moment. A lamp was turned on and the light cast a soft glow about the room. I plastered myself against the bookcase and tried to melt into the background by osmosis. My heart beat so violently that I was afraid they could hear it.
“There is nothing to talk about, Paisley.”
I knew that voice. He sounded bored and impatient. I’m going to be fired for this. He is going to throw me out on my rear end in the middle of the night!
“Yes, there is, Scout,” a woman replied with an American accent.
“Don’t ever call me that again.” His anger boiled up quickly, unmistakable under the veneer of his low voice.
“Or what? What will you do to me? Put your hands on me? Teach me a lesson? Shit, I hope so.” Her brittle laugh echoed off the walls.
“What does your husband say when he sees those marks on you?”
Marks? What marks?
“He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t care. Marcus has his own thing going on.”
The curiosity was literally killing me. Or at least, he will once he catches you. The books were packed tightly on the shelves, obscuring my presence, thankfully, but also shielding them from me. I tugged out a skinny book wedged tightly in its place. Knowing how seriously I was courting danger, you could make an argument for temporary insanity.
As I spied through the narrow opening, I recognized the pale blond from the garden. She wore a red dress fitted closely to her slender body. I knew the designer (having lived in Milan for six years practically earned me a degree in high fashion). Azzedine Alaïa––outrageously expensive and extremely sexy.
She tossed her long hair over her shoulder and approached Horn, who was doing a great impression of a brooding male model with his arm resting on the fireplace mantle and his hip cocked. He stared into the vacant fireplace with his head tipped down. And although his posture was relaxed, there was an undercurrent of tension in his muscles that was evident to me. He began taping two finger absently on the mantle, the rhythm quickening as she drew closer.
“I like it when you put your hands on me,” she purred, “inside of me…when you leave your mark on my body, reminding me where you’ve been.” She placed her hands on his chest and began petting him roughly, up and down his tailored white shirt with an indifferent touch that made me want to smack her hands away. I wanted to explore every curve and dip slowly, carefully. I really need to have my head examined!
Shame and fascination and a hundred other conflicting emotions battled for first place in my mind. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him––as if he were true north and I was one of the many compasses that had no choice other than to be drawn to him.
Her one hand traveled lower until she was stroking the bulge that was steadily growing, straining the limits of his gray gabardine slacks. He ceased taping his fingers and squeezed the hand into an angry fist. The muscles of his jaw quivered from the strain of clenching it tightly. Ignoring the warning in his remote amber eyes, she continued to stroke him roughly. But when she cupped him, his hand finally shot out and snatched her wrist, stopping her.
“I don’t want you anymore. What part of that don’t you get? Go back to Marcus.”
“And how do you suppose I do that? Even if I wanted to…which I don’t,” she bit out.
His eyes held no humor as his lips lifted in an imitation of a smile. “Do what you always do, lie to him.”