Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
“How very nice for you.” He shifts in his seat. “It occurs to me that I haven’t asked your age. If you’re still writing in a diary, perhaps you’re younger than I thought.”
“I’m eighteen.” My cheeks heat at the accusation that my favorite hobby makes me immature. “People of all ages can write in a diary.”
Silence ticks by. Then, “I suppose you’re right.” He clears his throat hard. “If people such as war generals or ancient philosophers didn’t write in diaries, we’d be missing chunks of history.”
The temperature of my face cools.
Does Alistair realize he said that to make me feel better? The answer could be yes or no, based on his scowl. “Isn’t there something you do to relax and collect your thoughts?” I ask.
An evil smile curls his upper lip. “Do you really want to know the answer to that?” My breath draws short, even though I don’t know exactly what he’s referring to. I only sense it’s sexual in nature. Before I can question him, he laughs under his breath and continues. “I could tell you I swim in my pool, play tennis on my courts or travel, but I’d be lying. I get pleasure out of buying real estate and making money. That’s it. I don’t need anything else.”
The limousine stops at that exact moment.
We stare at each other from a few feet apart until the driver opens the door and Alistair alights, holding his hand out through the opening and waiting for me to take it. Which I do. And then I’m a sopping wet mess with sloshing shoes, climbing the steps to a palatial mansion.
My heart races in my chest at the very notion of going inside. It’s bigger than all of the buildings on my block combined, and then some. There are no flourishes or homey touches on the outside. It is strict red brick and wrought iron. A tall, imposing door that sweeps open when we approach, a housekeeper with a stiff upper lip stepping aside to allow us entry.
Alistair takes hold of my wrist and guides me over the threshold, speaking briskly to the perfectly coiffed older woman. “This is Shelby. She will be staying with me tonight. She’s to have whatever she wants, whenever she wants it. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, sir.” The housekeeper turns to me, showing no reaction to my wet clothing. “Is there anything I can get you, miss?”
I start to decline, of course. I’ve been raised to do things for myself and my elders. Not the other way around. But Alistair did promise to spoil me silly and there are two words that have been whispering in my head since he uttered them in the limousine. Swimming pool.
“I would love to go swimming,” I blurt.
Alistair pauses in the act of removing his jacket. “Now? Wouldn’t you rather get warm after being in the rain?”
“That does sound nice, but…I’ve never seen a swimming pool at someone’s house before. Well, only on television.” Feeling kind of pathetic, I hug my elbows tightly. “There’s a community pool near…near where I live, but it’s always packed. You can’t swim two feet without running into someone and the chemicals burn my eyes. I just thought it would be nice, if it’s not any trouble.”
Alistair is looking at me strangely, in a way I can’t decipher. “Of course it’s not any trouble.” I get the impression he meant that to sound snappier than it did. “We’ll require a warm towel downstairs, Pauline. And a robe.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I find a bathing suit for Miss Shelby?”
A muscle ticks in his cheek, those predatory eyes raking down the front of my indecently see-through dress. “That won’t be necessary.”
Chapter 4
Alistair
Why does this girl insist on trying to endear herself to me?
She gasps at the sight of my living room and the downstairs kitchen on our way to the pool, stopping to gawk and turn in slow circles. Stumbling into furniture because she’s so distracted by the chandeliers mounted to the high ceilings. I don’t like the way my chest tightens over these things. It’s odd and alarming.
Who is this girl?
I want to know everything about her, down to her blood type, but at the same time, I’m terrified of knowing too much. Making her too real to me. I’m already way outside of my comfort zone having her in my home for the night. I told myself I just wanted to fuck her, but here I am, giving her a tour of my house. Needing to see her swimming. Wanting to give her this thing she’s been deprived of.
Those urges are a warning sign that this girl is creeping into uncharted territory. I learned a long time ago that personal attachments are a weakness. A desire for affection, connection with another person, only leads to disappointment. So I need to remind her that’s not going to happen—and remind myself in the process. It’s for both of our own good.