Strict Confidence

by Skye Warren

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, and her chin wobbles.

  I try to give her a hug, but she turns her face away.

  She holds it together until it’s time to take a bath. She takes one step onto the marble tile and freezes. The copper clawfoot tub gleams in the bright light. Her chin lifts. “What is that?”

  “It’s a bathtub. Like the one you have back home.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I know they’re the wrong thing to say. The one she has back home has been burned to a crisp. Then again, I’m not sure there is any right thing to say in this situation.

  Tears glisten from her eyes. “Why does it look like that?”

  Her voice has turned shrill, and I make mine soothing. “It has feet, see? To make it higher. It’s really pretty. A little bit old fashioned but beautiful.”

  “I can’t even see inside. How can I get in? I’ll drown!”

  It is definitely higher than her tub at home. “I’ll find a step stool,” I tell her. “I’m sure there’s a step stool somewhere here. And we won’t make the water go to the top.”

  Watching this meltdown is like watching a volcano erupt. There’s no way to protect myself. Nowhere to run. I can only stand here and burn. She screams loud enough that I wince. The only saving grace, the only positive thing I can think of is that we’re the only ones in this inn. Beau and Mateo are somewhere in the building. Marjorie mentioned she sleeps on-site, but that’s it. No other guests to complain about the child shrieking every word.

  I kneel on the marble floor. The movement sets off a thousand aches in my body, which hasn’t fully recovered from the fire. “I can see that you’re upset. Let’s take a deep breath. We don’t have to take a bath right now. Let me ask if there are any other bathrooms we can use.”

  “There aren’t,” she says, her eyes wild. “There aren’t. There aren’t.”

  “Paige. Sweetheart. Let’s go sit on the bed together.” It’s clear a bath isn’t happening at the moment, and my concern right now is helping her calm down.

  Except she’s approaching panic, her wide gaze darting around the room, her little nostrils flaring as she pants. Fight or flight. “I don’t want to sit on the bed. I don’t want to take a bath. I don’t want to do anything, anything, anything.”

  The last words crescendo to a pitch that makes me flinch.

  It’s like I’m reflecting her own feelings, because panic rises in me. Logically I know that I’m safe here on this bathroom floor, but faced with her anxiety and the lingering fear from the fire, it doesn’t feel that way. “Paige.” My voice cracks, pleading. “Please.”

  She’s beyond caring. “You can’t make me. You’re not my mom. You’re not my dad. You’re a stranger. You don’t even belong here.”

  The words steal my air. They vacuum it right out of my lungs, leaving me gasping. Tears sting my eyes. I know, I know she’s only saying it to lash out. It was a common enough refrain at the group and foster homes. It’s not personal; it only feels that way. There’s a squeeze in my chest. Hard enough that I bow my head before I can think of something to say.

  Bang. The door from the bedroom slams open. Beau stands there, a dark expression on his handsome face. “Paige Louise Rochester, apologize right now.”

  She turns a mutinous face toward him. “No.”

  I stand up, trying to head off disaster. Beau Rochester is stubborn and fierce, the strength of his will surpassed only by that of his niece. If they go head-to-head, I’m afraid that neither will be left standing. “She doesn’t have to apologize. I’m fine. Really.”

  “Her behavior is completely out of line. Unacceptable.”

  Paige’s lower lip wobbles, and I hold my breath. If she breaks down crying, I’m definitely going to start crying, too. All three of us still smell like disinfectant from the hospital. Bandages pull my skin every time I move. All I want is a hot bath and a long night’s sleep. I’ve reached the end of my tether, and my breath feels shaky. Don’t cry, sweetheart. Don’t cry.

  Paige doesn’t cry. She screams.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Beau Rochester

  Damn Mateo. Maybe it’s completely a coincidence that he put my room next to Jane’s, but I doubt it. The man knows it will drive me insane.

  I should be on a different floor from her. It’s too easy to pretend that we’re back at the house before the fire. Too easy to imagine cornering her in the hallway. Each suite contains a sitting area overlooking the ocean. I recline on a floral armchair that feels too small, too fragile for my size, watching the endless horizon.

  There’s a gentle hum of voices, of feet on the hardwood floor. The whole inn has whispered ever since Paige’s tantrum, afraid of waking the beast again. She cried herself to a shuddery sleep. I watched as Jane rocked her small body. Somehow they ended up curled against the baseboards in a corner. Begging. Ordering. Bargaining. We tried everything to get Paige to stop, but in the end it was the cradle of Jane’s arms that worked.

  Thank God for room service. And peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which Paige ate even though the peanut butter was the crunchy kind. Then she fell into a deep, exhausted slumber on top of the coverlet. No bath today. We’ll have to face it again tomorrow, but we’ll all be calmer.

  Sometimes the wisest course in a battle is retreat.

  Water murmurs through the pipes. I fight the images that come to my head—Jane reclining in the copper clawfoot tub, water sluicing over her gorgeous skin. A wide faucet spills into the tub. There’s an attachment you can hold instead. I imagine her holding it between her legs, the spray massaging her clit, her thighs shaking as she comes.

  Christ. Now I’m hard.

  Sex. It won’t happen again. Brilliant idea, Rochester.

  I know I should stay away from her, but it’s hard to remember the reasons when I’m aching in my boxer briefs. The sun folds down, crouching beneath the water, only an eerie purple glow spreading out over the surface. This is what tourists come here for. This is why they rent this room, for this view of a beautiful sunset. My mind knows this. It’s only my baser instincts that see it as sinister. This is the bay that claimed my brother’s life. This is the water that beat against the cliffside, futile, uncaring, even as we almost burned.

  There’s a knock at the door. I remain still for a moment, hoping she’ll go away. It’s her. Of course it’s her. The person I most long to see. The person I hunger for. The person I can barely stand to be around. Resentment rises, that she would come to me. Along with unholy anticipation.

  The moment spins out, and I imagine her waiting, waiting, waiting.

  How long will she wait?

  Her feet are probably bare on the cold hardwood floor. Her arms crossed in a useless attempt at comfort. Her nipples are probably pebbles beneath her clothes.

  I stand and cross the room. Open the door.

  My imagination might have conjured her, except for her expression. It’s reserved. Wary. And exhausted. She looks as reluctant to see me as I feel toward her. I can’t help but look at her body in these new clothes, the way the pale pink shirt molds to her breasts, the way the black stretchy pants hug her thighs. Her dark hair falls around her face, tumbling over her shoulders.

  I didn’t think you’d be this angry, she said in the hospital. Anger is too simple a word for what I’m feeling. Fear and lust and possession. It’s a form of madness, really. I can’t let her have this much control over me, but even as I think the words, I’m worried it’s too late.

  “Yes?” I say, my voice low in warning.

  There’s an internal struggle. The arguments darken her eyes. Then she stands straighter. “I need to speak with you.”

  “Paige?”

  “She’s fine. Asleep.”

  “Then this can wait until morning.” When we won’t be alone. When you won’t look so small and tired and fragile. Christ, why can’t I stop looking at her body?

  She’s in a cotton shirt and yoga pants. Not the most alluring clothing. I’ve taken women to galas and then s
tripped them afterwards. I’ve dated a Victoria’s Secret model, but I’ve never been more tempted than right now.

  She smells faintly of the sweet orange soap that rests on the bathroom counters. I want to trail the damp strands of her hair over my chest and abs. I want to breathe along every plane of her skin, following the shadows to her sex. Want to lick, lick, lick until I draw her arousal, replacing the soap scent with her own.

  “It can’t wait,” she says. “I need to talk to you without Paige around.”

  My stomach sinks. She would need to speak to me alone if she were going to quit. I step back so that she can come inside. Only when she’s standing in my space, the door closing us in, the heat of her body a siren call do I realize I could have led her downstairs. The king-sized bed looms. It beckons. I can taste the phantom salt-sweet of her on my tongue.

  I clear my throat. “Have a seat, then.”

  She ignores the two armchairs by the bay window and instead sits on a small padded stool by the dresser. One foot steps on the other. Nervous. She’s nervous. I head to the minibar. Something tells me I’m going to need a stiff drink for this conversation.

  “I need to ask you about the fire,” she says.

  Definitely vodka. I pull out a tiny bottle, twist off the cap, and drink it down in a fiery shot. “You want anything?” I ask her, reaching for a pop to wash it down.

  “Did someone set that fire?”

  “I told you not to listen to Causey.”

  “Because he’s wrong? Or because you don’t like what he’s saying?”

  She’s too damned smart. I face her with the full force of my will. Powerful men have backed down across a boardroom, but she doesn’t appear cowed. “Because he’s full of shit.”

  “He told me that you went to school together.”

  “Which is how I know he’s full of shit. He was the kind of kid who’d steal someone’s lunch money and then kick them just to prove they could.”

  She fidgets. “A bully.”

  “Yes.”

  “We had bullies in the group homes. It was always good to go in pairs.”

  “That would have worked in my school, too. Except Joe was friends with my brother.”

  Her eyes widen, dark and bottomless. “Your brother let him do it?”

  “My brother helped.”

  “How could he?”

  My leg throbs, an echo of pain from long ago. “I don’t want your sympathy, sweetheart. They stopped messing with me when I stopped caring about how hurt I got—no matter what they did, I got up. I went after them for so hard and so long that they had to move on to easier prey.”

  “I hate that that happened to you.”

  My head shakes. How the hell does she have empathy for anyone else? I know what happened to her. Losing both her parents was bad enough. The abuse she endured in the foster care system is fucking unbearable. “I’m not going to win the competition for worst childhood.”

  “It’s not a competition.”

  “Besides, whatever happened before, I’m over it.”

  She mutters something under her breath.

  I should ignore it. “What?”

  “I said you’re full of shit.”

  A surprised bark of laughter. How am I supposed to resist her? How am I supposed to resist her when she’s strong and fragile, smart and delicate? She calls me on my shit even while uncertainty shimmers in her midnight eyes. “Is that so?”

  “Maybe you’re over Joe Causey, but not your brother. You moved back to Maine to take care of his child. You’ve been living in his house. And now you’re telling me that your rivalry with him included violence and bullying?”

  “You can’t hold a grudge against a dead man.”

  A sad smile flickers across her lips. “Can’t you? I still hold a grudge against my father. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I loved him more than anything, but I don’t know if I can ever forgive him for abandoning me.”

  My heart clenches. “Jane.”

  She stands, her movements jerky and fast. Agitated. She’s agitated, and she paces across the small room. “I didn’t come here to talk about my feelings.”

  “Now you’re the one full of shit.”

  That earns me a hard look. She’ll be formidable, this woman. She already is. “Regardless of whether Joe Causey is a good person or not, he said the fire chief thinks it’s arson.”

  “The investigation is ongoing.”

  “You sound like some kind of PR spokesperson. Is it true?”

  Christ. I was hoping to avoid a direct question. “The fire chief hasn’t ruled out arson.”

  “So that means yes. Someone was at the house. Someone set the fire.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “You think so. I can see it in your eyes.”

  That makes me look away. The sun has fallen below the horizon, leaving only an inky black ocean in its wake. The only light in here comes from a small lamp, its shade gauzy and dreamlike. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “That’s why you keep things from Paige. She’s a child. I’m not.”

  Then I have to look at her, her earnest eyes and tense mouth, her body clad in casual clothes picked out by Mateo. Fuck me for being jealous that he got to choose what she wore. “Of course you’re not a child. You think I don’t know that? You’re a beautiful, smart, desirable woman, and I’m having a hell of a time keeping my hands off you.”

  Her cheeks darken. “I deserve to know what’s going on.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” I concede. “That doesn’t stop me from wanting to protect you. To shield you from the ugliness of the world. Not because you can’t handle it. Because you shouldn’t have to.”

  She laughs so low and husky my cock takes notice. “This is your idea of ending things between us?”

  I let out a growl. “You’re the one knocking on my door at midnight. You’re the one not wearing a bra. You’re the one looking so damned tempting I can barely stand it.”

  “The bras he got me don’t fit,” she says, her cheeks darkening.

  “Hell,” I breathe, fighting desire. There’s no willpower left. I cross the room in two long strides. Her eyes widen. That’s the only chance she has to say no. She doesn’t take it. My palms grasp her face, and then I’m kissing her. Consuming her. I’m muttering against her lips. “What am I supposed to tell you? That someone set a fire while I was fucking you? That I failed to protect you, failed to protect Paige, when you both needed me most?”

  She pulls back, most likely to tell me that it’s not my fault. That’s the kind of thing Jane Mendoza would say. She’s so quick to forgive a bastard like me. That’s the only reason I’m allowed to touch her, to shove my hands underneath the soft T-shirt to her bare waist, to slide my hands up. My thumbs brush the underside of her breasts, and she moans.

  “Damn right they didn’t fit,” I say, cupping her in my hand. “He doesn’t know how they feel, the softness of them, the weight of them. He’s never done this.”

  I bend my head and kiss her nipple. It hardens against my lips. The temptation is unholy. I lap at her, and she shivers in my arms. Moonlight casts a pale glow on her skin. I trace the letters on the plush slope of her breast. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

  Her eyes are mournful. “Beau.”

  I suckle her again, until her eyes fall shut. I swirl her hard nub with my tongue. God, she tastes delicious. Woman and warmth. Salt and sea. I want to swallow her whole.

  “Mr. Rochester.”

  The formality stops me in my tracks. It’s like she dumped a bucket of cold water over me. I straighten and pull back. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  “Christ.” I run my hands over her breasts, down her flat stomach. I’m looking for something. A cut, a bruise. Something left over from the fire that I touched. “Where?”

  She takes my hand between both of hers. It makes me look fairly giant, my heavy fist encased in her small, delicate fingers. My palm lands on her chest. Her heart thumps b
eneath her sternum. “Here,” she whispers. “You hurt me here.”

  It’s not that you aren’t beautiful. You are.

  I told her I loved her in the fire. Then I tried to let her down easy in the hospital. There’s no rhyme to it. No reason. The world can’t reorder itself to make this relationship work. The boss and the nanny? No. It’s wrong, but my body doesn’t care. My heart sure as hell doesn’t care either. I want her any way I can have her—secret, forbidden, taboo.

  What I want doesn’t matter.

  Not if Paige might be in danger. Jane might be in danger, too. “I’m sorry,” I say, but it’s not a true apology. I’m not taking back my refusal. I’m affirming it. I can’t be with her, not while there’s still someone out there trying to hurt us. It’s small and it’s broken, this family—but it’s mine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jane Mendoza

  It’s already bright outside when I wake up. There’s a heavy feeling of exhaustion leftover from the fire like Dr. Gupta said there would be. But I have a job to do. A child to take care of. So I shower gingerly and head downstairs.

  Beau’s already gone from the Lighthouse Inn.

  Visiting the house, Marjorie tells me.

  Mateo’s also gone, doing business, whatever that means.

  It’s only me and Paige and a breakfast spread on the sideboard that could feed an army.

  There are large sticky cinnamon buns and eggs Benedict. Thick slices of bacon. Home fries. My stomach growls as I pile a plate high, reminding me that we haven’t actually eaten much since the fire.

  Paige crumbles a blueberry streusel muffin into pieces. I can tell from the pile that she hasn’t eaten much, but I don’t want to pressure her.

  “Do you want something else to eat? The fruit salad looks good.”

  She shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

  The small, polite tone makes my heart squeeze. Where is the wild, defiant girl I learned to care for in the house? She’s hiding somewhere in those blue eyes. “I’ll ask if she can make oatmeal tomorrow. Like you usually have for breakfast.”