Page 71 of Handsome Devil

I followed him up the stairs, leaving my common sense behind me.

Thirty minutes later, I was lying inside a claw-foot bath, the steaming water thawing my icy fingers and toes. The sensation returned to them bit by bit as they tingled back to life.

Miraculously, I found my favorite peony and blush shower oil in the en suite bathroom, a welcome surprise, and was now postponing the frank conversation that awaited me beyond the door. I tipped my head up on the edge of the bath, sighing as I stared at the ceiling.

A dead body lay somewhere on the grounds of this estate.

A soft rap came from the door. I groaned, closing my eyes.

“Apricity.” Tate’s voice, dark and smooth, slipped like smoke beneath the door.

“Don’t you dare come in.”

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

My stomach gurgled, protesting the lie. I hadn’t eaten anything other than the small chicken Caesar wrap around eleven.

“Even if you weren’t lying, you still need to eat. You are mine now, and I want you well fed.”

I bit my lip down. I didn’t want to accept his offer.

“I also brought booze.”

I sighed, slinking deeper into the water so that only my head was afloat. “Put it in and sod off.”

He opened the door and ambled inside, still in his suit, which was filthy from riding a horse in the woods and butchering someone. He held a wooden bathtub tray and lowered it to rest on the lips of the tub.

There was handcrafted sushi and a Tajín-rimmed margarita. My mouth watered. I was dizzy with hunger. And tired. Bone-deep exhausted.

He stood back, surveying the top of my head. I snapped the chopsticks apart, trying to ignore him. It was a bit difficult to work the chopsticks and manage to keep my sternum below water to protect my modesty.

I brought a piece of a rainbow roll to my mouth. “Did you order in?”

“No. I have a private chef who lives on the grounds.”

How could said chef miss me running then? Or witness Tate’s wrongdoing, for that matter?

“He lives in the pool house across the backyard,” Tate read my mind.

Encouraged by the fact that I still hadn’t hurled any sharp objects at him, he sauntered to a vanity chair opposite to the bath and sat on its edge, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“You can make yourself useful by bringing me my clothes,” I allowed. “I put them on the radiator to dry.”

“You’ve fresh clothes in the guest room,” he said tonelessly, not offering any further explanation. “We need to talk.”

“No. I need at least one more margarita in me and to finish this food before I can hear you out.”

I continued shoveling sushi into my gob until the water got cold. Then I asked him to turn around and wrapped myself in a plush dressing gown.

“I’ll see to that margarita while you get dressed,” he offered.

“Next time you make it, bear in mind my day started with shit-talking colleagues, followed with bad news about Mum, and concluded with the realization my husband is a killer.”

“I’ve had tax days worse than yours.” Tate slinked out of the bathroom with a shake of his head.

Padding barefoot to the guest room, I pushed the door open.