Page 12 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

A s Bea eats her breakfast the next morning, I lean my elbows on the kitchen counter and draw a ghost in a suit with a top hat on the front of my grocery list. I hear Jack’s footsteps upstairs, but he hasn’t come down.

If I were to guess, I would say that he’s going to be a phantom again, quietly haunting the house as he comes and goes without a word.

I didn’t sleep well last night, and it shows. Mid yawn, I hear a door slam upstairs. Bea and I glance at each other as we wait for his footsteps that never come. I wish I could say I’m dreading the moment I’m face-to-face with him again. But I can’t.

In fact, I’m dying for it.

As I walk Bea to school, she holds my hand in hers, squeezing my fingers as she hops clumsily around the cracks in the cement.

“Tu crois aux fant?mes?” she asks innocently. Do you believe in ghosts?

“Ghosts?” I reply.

“Like the one you drew this morning,” she says with her tiny mouth screwed up with curiosity.

“Oh.” I laugh. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Do you think my maman is a ghost?” Bea gazes up at me with those big, innocent blue eyes, and I have to swallow down the tension in my throat. How on earth should I answer this question? Perhaps these are the sorts of things real nannies are trained for.

“Um… I don’t know. Do you think she’s a ghost?”

“Oui,” she replies plainly. “I can hear her walking around sometimes. She comes into my room when I’m sleeping.”

Comes into her room? Could this have been a dream? I’m struck with confusion, wondering why the hell this little girl would think her mother is traipsing around their home, but then the memory of last night comes back, and it all makes sense.

Jack.

Even his five-year-old daughter thinks he’s a ghost. He must slip into her room after she’s asleep to check on her. Perhaps that’s why he was downstairs last night, lurking in the hallway with tears soaking his face.

I wouldn’t tell Bea that, even if I knew for certain the only haunting spirit in her house is her father. If she wants to believe it’s her maman, then who am I to correct her?

“That’s lovely,” I say as I kneel in front of the girl. “I’m sure that if your maman were a ghost, she would watch over you so you’re never alone.”

Bea shrugs. “I hope she takes care of Papa now.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I have you,” she chirps happily before wrapping her arms around my neck.

I hug her back, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spring free.

Without another word, Bea releases my neck and bounds away, running toward her teacher by the front door of her school. I’m left reeling as I kneel on the sidewalk outside.

Feeling a little lifeless myself, I stand and walk mindlessly back to the house. This is normally when I’d do the shopping and the errands, but I can’t seem to focus on work today. There is an electric buzz under my skin. I’m not sure I want it to go away.

When I get back to the house, I listen for movement upstairs, but it’s quiet. He could be sleeping. Or he could be gone.

Going up to his room is forbidden. I’ve been told this more than once. But after last night, I feel at liberty to investigate. If he’s going to prowl outside my room while I sleep, I can snoop a bit in his while he’s gone.

Besides, rules were made to be broken, right?

The house is silent as I climb quietly up the stairs toward the second level. The floor of the landing at the top creaks as I reach it, and I pause, waiting to hear his scolding voice. When nothing comes, I assume it means he really is gone.

Frozen in place, I peer around. The second floor has an open sitting room to the left with a leather sofa, ottoman, and rug. There is a beautiful painting on the wall and a fresh bouquet of flowers on the table near the window.

Facing a long hallway in front of me, I see one door ajar and what looks like an office on the other side. There is a desk and an empty chair.

I take a quiet step toward the room, carefully pressing the door open to find my suspicions correct. It’s his office. The desk is immaculate and tidy. The computer on the desk has a large screen that is currently black and a notepad on the surface near the keyboard.

Tiptoeing into the room, I sneak a peek at the notepad.

Talk to Logan about security.

Scanning the rest of the desk, I notice a framed photo by the monitor. I pick it up and stare down at the woman in the picture. She’s the same woman in the photo I own.

She’s beautiful with dark brown hair braided loosely over one shoulder. She’s sitting in a chair near a window, and unlike my photo, in this one, she’s not smiling. And yet she looks so peaceful. Her hands are resting on her full, round belly, and I try to imagine the moment the picture was taken.

In my mind, I picture him standing in the middle of the room, telling her how gorgeous she is. In my mind, Jack is kind and loving. He speaks to her with compassion and warmth. In my mind, Jack is a real person and not a cruel, soulless apparition of a man like he is now.

Then I imagine it’s me standing by the window, hugging my perfect round belly, feeling his loving gaze on my face as he snaps a photo of me. It’s a cruel trick my mind plays on me, and the moment the tormenting idea settles in, I shove it away. That’s not real.

Quickly, I put the frame down, snapping myself out of such a dangerous fantasy.

Turning away from the desk, I walk out of the office, peering down the hallway and waiting for any signs of life. When it proves safe, I ease back out of the room, leaving the door the way I found it.

Across from the office is another door. With my hand on the handle, I slowly ease it open and peek inside to find a bathroom. It looks untouched, so I quietly edge back out and close it without a sound.

Moving down to the next door, I pause and question my own sanity. What if he’s in here? What if he’s sleeping? What on earth am I going to do if he catches me and fires me for breaking the rules and trespassing into his private space—again?

That would tear Bea up.

I should turn away now. A wise woman certainly would.

And yet I’m resting my hand on the next door, the last on the left. I’m a fool for this, but I can’t help myself. Moving at a speed that could only be categorized as agonizingly slow, I turn the handle and press open the door.

What I expect is a bedroom. I expect a bed, a dresser, maybe a pile of laundry on the floor.

What I don’t expect is an empty room with dark gray walls and ornate crown molding. There are deep purple velvet drapes hanging over the windows. Aside from an upholstered chair and a velvet bench, the only piece of furniture in the room is a large wood antique wardrobe.

I glance behind me at the closed door I haven’t opened yet, which I assume now must be his bedroom.

So what is this?

I step into the empty room with piqued interest. There’s a round, plush rug in the center of the room and strange gold hooks in various positions along the ceiling.

There is something so odd and yet comforting about the room.

But what on earth is the purpose of it? Some sort of meditation room perhaps?

Then I’m instantly reminded of the small station in the dark sex club where I found Jack.

My memory conjures up images of paddles, ropes, and other tools I don’t yet know the names of.

Crossing the space toward the window, I pull back the thick curtains to let in some light. There’s a beautiful view of the city from this spot, and I take a moment to stare at it.

Was this the window she stood in front of for that photo? I picture her standing in this spot as he snapped the image.

I’ve never met someone as mysterious and strange as Jack St. Claire. I know I should let it go and just do my job, but I am enamored by him at every turn. I can almost see the man beneath the monster. But with every discovery only comes more questions.

Like what is this room used for? What is he hiding up here?

And what is inside this wardrobe?

I know I shouldn’t open it. And maybe in some way, I already know what’s in there.

It was curiosity that led me to open that letter. Curiosity that led me to Paris in the first place. Curiosity that led me to the club the other night and curiosity that brought me into this room.

But is it possible all these things are really just breadcrumbs?

Is it possible Jack is inviting me down this path, tempting me to take a closer look every chance I get?

He could have locked this door. He could have shut me out entirely. But he hasn’t.

With that, I cross over the thick rug and stand before the large armoire. I rest my fingers on the metal handle before giving it a gentle tug. It pops open, and I hold my breath as the light shines into the small space.

But before I can get a glimpse of what is waiting inside, a large hand with a familiar gold band around the ring finger presses against the wood, slamming it closed. I let out a yelp in fear, but when I try to back away from the furniture, I hit a giant wall of muscle and anger.

Freezing, I shrink into myself as I wait for his reprimand.

Speak to me , I think. Yell at me. Punish me. Give me something.

His breath is warm against my head and his chest solid against my back.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer.

“You don’t belong in here,” he whispers with his mouth near my ear, and my heart rate picks up in a panic. For some very odd reason, I’m not afraid of Jack. I probably should be, but in my heart, I know he won’t hurt me. “Why are you always breaking my rules?” he demands.

I can’t respond, so I don’t. But I want to argue. I do belong here. I found my way here by some invisible force. Here in Paris, here in this house, here in this room.

Then, to my surprise, he asks, “You want to see what is in there, don’t you?”

Staring at the ornate wood of the armoire, I nod.

With a hand around my waist, he tugs me gently backward so I’m flush against his body as he grips the handle of the wardrobe and pulls it open. My breath is shaky as I stare into the dark void behind the door.

But it’s not quite what I had anticipated. There are gold hooks along the backside with various ropes and ribbons draped over each one. My brows furrow as I try to make sense of what I’m looking at.

Admittedly, I sort of expected things like paddles, whips, gags. Things like I saw the other night at the club. But these are different. Far less intimidating, if I’m honest.

Perhaps I should be afraid of what I’m seeing, but I’m not.

“Is this what you were expecting?” he whispers in my ear.

I shake my head.

“Are you still curious?”

I nod.

“Go ahead.”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s telling me to touch them. With a tremble in my hand, I reach out and run one of the black ropes through my fingers. It’s coarser than I expected it to be.

Immediately, I remember the woman I witnessed at the club being bound so tightly she couldn’t move a single muscle. These ropes surely would have itched and burned.

Even that thought doesn’t dissuade my curiosity.

I want to ask what he does with these. Is this a sport to him?

Or is it all about sex? Hundreds of questions swirl around in my mind, but if I learned anything from Jack’s behavior, it’s that he doesn’t like it when I speak.

Something about my voice triggers him in a way I don’t understand, so I stay quiet.

Boldly, I pull the rope from the hook and let it drape over my fingers. When I think about it wrapped around my wrists, warmth sparks between my legs. As if he can read my mind, he lets out a low, rumbling growl, and my knees grow weak.

The warmth in my core blossoms into a burning heat, pulsing between my legs. It’s like a spark of life in parts of my body I didn’t know existed until now.

What is happening?

Jack leans into me, and it’s much like the moment in the hallway last night. Slow, blazing tension engulfs us as if the world has completely stopped turning and some feverous tidal wave is sweeping us away.

Show me , I chant in my mind. Please show me.

His nose is pressed against the side of my head, and he takes a deep inhale as if he’s trying to pick up my scent. My eyes drift closed as the heat deep within my body continues to pulse, pulse, pulse.

Then, without warning, he stiffens, pulling himself away and snatching the rope from my hands. He hangs it on the hook with a huff and slams the door loudly, making me flinch.

“You’re not going to show me?” I ask in astonishment.

“No.”

“Wait!” Reaching out, I grab his arm and try to turn him toward me. He glares down at my hand on his skin as if I’m a leech. “Why not?”

“Not me. Find someone else.”

“I don’t want to find someone else.”

Immediately, he winces as if the sound of my voice pains him. It only enrages me more.

“What is it you’re hiding?” I shout. “What is this room? Why did you leave it unlocked if you didn’t want me to?—”

The words are stolen from my lips as he turns toward me and thrusts a hand against my mouth. Holding me by the back of the head, he crowds me as he silences my words without reason.

Staring into my eyes with fire, he leans in as he growls, “Please stop talking.”

My brows lift as I stare up at him. Instead of arguing or fighting more, I nod against his fingers.

Time passes slowly as he just holds me, one hand pressed over my mouth, the other at the back of my neck. I am entirely at his mercy.

He holds me close, his mouth just inches from mine. Again, we share eye contact in a way that I couldn’t possibly with anyone else.

I keep waiting for him to relent and give me what I want, which, to be fair, even I don’t understand.

I want Jack to show me things I don’t know how to vocalize.

I want him to let me into his world. I want to be the one at the center of his attention like that woman was for a brief moment at the club.

But at the same time, I wish he’d hold me in his arms with affection. I wish he’d share the heavy weight of his grief with me.

There’s familiarity in his eyes like he can feel the same thing I do. I just wish he’d let it all go. Instead, his expression hardens again.

“If I find you in this room again, you’re fired,” he mutters angrily near my face.

Then, without warning, he releases me, and I try to reach for him again, but he’s already stomping out of the room and into the one on the opposite side of the hall.

The door slams shut, and once again, I’m left standing alone, reeling from another bizarre and intoxicating moment with Jack St. Claire.