controls of the shower and then for the towels he’d left within reach beyond the shower screen. She took one from him and tied it around her like a sarong. He used the other to dry her hair, avoiding her injury.
“I’ve often wondered if people would take me more seriously if I dyed it black.” Her voice was muffled by the towel. “There have been studies, you know.”
“Don’t dye it black.”
“The weird thing is, my brothers all have dark hair. When I was little, I decided that a wicked witch had probably kidnapped me from my proper family and dropped me in the wrong house by accident. I assumed my parents would have given me back if they’d had a return address. They think I’m wasting my life doing arty things. So does Richard. What do you think?”
His brain had ceased to work from the moment he’d walked into the bathroom, but if he’d been capable of rational thought he would have been thinking that he didn’t want to know more about her.
As far as he was concerned, the more superficial his knowledge of her was, the better.
“What do I think?” He dried the ends of her hair and then stepped back out of the danger zone. “I think you charge ridiculous prices.”
“Really?”
No, not really, but the way she was looking at him, her luminous blue eyes wistful and vulnerable, hardened his resolve.
“Yes, really.” He slung the towel over the rail and struggled for words that would ensure she continued to think he was the big bad wolf. It was safer for both of them that way. Safer if he didn’t follow his instincts, which suggested he carry her back to the bed and this time join her in it. “Your nod to Greek mythology might be charming to someone with no depth of knowledge, but that doesn’t change the fact that there are significant inaccuracies.” Droplets of water clung to her cheek. Without thinking, he lifted his hand and wiped them away with his thumb. Her skin was as soft and smooth as the petals of a rose and he felt her still under his touch.
“You took the time to look round my exhibition.”
He let his hand drop. “I was killing time until I could get to speak to you.”
“Of course you were. You planned to leave the first moment you could.” Her cheeks were flushed. “Don’t be embarrassed. I was hoping you’d leave quickly. Now I’m glad you didn’t.”
He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
They stared at each other for a moment and then he heard a tap on the door and stepped away from her, relieved to have an excuse to walk away.
“That will be Michael.” He grabbed a robe from the back of the door, thrust it toward her and escaped from the steamy bathroom.
The sleeves of his shirt were wet from the shower and he rolled them up on his way to the door. At least with someone else in the room he was less likely to commit an act of gross indecency.
Despite the circumstances, he was genuinely pleased to see his friend and they chatted for a few moments, catching up on the main events of their lives, before Michael walked over to the bed to take a look at Skylar.
Alec wished he were somewhere else. This whole situation was wrong on every level.
It was too intimate, too personal.
He and Skylar barely knew each other.
What if Michael asked her a question Alec didn’t want to hear?
As far as he was concerned the bar for “too much information” was set low.
He prowled to the window and stood with his back to the room while his friend examined her. He could see the reflection of her body in the glass, so he pressed his forehead against the window and focused on the street below.
Snow was still falling and far beneath him people and cars moved slowly.
He heard Michael ask Skylar what had happened and heard her dismiss it as a silly accident.
Was that true? Maybe, but something told him that Richard Everson had played a part in that “accident.”
And even if he hadn’t, the one undisputable fact that stood out above all others was that the guy hadn’t stayed to help her.
“Just sick the once?” Michael stood up and pulled a sheet of paper out of his bag. “Alec?”
Bracing himself, Alec turned. “Yes?”