Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

I wait another five minutes. I want to catch her when she’s just starting to relax. Her mind wanders at the end of the day. Some people like to read a book before bed, but Marjorie likes to look out the window and plan out future pages in her scrapbook.

There won’t be any photos of the next hour we spend together. They’ll exist in my mind.

Two more minutes.

I let my anticipation build. I used to wait hours in the dark. In the rain. In the cold. Wounded. Tortured. Survival was the only reward, and then what did I get? Another job. More pain. More emptiness.

Now my life is so full of Marjorie that I’m surprised the roof of the inn stays on. I’m glad it does. She loves this place, and her work here, and her guests.

She loves me. Her first-ever scrapbook is going to be filled with photos of me, which is something else I never knew I needed. My entire career was about never being witnessed. Never being photographed. Staying in the dark. Disappearing without a trace. I want her to see me and to know me.

It’s a miracle she does. I know that. A miracle she saw through the shell I built up over my years in the service. I don’t have to be that asshole with her.

Well, sometimes I do. But she likes it.

I climb the stairs, keeping my footsteps light so none of them creak. She’ll know I’m coming. I never let her fall asleep completely without reassurance that I’m beside her. But silence adds to the surprise.

The bedroom door is half-open. Our bedroom door. It’s the first permanent place to sleep I’ve had since I signed my contract with the CIA. I know how it sounds. Being impressed with a bedroom is weird as hell, but it’s the small things that make a difference. My own bed. My own pillow. My own things, kept in the bedside table.

A wallet with my ID inside. Next to that, I keep a photo of Marjorie on the beach in a little red bathing suit. She’s standing in the shallow water, a big smile on her face. It’s the best picture I’ve ever seen of anyone. My favorite. I just love the look of her in the sunshine. Carefree and happy, the way she was meant to be.

I slip inside.

Marjorie’s in bed, her face turned toward the window, her dark hair spread out on the pillow. Her eyes are closed. I’ve timed this perfectly. She’ll have had time to think about her scrapbook pages, and her thoughts have wandered away while she waits for me.

I make no sound as I cross the room.

No sound as I put my hand over her mouth and climb onto the bed beside her. One motion.

Her eyes snap open and meet mine. I’ve never seen more beautiful eyes than Marjorie Dunn’s. I’ve never seen them look more beautiful than they do right now. Her breathing picks up. The sheet over her chest rises and falls in a quick, surprised rhythm.

“Don’t make a sound.”

She nods her head, agreeing.

“The lock on your front door was flimsy as hell, sweetheart. Any man could walk right in. Unfortunately for you, it was me. There’s nothing you can do to stop this, understand?”

Marjorie nods again. She was relaxed before, on her way to dreamland, but now her fearful, hot energy fills the room. The pretty little innkeeper loves these games. I never warn her ahead of time. That’s how she likes it best. Most nights, I lull her into a false sense of security with kisses and promises.

And then, on nights like tonight…

I bend low to speak into her ear. “If you please me, maybe I’ll let you go.”

Her eyes plead with me for more. Marjorie’s nod is almost frantic. Her lips press against my palm. Kissing me when I’m pretending to be a bastard makes my heart clench.