Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

A small gesture. His voice is low in the dark hallway. “That’s her bedroom. Paige. The reason for your position. You’ll meet her tomorrow.”

The reason for your position. There’s no warmth in his voice, even though he’s talking about a six-year-old little girl. “You’re her uncle?”

“Correct,” he says, his voice matter of fact. And cold. Colder than outside.

I’m almost running to keep up. So I slam into him when he stops suddenly. One minute I’m striding along a corridor, and the next I’m plastered against him, cold clothes against cold clothes, warm body against warm body, my face pressed into his back.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, heat climbing my neck as I step back.

He opens one of the doors, and only now do I realize I should have been counting. Every single door looks the same. The distance between them is the same. There’s no artwork or rugs in this hallway. Barren. That’s how it looks. How it feels. The room is no different. There’s a bed in the middle. A nightstand. An open door revealing a small bathroom. A closed door that I assume leads to a closet. There’s not even a rug or lamp to make the room feel lived in.

“This is yours,” he says. “Your space when you aren’t working.”

“Me and the cat.”

His lips quirk. “Right. You and the cat.”

I have to squeeze by him to get into the room. We only touched for a second, but it was electric. I can still feel the currents running through me. Even getting close to him feels like heat. I wheel my soggy luggage into a corner and then settle the kitten in the middle of the bed. I flick on the light in the bathroom and blink against the glare. I’m pretty sure we need a litter box or something like that, but I’m too freezing and tired to worry about it now.

I turn to face Mr. Rochester. Beau Rochester.

“Well,” I say, tangling my hands together. “Thanks so much for showing me to my room. And for the… you know, the welcome. And everything. I want you to know that I’m so grateful for the opportunity to be here, and I’m going to work so hard to make sure that—”

“You’re freezing,” he says, almost gently.

I’m freezing. And I’m rambling. “Right. I’m cold. You’re cold. The kitten is cold, but more importantly, Paige and I are going to get along great. I’m so excited to get started.”

I’m not sure why, but in that moment, I look down. And I see that my nipples are hard points against the fabric of my bra and the T-shirt I wore on the plane. I fold my arms in front of me, the movement protective and wildly obvious. If he didn’t know my nipples were standing at attention before, then he definitely knows now.

Reluctantly I meet his dark gaze. Oh, he knew. He definitely knew.

“Your job isn’t to be best friends with Paige,” he says.

“Right,” I say, even though I don’t know where he’s going with this.

“Your job with her is the same as it is with the kitten. Keep her alive and keep her out of my hair. That’s what you’re getting paid to do. Understand?”

In both the before and after of my life, I believed in the value of family. I always knew my father loved me. And cared for me. And when he was gone, when I was cold and lonely and afraid, I knew it was because I no longer had a family. “But she’s your niece.”

“I’m not a parent. I’m a businessman. And in the business world, she’s what we call a liability. Something I’m required to pay. An expense. A loan. The wrong side of the balance sheet.”

My breath sucks in. “She’s a child.”

His gaze flicks down to where my arms cover my breasts. “So were you, not that long ago.”

For the first time I’m aware of him as more than a shadow shouting in the rain, as more than my new employer. I become aware of him as a man. And he’s aware of me as a woman. There’s a form of power in that mutual understanding.

There are years between us. How old is he? Some number greater than thirty, for sure. The hard planes of his face are strong, mature. His eyes are world weary. I would almost expect there to be gray in his hair for how jaded he appears, but instead there’s a lush black.

Too many years for a potential relationship, even if he were interested in rain-soaked nannies and I were interested in cold-blooded men. But the spark runs between us anyway, our bodies giving way to chemistry when our minds should know better.

I need to end this awareness, this mutual interest, the physicality of standing here while both of us are cold and shivering, our clothes clinging to our skin. “Good night,” I say, but the word comes out low and smoke-filled, as if I meant it to be tempting.