Page 31 of Bishop

Every inch of her is exposed except for those ass-hugging panties. All that smooth, tanned skin is on display, the picture-perfect hips, the lean, lightly muscled thighs as she pulls on her bra.

I don’t look away.

The few gentlemanly qualities I had died when she drove me into enemy territory and attempted to keep me safe with a fucking picnic blanket.

If she’s willing to put on a show, I’m more than happy to take the free tickets.

She grabs a white cotton T-shirt from the third drawer and pulls it on over the top of the scarf.

What the fuck is she hiding?

I push from the wall and stalk toward her, holding out a hand. “Give me the scarf.”

She keeps me at arm’s length as she pads to her robe, pulling the long material from beneath the neck hole to sit on top of her shirt. “Get out of my house.”

I follow, coming to stand in the doorway as she grabs a pair of white pants from a shelf and drags them on.

I watch her jiggle, shimmy, and tug the tight clothing to her waist, then yank up the zipper.

“What are you hiding?” I square my shoulders, standing at my full height in the doorway.

“Love bites from last night,” she drawls sarcastically, dragging a white blazer from a hanger to pull it on. “Do you mind?” She jerks her chin toward her bedroom. “I’m getting dressed.”

“You’re already dressed.” Not to mention she hasn’t given a single fuck about modesty up until this point apart from two inches of her neck.

She saunters to the far end of the expansive robe and slithers a navy scarf from a hook on the wall. “You’re acting like a predator.”

“I’m glad you finally understand the situation.”

She rolls her eyes. “Get the hell out, Bishop.”

“Not until you show me what’s beneath the scarf.”

“Fine. I’ll leave.” She stalks toward me, her gaze adamantly focused on her bedroom over my left shoulder.

I hold my ground, blocking her path.

“Move,” she growls.

“Take off the scarf.”

“No.” Her nose crinkles in disgust. “Who are you to dictate what I do? Do you think Matthew would approve of your heavy-handedness?”

“You haven’t seen heavy-handedness, belladonna.” I lash out, grabbing the scarf. “But you will.”

Her eyes bug, her hands gripping the material woven around her neck. “Stop. Wait.”

“I don’t like repeating myself.”

“I have a scar. I’ve had it for years.” She grabs my wrist, her nails digging into my skin. “I always cover it.”

I think back on all the times I’ve spied on her. All the places she’s been. All the things she’s worn.

It’s true she does tend to wear collared blouses and blazers. But there have been times when that bear trap of a body has been draped in a cleavage-exposing dress. Has she always worn a scarf?

“Call Remy. He’ll tell you the same thing.” She slides her hand under mine, trying to unlatch my fingers one by one. “My neck was sliced open years ago. I hate the scar.”

“You could’ve said that to begin with.” I release the material.

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