Page 30 of Bishop

She pads to the dresser in the corner, the lengths of last night’s scarf trailing over her tits. What the fuck is that about? She had no problem crossing the city in her underwear, yet can’t walk a few steps to her dresser without a swath of material around her neck?

She retrieves a robe from the top drawer and slides her arms into the sleeves, cinching the tie around her waist. “Why aren’t you worried?”

I hold on to the information a little longer, building the anticipation, imagining what her shock will look like. How the relief will weaken the venom in her eyes.

“Did that powdered concoction mess with your head?” She turns to me. “Or are you always this slow?”

I push to my feet. “I’m not worried about your father, belladonna, because he’s dead.”

I wait for the explosion of emotion. Will she be happy? Will the reality of freedom from Emmanuel’s dictator-like ways enable me to catch an unscripted smile?

But her expression doesn’t change. Neither does her posture.

“Excuse me?” she says.

“He’s dead. Snuffed. Worm food.”

The slightest furrow mars her brows. “If that poor excuse for a joke is retaliation for last night, I have no time for it. I’m taking a shower.” She saunters into her private bathroom and closes the door behind her. “I left the key to your car in the center console,” she calls out. “You can see yourself out.”

The shower turns on in a rush of pattering water.

Is she that confident Emmanuel can’t be touched?

I walk for the curtains, wanting a bright and sunny view once round two of the revelations begin. I bide my time while she’s in the bathroom, checking out the knickknacks on top of her dresser—the photo of a sunrise over tree-covered mountains set in a polished silver frame, the cliched porcelain mother and daughter statue—then I open her drawers to peek inside.

The woman has enough lingerie to open her own Victoria’s Secret. Every color of the rainbow stares back at me in padded lace or see-through slips of tiny material.

The scent of flowers filters from the bathroom, along with the sound of clattering plastic bottles.

I grab her shoes from the floor, giving myself the excuse to walk into her closet. The expansive room is filled with enough clothing to cover a small country, all of them neatly folded or hung in perfect alignment.

I place her shoes in the spot available amongst the shelves of designer pumps. She’s got boots, flats, and a million tiny, sexy heels.

She might have had a strict cash allowance, but by the looks of it, Daddy let her spend whatever she liked on the tricks of her trade.

After ten minutes snooping around her clothes, I return to her bedroom, my impatience growing until I catch sight of the golden clutch from last night resting on the floor beside her bed.

I snatch it off the carpet, unclasp the latch, and peer inside.

Stun gun. Cell. Garage remote. Credit card. Lipstick. Mints. And that little silver vial of nose candy.

I pocket the narcotics and reclasp the clutch, placing it on the bedside table as the shower turns off. She isn’t snorting any more of that shit on my watch. She’s going to have to wait until I’m gone to continue ruining her life.

I return to my position near the door, waiting out the final minutes until she saunters from the bathroom with a cream fluffy towel wrapped around her body, another piled atop her head, and that fucking scarf around her neck.

“You’re still here.” She shoots me a two-second scowl and stops in front of her dresser.

“Aren’t you little miss observant?” I lean my ass against the wall, my feet crossed at the ankles.

“More so than you.” She pulls out a matching set of white lace underwear. “I thought I’d made it clear you’re not welcome here.”

“I was hoping you were playing hard to get.”

She steps into the leg holes of her panties, unabashed as she shimmies them up her legs and underneath the towel. “I’m extremely hard to get.”

“Gordon Myers would disagree.”

She glares, those pretty blue eyes scathing in their fury. “Leave.” She turns her back to me and drops the towel.

---