Page 34 of Jane Deyre

Rigid as a steel beam, her head held high, she holds me coldly in her gaze. “I was doing my job. Protecting my employer. Edwina is in no condition for you to be arrested on pedophile charges.”

If she’s trying to intimidate me, she’s got the wrong person. I’m not afraid of her. And never have been. Her contempt and threats can’t slice through me. Rage bubbles in my blood, heating me to the boiling point. I charge up the remaining steps.

“Get out my way!” I brush past her and cause her to stumble.

She regains her balance. “You almost knocked me down!”

“You’re lucky I didn’t throw you down the stairs.”

“Oh, is that a threat?”

“No, it’s a statement.”

“So is a charge of assault and battery.” She glowers at me. “You always were such an impetuous child. I suppose... like father like daughter.” Narrowing her eyes, she pauses. “Be careful, Mr. Rochester.”

I throw her words back at her. “Oh, is that a threat?”

Another smirk. “It’s a warning. Goodnight, Mr. Rochester.”

With that, she straightens her suit and descends the stairs. The thud of her heels against the steps fading as I storm to my suite. Simmering mad, I swing my door open with such force it could have easily unhinged. Slamming it shut behind me, I head straight to the bar in my office and pour myself a bourbon. All the sweetness of the wine I shared with Jane has totally dissipated. I throw back the tumbler of alcohol and imbibe it in a single gulp. The bourbon burns my throat and as it enters my bloodstream with the rush of a wildfire, I pour myself another. This time, I pace my office, blind to my surroundings, and fight the urge to fling my glass against a wall. I take several consecutive glugs while my emotions war with Alice Fairfax’s ominous words. I want the liquor to numb me, fog my brain, but instead it gives me clarity.

I can’t get involved with Jane Deyre. She is way too young for me. And she’s my daughter’s nanny. It’s all fucking wrong.

Tomorrow, she will go back to being Miss Deyre.

And I will go back to being her cold, detached boss. Mr. Rochester.

My erection betrays me.

I have to stay away from her. Far, far away.

I need a distraction.

Chugging my bourbon, I open my laptop.

And book a one-way ticket to New York.

CHAPTER 19

Jane

My first night here.

Despite how bone-tired I am, how comfortable the double bed is, my throbbing finger keeps me awake. And that’s not all. I can’t stop thinking about the mysterious Mr. Rochester. The very thought of him makes my heart pound and causes a throbbing sensation between my thighs I can’t quell. And I can still smell the heady scent of him, right in this bed. Like I’m shrouded in him. I’m more drunk with lust than from the wine I drank. I need to get him out of my head. It’s totally wrong. He’s my boss. I’m not going to call him Ward. It’s too familiar. Too dangerous. He will continue to be Mr. Rochester to me. Fingers crossed he stays in his office all day and writes.

Sleep finally claims me when I’m awoken by a bang. The whole house shakes. I bolt upright. Another thunderous bang, this one louder with a flash of light. It takes me a few seconds to realize we’re having a thunderstorm. Today’s unusual humidity was a warning. It begins to pour; I hear raindrops pound the roof. The wind howls. More thunder and lightning roar.

But there’s something else I hear. A strange clatter. A continuous clanking that sounds like it’s coming from the room next to mine. The one with the locked door that saysKEEP OUT. Maybe there’s something inside it that’s loose. That needs to be fixed. A loose windowpane? Pipe? Beam? As the pellets of rain come down harder, the clanking grows louder.

Thunderstorms freak me out. At one of my foster homes, a bolt of lightning hit a large tree and it fell on the house. From that time on, I hid under my bed whenever there was one. That’s what I want to do now, but I know I won’t be able to squeeze myself under this low-to-the-ground bed.

Another blast of thunder. Flash of lightning. And more clanking. The cacophony is like the soundtrack of a horror movie. The clanking grows fiercer, joined by a weird banging. As if someone’s banging a metal pole on the floor. But that’s ridiculous. There’s no one in this house but me. Unless someone came inside through the unlocked front door.

My heart clangs with fear. Every sense is on high alert. I’m too scared to leave my room. I reach for the lamp on my night table and flip the switch, but the light doesn’t turn on. It was working before. Is the bulb out or is there a power outage? There’s only one way to find out. Hugging myself, I crawl out of the bed and pad over to the window. I fling the curtains apart. A gust of wind and spray of water assaults me. I didn’t check the window before I climbed into bed. I’m positive it was closed when I settled in earlier today. Did Grace come back here and open it? To air out the room? Or did someone pry it open? An intruder?

Except for the dimly lit Hollywood sign and streaks of lightning, all I see is blackness. Not a single light in sight. I slam the window shut, the action making me wince. Curse under my breath. I’ve exacerbated my tattered finger.

Leaving the curtains open, I stagger back to my bed. I don’t hear footsteps, but those rattling and banging sounds persist. I’m more and more convinced there’s someone in the house. A robber? A rapist? A serial killer? John Reed could be all three, if you count the number of birds he killed with his BB gun. Any way you look at it, given the number of times he assaulted me, he’s a sociopath.

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