Page 38 of Gilded Saint

“Thanks for walking her home,” I say to his withdrawing figure over her head.

“Right. Right. I’ll see you. Nice to see you.”

Willow wisely stands still, close to me. Her hot breath warms a spot of skin on my chest, but her muscles are tight and wound like a coil. He turns the corner, and the sound of his steps on cobblestone disappears into the mix of birdsong and city din.

She flattens a palm against my chest and presses. “I can explain.”

The heat from her palm radiates across my chest, and I take a beat to process what she just said. I expected a slap on my cheek or a solid reprimand for being an ass. Because I was out of line. But she’s expecting me to be worse than the men in her family. I suppose if I’d been Leandro, a cleaner would’ve been required.

“Let’s go inside,” I say, releasing some of the irrational rage with a change in direction.

“When did you get back?” She sounds chirpy, so I suppose she’s not going to rip into me for being a tool. She should. I deserve it.

“About an hour ago. I was going to come down and check out your studio.”

“You were?”

No, that’s a lie. I came down when I saw on camera that she left her studio. I wanted to see where she was going without John, her daytime security.

“Is the studio sufficient?”

“It’s fantastic. I really, truly can’t thank you enough.”

We pass through the lobby and to the elevator. The doors close on the two of us, and my gaze catches on her fingers.

“But you don’t wear your rings.” I absentmindedly twirl the gold band on my finger. I’ve been wearing mine because anyone I meet might have heard I got married. The ring supports my story. It’s now a part of my cover.

“I don’t want to get paint on them.”

That’s a flimsy excuse, but there’s no point in arguing. The elevator shoots us up to the forty-first floor, and I resist the urge to hold on to the rail. No matter how many times I ride upward, I still feel the burden of rising above the Earth’s hold.

Natural light pours in as the elevator door slides open, and I push forward to the stairs into the showplace. There’s nothing in the entry other than a staggering London view, suspended black stairs above a gleaming polished concrete floor, and some decorative crap.

Nick’s sister, Lina, found this flat for me when I moved to work for him. A friend of hers decorated it. Then a special team hired by Jack’s firm came in and outfitted the place according to my specific needs.

I’ve watched Willow on the camera feed over the last two weeks while I’ve been away. She hasn’t snooped around. But there’s no denying bringing her into this flat bears risk. If she discovers a cache of weapons, identification, or a stash of bills, I’m betting it will feel normal to her, given the family she was raised in. In that regard, she’s a safe bet, but perhaps a bet I shouldn’t make. She might look too closely.

I shouldn’t be putting my cover at risk. The fake marriage ploy is a bad idea. She’s a bad idea. But I’ve always struggled with protective urges. Even as a kid with my younger sisters. Maybe if they hadn’t both needed protecting at times, I wouldn’t be like this. One sister bedridden, the other socially awkward. So what is it about Willow? Perhaps the protective urge arose because I saved her from being mauled. I have an undeniable soft spot for young women who need protection.

Upstairs, I stride to the windows and peer across the horizon. I don’t need to watch her because I sense her. The swish of her skirt, the soft pad of her boots. Through the glass, her reflection shows as a blur in the window, hovering at a distance.

“I won’t bite,” I say to her, although given my recent conduct, I can’t exactly blame her for wanting to distance herself from me. Still, her fear is not only unnecessary, it will drive me nuts to have someone afraid of me living under my roof.

“Maybe I want you to.”

That gets my attention. I turn and study the young woman. She’s backed up against the island, wide blue eyes filled with what? Fear? No. Challenge? Yes, that’s it. I suppose that fits. Something tells me if I hadn’t agreed to this arrangement, the wily woman would have found another way of circumventing her father’s plans to marry her to Leandro. Which means I put my cover at risk needlessly.

Brilliant.

“Have you had lunch?” The second the question crosses the room, I recognize it as a stupid one. She was walking home for lunch, and she just said she might want me to bite. I’ll disregard that remark. Nothing to be won with that exploration.

With a few brisk steps, I’m at the paneled refrigerator, scanning the contents. “Would you like a sandwich? Looks like there are three panini. Split one?”

“Sure. Do you want me to?—”

“No.” I gesture for her to back away. “I’ve got this. Heating panini is something I can do. Hence the reason I ask for them to be stocked.”

“When you’re home?”

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