Page 86 of The Devil's Deal

It takes me a while to finish my food, but when I finally do, I get up and rinse my plate, then throw it into the dishwasher.

“Thank you for the lovely lunch,” I tell Sonia, then excuse myself, heading up to watch TV.

Climbing the stairs, I head toward my room, and as I near the door, I keep walking until I get to his.

The door is ajar, sunlight darting through it. He isn’t here, and he kept the door open? He always shuts it. I know because I have a habit of checking every time I go down the stairs. If he’s seen me do it on one of his secret cameras, he hasn’t said.

My fingers inch forward, my nails fledging over the handle, flirting with the thought of walking inside.

I shouldn’t.

I push on the door just a little.

He’ll find out and get mad. Really mad.

I push it open some more.

Maybe he’ll get the kind of mad he was when he saw me drinking his liquor. Or if I’m lucky, a lot angrier. Angry enough to fuck me. And when he fucks me once, I know he’ll want to do it again and again until his heart slices open, allowing my deceit right in.

I shove the screeching door open all the way, the sound echoing through the empty hall. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.

This is a bad idea.

But the fear only pushes me further into danger.

Quickly glancing down each side of the hall and not finding his guards anywhere, I dash inside. Gently closing the door behind me, I finally take in the room.

Holy shit.

His bedroom is straight out of a luxury magazine. I’m mesmerized by the space, big enough to be a penthouse in New York City. I never really got to see it the last time I was here, with the whole cleaning-his-bullet-wound thing. But now that I’m here, I intend to get to know this room very well.

To the left, I find a low-lying black king-sized bed with ceiling-high leather upholstery. Further down, there’s a square black table with four white velvet armchairs around it, plus a matching bar with all kinds of liquor and glassware atop.

But the fireplace on the right is my favorite part. It’s not on now, but it looks so cozy with the shaggy ivory carpet in front.

I wonder if I can find some evidence that holds the truth to his real identity. Would he keep anything worth finding in this room? I intend to find out. I skip the bathroom, heading for one of the rooms I haven’t yet been in.

Opening it, I discover a huge walk-in closet.

Well, wow. This is nice…and organized.

His shoes are neatly lined on the floor, his suits on one side, casual shirts and pants on the other. I run my fingers up and down one of his suit jackets, leaning over to take a whiff and smelling a hint of his expensive cologne on it, the one he always wears.

I open some drawers, finding socks and neatly folded boxers, carefully looking under every item for anything that could help me know him. But every drawer I open contains nothing but clothes, no shred of evidence of the man behind the well-constructed mask.

Who are you, Brian Smith?

Closing the drawer containing dozens of belts, I march over to the other side, finding more ties than I can count hanging on a spinning rack.

I reach a hand for them, flinging my nails across the silk, remembering how it felt to have one wrapped around my neck while I clung to every breath.

Snaking my hand around a black tie, my eyes zero in on one that looks eerily familiar. Could it be the very same one he used on me? Nerves explode in my stomach, my pulse jolting in my ears, slamming down my throat.

I pull it off the rack, and as I do, an idea forms. A really dangerous idea. Yanking a powder-blue button-down shirt from the hanger, I wander back into the bedroom with both.

Sauntering toward his bed, I drop the items on top of it.

He did say I was boring, so I’ll give him a show.

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