Page 32 of Dirty Grovel

His gaze reverts back to me. “What?”

I repeat my question. “There’s so many clothes in there, most of them skimpy bikinis and skimpier lingerie.” I finger the edge of my cover-up. “I’m just curious as to whose clothes I’m wearing.”

He meets my gaze, the gold in them sharpening. “Nobody’s.”

“Then why does that wardrobe exist at all? Unless you enjoy traipsing around in women’s clothes on the weekends?”

“I like to make sure my guests are comfortable when they come here.”

“Hence the skimpy outfits?”

“You seem to enjoy them,” he says. “So what’s there to complain about?”

“I’m not complaining. Just… curious.” I pick up my glass of water and take a sip. “Do you mind if I explore the house a little more?”

“Feel free.”

I nod. “I’m not likely to find a room with a bunch of dead bodies in them, am I? You know… the owners of all these lovely clothes.”

His lips flatten out. “You have some macabre thoughts.”

I shrug. “It was a story I read as a child. Bluebeard and his six wives. He killed one in order to wed another. Had their bodies hung up in a room that no one was ever allowed to go into.”

“Interesting bedtime story.”

“Change of pace from the fairy tales.”

He sighs and rubs his chin. “You have nothing to fear, princess.” It’s been a long time since he used his old nickname for me. It sends a shiver racing up my spine. “I’m not interested in collecting wives or their baggage. All I want from you is a child.”

I place my hand over my belly protectively. “And do you plan on being around for this child?”

He arches an eyebrow. “If the baby is mine,” he says as though he needs to remind me that it might not be. “Then yes. I plan on being a present father. My child will want for nothing.”

If nothing else, my baby will have the kind of life that Sydney and I never even dreamed of.

Comfort, security, wealth,anda caring father.

Could I really deny my baby all that?

Even if my life would be far less complicated without Oleg in it?

The clatter of his fork wrenches my attention firmly back on him. He’s glaring at me, his jaw thrumming ominously.

“Somethingisbothering you,” I accuse.

“Next time we have dinner, I would prefer if you put on actual clothes.”

“What’s the matter, Oleg? My choice of attire reminds you of the last woman who wore them?” I demand, hackles rising at the anger and disdain in his eyes.

His eyes narrow and he rises to his feet. “I’m done with dinner. Excuse me.”

“Where are you going?”

The moment the question leaves my tongue, I realize I have no right to ask.

We’re not husband and wife.

We’re not together.

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