Page 3 of On a Fault Line

My eyes dart to Collins, who seems to be extra mute today. “I didn’t know we had company.” My words come out as a high-pitched squeak.

“Now you do.”

No wonder he’s so bent out of shape over my lack of a real outfit.

“Who’s the suit?”

“My lawyer handling our contract.”

“Wow, you just have a lawyer on retainer to do your bidding?”

“I…” He seems caught off guard by my bold question. “No…”

“Just how many contracts have you had in your lifetime, Collins?” Then I turn to the strange man standing on the sidelines. “How many contracts has Collins called in your services for?”

The man holds up his hand as a way of providing a nonanswer.

Of course, he wouldn’t throw the man who supplies his salary under the figurative bus.

Guiding my attention back to him, Collins asks, “Are you second-guessing what you have put into motion?”

My lips flatten into a hard line. I have no right to punish Collins for his secretive past when it’s me who suggested becoming another name on his list of conquests.

But why do we need to do this in front of an audience?

“No,” I finally supply after a long pause.

I stand taller, trying to portray confidence, but with Collins’s towering frame shadowing me like an impenetrable building, I start to wonder just how confining this contract will be.

Without another warning, Collins guides me into the guest room where the clothes he already has purchased for me are stored in a closet.

“Please make yourself decent.”

I look down at the shirt I’m currently wearing, feeling a bit sad over his disapproval. “Okay…”

“Penelope?”

I turn my attention to him, feeling the sting of tears hit my eyes. We’ve been here before, and I’m mentally kicking myself for being too damn sensitive. “Hmm?” I look away. I don’t need him to see me cry again.

I feel stupid.

Collins stalks toward me, closing the distance in three long strides. Cupping my chin, he tilts it up so I’m looking directly at him. “You never look more delectable than when you are wearing my clothes, Princess.”

“Oh,” I say breathily.

And then he kisses me—like he already owns me.

“But I don’t want to share even that knowledge with anyone else.”

A smile forms on my lips. “Well, then stop inviting people over without giving me a heads-up.”

“Fair enough. We can put it in the contract.”

“About house guests?”

“No. About you wearing my clothes on a regular basis.”

I laugh. “You really are funnier than…” I don’t know where I’m going with this statement.

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