Page 44 of On Thin Ice

“I did. I’m sorry.”

Clearly, he hadn’t expected that, because whatever words were on his tongue melted like cotton candy. But it didn’t take long for him to regain his footing. “The key.” He held out his hand so I could give it to him.

Carefully, I fished in my pocket with a sweaty palm, hoping I’d tucked the journal deep enough in my jeans to keep the outline from showing through my shirt. If he knew about that, I had no idea what the consequences would be.

When I handed him the master key from the kitchen, he asked, “Where did you get this?” At least now his voice was calmer.

“The kitchen pantry.”

He shook his head, wrapping his fingers around the key to form a fist. “You are proving to me that you can’t be trusted.”

Was that true? “I was just curious—”

“Yes, that’s always been the problem. Haven’t you ever heard that curiosity kills cats?”

“I’m not a cat.”

One of his eyebrows arched—and, even though it scared me, it also made me want him to take me in his arms and make love to me like he never had. “Lucky for me or you might not have been caught.” What did he mean by that? “Well, kitten, you must be punished for breaking the rules.”

I felt a little hurt—because hadn’t we moved past that? But I realized he was probably thinking the same thing…that he thought I’d moved past the need to snoop. I envisioned myself scrubbing the bathrooms again or helping Henry pull weeds in the flower beds. Because I’d breached not only the contract but his trust, I would willingly face whatever punishment he had for me.

And then, at some point, I’d have to find the courage to tell him about the journals. But now was not the time.

“Okay. What will it be?”

For the first time since I’d snuck down the stairs, he smiled. “I haven’t decided yet. It’s evident to me that the previous punishments didn’t make an impression on you…so I need to come up with something that will.”

That sounded ominous—but I wasn’t about to say it.

I was warring with myself, trying to determine if he actually would do something now that we’d become intimate.

But this was Sinclair Whittier we were talking about. What would our intimacy have to do with it?

Before I could say anything, he added, “You’re on your own for dinner tonight. I suggest you eat and then spend the rest of the evening in your room.”

“I need to finish up downstairs.”

“Fine. But I want you to think long and hard about this. I might even have you tell me what an appropriate punishment would be.”

The sound of footsteps caused me to look up to see Greg descending the stairs from the third floor—a first. I didn’t see Greg very often, but I understood that if Sinclair would have a late night, so would Greg—unless, of course, the event was here at the mansion like the dinner when I was last punished. But I would have known about something happening here.

I didn’t know if I should say anything else, so I decided to simply turn so I could head downstairs. Every second I was out here, I was exposed—giving him a better chance of spotting the journal…and then my snooping would have been for nothing.

As I began walking away, Sinclair said, “I suggest you stay away from the entire east wing tonight. I’ll know if you’ve been back here, so be smart.”

I couldn’t help glancing back. Was he serious? Had he installed cameras after my last infraction? If so, that would explain how I’d been so easily caught. I felt so stupid. I hadn’t even looked for anything like that. And in a mansion this ornately decorated, I suspected it might be easy enough to hide monitoring devices.

So I gave him a quick nod and walked calmly to the door that hid the stairs to the dungeon—but I didn’t breathe again until it closed behind me.

Despite Sinclair’s admonition, I planned to push my luck a bit.

After I straightened up downstairs so that I would have a clean slate on Monday, I headed to the kitchen to see what Edna had left in the fridge. In case there were cameras everywhere that I was unaware of, I acted like nothing looked good and went to the pantry to look over what was there. But I really wanted to see if Sinclair had returned the key to its proper place.

Of course, he hadn’t.

Still assuming I was being monitored, I acted disappointed that there was nothing in there to catch my eye either. So I came back to the fridge and pulled out one of the containers again—but I really wasn’t hungry. I was far too upset that Sinclair was angry with me, a sure sign that I’d fallen hard for the man.

Finally, I grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl on the table and took it with me.

---