Page 47 of The Billionaire's Accidental Legacy

“It makessense. My father is nothing more than a con artist willing to shed blood. He fancies himself some kind of a mastermind. But it isn’t anything quite so exciting. He’s a petty con man who started killing people. That’s it.”

“Why does he want control of you?”

“We are strangers. You don’t need to know that.”

And with that she turned and walked away, leaving him standing there in the entryway of this house that haunted him in so many ways.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JESSIEHADTHEdoor locked firmly, as she sat in her tepid bath, angry that it couldn’t be hot for the safety of the baby, and angry at her sister, and Ewan.

The firm knock on the door jolted her.

“I’m sorry,” said Maren.

“No, you aren’t.”

“I’m sorry that you’re mad at me. I’m not sorry about what I did.”

She craned her neck to hold her chin above the water. “Then your apology means nothing.”

She felt bruised. What he’d said about this place, about his father. Mostly because it made what he’d done somewhat understandable and she didn’t especially like that.

She didn’t want to humanize him. He was right. They didn’t know each other. And she felt strongly that perhaps they shouldn’t.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Well, Maren,” said Jessie. “What you could’ve done is at least talk to me. At least...”

She sighed heavily and got out of the bath, wrapping herself in a towel.

She stepped over to the mirror and looked at herself. She looked exhausted.

She had been sad and miserable ever since Ewan had left here four days ago, and all of this was only making it worse.

She went over and unlocked the bathroom door, then turned back to the mirror again. There was a firm knock again.

“Well, come in,” she said.

Except when the door opened, it was Ewan.

She gasped and took two steps away from him.

“You said to come in.”

“I didn’t know it was you. I’m naked and soaking wet.”

He lifted a brow. “You’ve been naked and soaking wet beneath me on multiple occasions.”

Heat consumed her and that just made her angry. “You know what I mean. That was beneath you.”

“You have been...”

“Stop.”

“You are the one who needs to stop.”

His tone was grave, his eyes on her body far too keen. And she felt as if he could see straight through the towel. He might as well be able to. He had seen her, after all. She had no shame with him, no self-control. If she could take back any one thing—other than giving herself to him that first night—it would be the way that she had surrendered to him when he had come just days ago. When he had left her.

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