Page 38 of Cross My Heart

I exhale in relief, glad not to be derailing the fun, but when I turn to glance at Saint, he’s watching me with a new intensity in his eyes. “I’m so sorry about your sister,” he says in a low voice. “I had no idea.”

I give a vague shrug. “How could you? It’s fine,” I reassure him, taking a gulp of my wine.

“But still… If you ever want to talk…”

Saint’s sincerity is making me feel off-balance. I’m used to charged banter and sizzling quips, not this new tenderness on his face. Something in my chest twists.

Something dangerous and raw.

I bolt to my feet. “Bathroom?” I ask brightly.

“Upstairs. First door on the right.”

“Great!”

I slip out of the dining room, and down the hall. Upstairs, I find the small powder room right where Saint said, but I keep moving. I figure that I have a little time, with everyone distracted over dinner.

I want to take a look around.

There’s a neat guest room down the hall, and then I find Saint’s primary suite, taking up the back section of the floor. It’s clean and uncluttered, with polished wood floors, a thick antique rug, and a king-sized bed made with crisp navy and white linens.

I pause, unable to block the image of the two of us, tangled up in those luxurious sheets. My hands pinned to the plush pillows; Saint’s body arched and straining above me, driving me deep into the mattress with every commanding thrust…

My cheeks burn hotter, and I quickly slip out of the room. The last door on this level leads to a cozy library, lined with photographs, the bookcases full of leather volumes and curios. There’s a club chair by the fireplace, and papers stacked on the desk. Clearly, this room isn’t just for show. I check a couple of titles, and realize, they’re first editions: Swift, Balzac, Mantel… even a yellowed Jane Austen novel, just sitting on the shelf like it’s nothing to pull down and read.

He really does live in a different world.

I keep browsing, idly looking in the desk drawers in case there’s anything interesting hidden, but it’s just paperwork and reading materials, so I move to study the artwork that’s framed on the wall, curious to learn more about my enigmatic host.

It’s an eclectic mix of contradictions, just like Saint himself: shockingly erotic sketches and vintage prints, side by side with photos of Saint with family and friends. I pause over a picture of him taken maybe ten years ago, fresh-faced with Max and Hugh in their formal Oxford robes, along with some other boys I don’t recognize. Beside it, in pride of place over the desk, is a photo of younger Saint arm-in-arm with a blonde man, grinning widely for the camera, his silver Aston Martin in the background.

There’s something about the other man’s face that looks familiar, and I look closer, wondering if he’s a relative—

The sound of footsteps comes from the staircase, and I freeze.

Shit! Somebody’s coming.

Chapter12

Tessa

Ihave no time to come up with an excuse for my snooping as the footsteps approach.You’re just a dinner guest, I remind myself. Nobody knows I’m here chasing answers, but my heart is still pounding as I grab the nearest book from the shelf and pretend to be reading. The door swings open, and Saint steps into the room.

“There you are,” he says, looking around the room, as if he’s wondering what I’ve found.

I give a breezy smile. “Sorry, I got distracted by your collection. Is this really a first edition?”

He strolls over and takes the book from me. “It is. You like Austen?”

“Sometimes,” I give a little shrug. Saint is still looking at me a little warily, so I turn flirty. “Her books are kind of sedate though, all that restrained passion and control.”

“And you prefer your passion unrestrained?” Sure enough, Saint sets the book down and gives me a smoldering look, my trespassing forgotten.

“Maybe…” My voice turns breathy—and it’s not part of an act. Saint is close enough to touch me now, just inches away, his gaze dark and glittering on mine. Again, I feel his presence like a forcefield, and I can’t help swaying closer, wanting him.

Wanting everything.

“God, I’ve been dreaming about doing this,” Saint says, his voice low. “Touching you…” He reaches out and slowly pushes a lock of hair back from my eyes, not breaking the stare. His fingertip traces my cheek, and I shiver, feeling it everywhere.

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