Page 5 of Fake Maid

I tear my hand away. “How the hell would you know?”

He levels me a look.

“These are not a baker’s muscles.” He squeezes my bare upper arm. “These are not a homebody’s tan lines.” He tugs my collar an inch to the side. The pale stripe of my bikini tie glows against my collarbone. I blink at him, lips parted, as he runs his analytical eye over my body. He catalogues everything: my toned muscles, the sun-kissed tint to my skin, the old mountain biking scar on my elbow.

He lays me bare with a single glance.

I shove away from him, stumbling back, and for a split second I think I see regret in his eyes. Then his face shutters, and he crosses his arms over his broad chest. Those shoulders—they’re definitely the kind of shoulders that can scale cliffs.

“I don’t tolerate liars on my staff, Coral.”

“Miss Walsh,” I hiss. His eyes darken.

“If you don’t—”

“Don’t what?” I give a harsh laugh. “Tell you about my private life? Reread your employment contracts, Mr. Koven. You have no right to these questions.”

Forget the stupid pool. I wheel around and stalk away, back rigid and arms stiff at my sides.

I’ll find it my own damn self.

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