The bathroom was larger than Eleonora's entire safe-house apartment. Steam filled the air, carrying the scent of expensive roses.
Eleonora turned off the shower. She felt scrubbed raw. She reached for the towel rack.
Empty.
The maid had taken her wet clothes. There was nothing left. Just one large, fluffy white towel on a hook, and...
She looked at the vanity. Beatrice had sent up a "nightgown."
It was a slip of vintage silk and lace. It was translucent. It was something a bride would wear on her wedding night in 1950.
"Old bat," Eleonora muttered. "She's trying to set us up."
She wrapped the towel around herself, tucking it securely over her chest. She would find her suitcase. Arthur had said he would bring it.
She opened the bathroom door and peeked out.
The bedroom was dim.
She stepped out, her bare feet sinking into the plush Persian rug. She made a break for the door leading to the hallway.
The door handle turned.
Eleonora skid to a halt.
Kristopher walked in. He was on the phone, his tie undone, the top buttons of his shirt unfastened.
He stopped.
Eleonora stood there, clutching the towel. A droplet of water ran down her neck, over her collarbone.
Kristopher slowly lowered the phone. He didn't speak. His eyes traveled down her legs, then back up to her face.
Eleonora squeaked. She took a step back, tripped on the edge of the rug, and flailed.
Kristopher moved. It was a blur of motion. He caught her by the waist before she hit the floor.
His arm was hard, unyielding. He pulled her flush against him.
The towel slipped an inch.
Eleonora's hands slammed against his chest to steady herself. She could feel the heat radiating through his shirt. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, mixed with that cedarwood scent.
For a second, nobody breathed.
Kristopher looked down at her. His eyes were dilated. He wasn't looking at her like a nuisance anymore. He was looking at her like a man who had been starving and didn't realize it until he saw a feast.
Eleonora's heart hammered against her ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump.
She pushed him away. "Pervert!"
Kristopher stumbled back a half-step. He regained his composure instantly, masking the hunger with a sneer.
"This is my room," he said. "And you fell on me."
"Where are my clothes?" Eleonora demanded, pulling the towel tighter. "Your grandmother is insane."
"She's romantic," Kristopher corrected. He walked to his walk-in closet. He disappeared for a moment and came back holding a white dress shirt.
He tossed it to her.
"Wear this. That lace thing... it's not appropriate."
"Appropriate?" Eleonora caught the shirt.
"Just put it on," Kristopher said, turning his back. He walked to the mini-bar and poured himself a drink. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass.
He watched her reflection in the darkened window as she ran back to the bathroom.
He took a long swallow of the scotch. It burned, but not as much as the image of her bare shoulders.
The bathroom door opened.
Eleonora stepped out. She was wearing his shirt. It engulfed her, the hem hitting mid-thigh. She had rolled up the sleeves.
She looked small. Vulnerable. And incredibly sexy.
Kristopher gripped the glass until his knuckles turned white.
