promised me that no bathroom was complete without all sorts of smelly soaps and doodads. Help yourself.”
Gracie took the shirt and held it, white-knuckled. “Will you be in your bedroom?”
God help him. He knew she meant nothing by her artless question, but it shook him. “Yeah. As soon as I lock up and turn out the lights.” He paused, feeling uncustomarily conflicted, since he rarely second-guessed himself. “Remember… I’m just around the corner. Maybe if you leave a light on, things won’t seem so strange.”
She nodded her head slowly. “Okay.”
Something about her posture was heartbreaking. She was doing nothing to deliberately manipulate his sympathies, but the bravery in her narrow shoulders set so straight and the uplifted tilt of her chin touched him in a way he hadn’t thought possible.
He hardened his heart. “Good night, Gracie.”
She heard the door shut quietly behind him and felt tears burn her eyes. It took great effort, but she held them at bay by virtue of biting down on her bottom lip and swallowing hard. She refused to let Gareth see her exhibit weakness. He was a hard, suspicious man, despite his physical appeal.
Even so, she wanted him. And the wanting scared her. She felt like the heroine of a dark, Gothic novel, left all alone with the brooding lord of a sprawling, mysterious house.
A glance at the clock sent her stumbling into the bathroom. No wonder she was so wiped out. It was late. Everything would look better in the morning. Darkness invariably bred bogeymen and unseen monsters. Her lack of memory fueled the fires of apprehension.
Gareth had told the truth about the facilities and accoutrements. The floor was inlaid with cream-colored marble veined in gold. An enormous mirror ran the entire length of one wall, showing Gracie reflection after reflection of a strange woman with unkempt hair and no makeup.
Jacob had covered her stitches with a waterproof bandage. Doggedly she stripped off her clothing and climbed into the enormous polished granite enclosure that boasted three showerheads and a steam valve. The hot water pelted her back and rained over her arms and legs. She bowed her head, braced her hands against the wall and cried.
When the tears finally ran out, she picked up a fluffy sponge and squirted it with herbal soap from a fancy bottle inscribed in French. The aroma was heavenly.
Twenty minutes later she forced herself to get out and dry off. Gareth’s T-shirt hung to her knees, half exposing one of her shoulders. The woman in the mirror appeared waifish and very much alone.
She took a few minutes to wash out her undies and hang them on a brass towel rod to dry before returning to the bedroom. In her absence, Gareth had left several items on the bedside table. A pair of thick woolen socks, a tumbler of water with two pain pills and a copy of Newsweek. She wasn’t sure if the latter was for entertainment or edification.
She put on the socks, and for the first time all day, felt a glimmer of humor at how ridiculous she looked. Even with no memory, she knew that a man like Gareth had his pick of women. He might be surly and prickly, but he exuded a potent masculinity that any female from eighteen to eighty would have to be blind not to notice.
Though her accommodations were worthy of the finest resort, sleep didn’t come easily. She tossed and turned, even when the medication dulled the ache in her leg and her head. Every time she closed her eyes, she remembered waking up in Gareth’s bed and seeing two strange men staring down at her with varying degrees of suspicion.
Why had she come to Wolff Mountain? What did she hope to accomplish? Was her father involved in something dishonest? The questions tumbled in her brain faster and faster, erasing any hope of slumber.
Finally, when the crystal clock on the bedside table read two-thirty, Gracie climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the door. It wouldn’t hurt to explore the house. She’d seen very little of it so far. Maybe there was something out there that would jog her memory.
And besides, she was hungry. With her heart beating like a runaway train, she eased open the door to the hall.
Gareth knew the moment she left her room. He’d always been a light sleeper, at least as an adult, and even the faint whisper of Gracie’s soft footsteps was enough to wake him. His frequent insomnia was the penance he paid for defying his father’s wishes and enlisting in the military. A five-year stint in the army had taught Gareth that deep sleep could be fatal. It served him right for giving his father such grief.
Gareth crept down the hallway, following the muffled trail of sounds. He found his houseguest in the kitchen. At first, her mission was prosaic. She poured a glass of milk and consumed it with a chunk of cheddar cheese and a slice of bread.
When she was finished, she carefully washed her glass and saucer and placed them back in the cabinet. Gareth grinned. Did she think she was erasing any record of her nocturnal wanderings?
His amusement faded when she approached the laptop on the built-in desk. All important files were password protected, but a knowledgeable hacker could cause mischief even still. Gracie sat in the swivel chair, tucked her feet on the rungs and began to hit keys with a sure touch.
He worked his way around the adjoining room until he was able to approach her from behind. Her head was bent. She was focused intently on the computer screen.
Gareth’s temper surged. He stepped into the room, girded for battle. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
Her gasp was audible. She whirled to face him, guilt etched on her face. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you decided to poke your nose into my business… is that it?” He glanced down at the laptop and his jaw dropped. Hell. He hated being wrong.
She shrugged, her expression wry. “Apparently I remember how to play Solitaire.”
“So I see.”
She cocked her head and frowned. “Why would I be poking into your business? Do you think that’s the kind of woman I am?”
He refused to apologize for well-founded suspicion. “I don’t know what kind of woman you are. Therein lies the problem.”
She shut down the game and stood up. “I’ll go back to my room,” she said, every syllable drenched in offended dignity.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” he muttered. “Do whatever you want.” She wore his T-shirt like a centerfold model striking a pose, but he was a hundred percent certain her seductive invitation was unintentional.
As he turned to leave, running from temptation if the truth were told, she stopped him with a beseeching look. “Please tell me about your family… this place. Maybe something you say will trigger a memory.”
“That’s a convenient excuse.” He still wasn’t convinced that Gracie wasn’t a reporter looking for a story. His family had suffered terribly at the hands of the press, the Wolff tragedy and grief offered up for public consumption without remorse. Never again.
Dark smudges beneath her eyes emphasized her pallor. “Please,” she said quietly. “Anything. Tell me anything. I’ve combed my cell phone and I did a Google search on myself and my father. But I didn’t find out much except that we own a gallery.”
In spite of himself,
