Page 29 of Girl Anonymous

“Okay.” She hadn’t been afraid of him before, but this made her wonder what trigger had been tripped. “But we don’t have to—”

“Live together? Yes, we do.” He shook her a little. “You understand?”

She got a panicky, trapped feeling. “Calm down. We’re not talking about a child, we’re talking about a supposition.”

“You’ll call me if you’re pregnant.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She looked around. “My phone—”

“Is being replaced.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t thought, but somewhere along the line, when the emergency room personnel had removed and discarded her clothes, her phone had vanished. “Was it…?”

“Broken. I’m surprised you’re not more broken.” He leaned back, but he watched her as if he was ready to pounce—again—and recited the phone number.

She recited it back to him. Several times. Until he pronounced himself satisfied, tucked her in, and rose to start his day. “Sleep as long as you can. My mother says it’s the best way to heal.”

His mother didn’t say anything anymore. She was dead.

But Maarja felt no urge to remind him. She didn’t even want to remember that herself.

CHAPTER 12

When Maarja opened her eyes again, it was eight thirty in the morning and the Bay Area fog was lightening outside the window. She rolled over, the aches and pains inflicted by the previous day made themselves known, and she groaned as she stood and hobbled toward the bathroom. She must have banged her knee, because it felt swollen and stiff. Her neck ached as if she had whiplash. She was pretty sure the bruise on her hip went all the way to the bone, and she must have landed with her arm skewed because her shoulder ached as if it had been twisted.

She was also hungry.

How could the grief and disbelief about Mrs. Arundel linger in the background, yet be supplanted by the real physical parts of life? Body functions, bruises, hunger, thirst? It seemed impossible, but all very real.

Boy shorts and a lace cami bra rested in a basket on the count­er, and a long loose, light dress of deep amethyst hung on the robe hook with her name safety-pinned to the hanger. She had to sit down to pull the underwear up her legs, and her shoulder ached as she raised her arms to struggle into the bra. The dress draped well, and she supposed the wraparound styling was easier than a pull-over-her-head type, but she had to work to get her arms in the sleeves and shrug into it.

Movement sucked.

On the other hand, this dress lookedfabulous darling, so fabulous she wanted to take it off and check the label. But she couldn’t face going through the twisting motion again, so she would assume she probably wouldn’t recognize the maker, anyway. She didn’t shop at Saks Fifth Avenue, or even Off 5th. Good peasant stock, that was her.

The hospital had suggested an over-the-counter pain reliever, and she intended to find some.

Because…the morning after losing her virginity was no stroll through the park, either. She was sore, and between that, glancing at the shower where the plastic jar of massage oil hung on the wall, and remembering Dante’s earlier alarming conversation, she couldn’t move without being very aware that her advanced age hadn’t helped her easily slip through the ritual deflowering. First-time sex was everything the novels had promised: painful, shocking, invasive, mind-blowing, pleasure-driven, and if there was a baby, life-changing.

She clamped down on that last thought.

She’d barely be concerned if Dante hadn’t been so insistently throwing around terms likeunbreakable unionand suggesting they had somehow been manipulated by fate to be the ones who would end a centuries-long and bloody feud through, you know, primitive fucking and massive reproducing.

Although it would be nice to never again be afraid for her life…

As she exited the bathroom, a tall broad-hipped woman bustled in holding a tray. “We were listening for you to wake. Mr. Arundel wanted you to have a hearty breakfast before you took your pills, then he’s got his personal stylist waiting in his office for you to fix up your poor hair.” The woman surveyed Maarja’s head and tsked sadly. “Such a pretty color to have singed so badly. But there’s always some sacrifice when you’re a hero, and I know dear Raine would—” The woman’s voice trembledand caught, then she forged on. “I’m Fedelma Arundel Lambert, Mr. Benoit Arundel’s cousin. When my husband was killed, I took over the household management for the Arundels. You’re Maarja Daire and you’re with—”

Maarja tensed.

“—Saint Rees Fine Arts Movers.”

“Right! Right.” Maarja had thought Fedelma was going to say,You’re with Dante. She wasn’t. When she could, she’d be out of here and she would never look back, and never mind the internal voice that said,Like he’s going to put up with any disappearing act I could perform unless he damned well wanted to.

“Sit here, Miss Daire.” Fedelma put the tray on the desk and pulled the metal dome off the plate. “Since Chef didn’t know what you liked, he prepared a variety of foods. Irish oatmeal, bacon, a soft-boiled egg, a bowl of fresh fruit, a bread basket with toast, rolls, and croissants.”

“Wow.” Maarja could get used to this.

Someone knocked on the door. Fedelma opened it and accepted a second tray laden with two insulated jugs, and small pitchers of orange juice, grapefruit juice, and tomato juice. She returned to the desk and at Maarja’s indication poured a cup of hot tea and a glass of grapefruit juice. “There’s butter, jam, and honey, and Chef is standing by if you have any special requests.”

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