Page 43 of On Thin Ice

What would I find in here? Would I discover who Sinclair’s real father was? Would I find out why his mother had killed herself—if, indeed, she had?

More importantly…should I read this journal here or elsewhere?

I knew I was pushing my luck up here. And having spent at least half an hour exploring this room, I had no doubt it hadn’t been opened in years—meaning no one would miss this journal. I started to close the windows, realizing I hadn’t looked through the bathroom yet. So I searched as thoroughly as I could while a clock ticked in the back of my mind. When I was certain I’d already found the most important item in these rooms, I shut and locked the two windows I’d opened, pulling the drapes back into place. It was still quite sunny and bright outside—and hot—but it wasn’t until I closed the windows that I realized I’d been sweating. Even with the windows open, the air had been oppressive and it had only been because I’d been eager to find some history here that I’d been able to ignore my discomfort. Now, though, as I sealed this room in its former state, I almost felt as if I couldn’t breathe. I felt silly when I closed the curtains, feeling as if I were burying a family pet that had died all too soon.

Chiding myself, I crossed to the door and closed it. After locking it, I debated if I wanted to look in the other room I hadn’t yet seen, deciding against it. Something inside told me I needed to get moving.

Walking down the dark hall toward the light streaming into the antechamber and main hallway, I listened for any sounds that might tell me what had been happening out here since I’d disappeared into the forbidden section of the east wing. But there was nothing other than the usual sounds of silence. When I strained, I could hear air moving from somewhere above.

No people sounds, however.

So I looked around, both up and down, and made my way toward the stairs. Before stepping on them, I tucked the journal in the front of my jeans and draped my shirt over, just in case I ran into someone as I headed back downstairs. Fortunately, the key was already hidden from sight inside my right pants pocket.

Soon I was at the bottom of the stairs, and I began walking down the main hallway toward the kitchen. Almost free.

It was only then that I heard a man’s throat clearing…behind me.

I’d been caught again.

Chapter 16

When I turned around, there was Sinclair. He sat on one of the chairs from the antechamber, ones I’d thought were simply there for decoration. Even if so, he was sitting in one and the look on his face reminded me of my father’s, how, when I was much younger, he would take me on a fishing trip and sit patiently, waiting for the pole to bob, announcing that some unsuspecting creature had taken the bait, and he was being rewarded for waiting.

Sinclair was again the hunter.

How long had he been here? And how had he known I’d been in the east wing?

Worse yet, he looked handsomer than ever. He wore a tuxedo and his hair was slicked back. His everyday suits made him look irresistible and gorgeous, but this look moved him up a notch in my eyes.

But he wasn’t observing me with adoring eyes as he had this morning or during all the intimate moments we’d enjoyed all week. Instead, his eyes were branded with anger, like the blue on the bottom of a flame, ready to burn me up.

“Going somewhere?”

I swallowed but my mouth was dry, as if I’d been vacuuming up the dust bunnies underneath that king-sized bed with my tongue. It wasn’t that, though—it was that old fear I’d felt for Sinclair when I’d first arrived here. I knew his temper was scary…and, even though I’d thought maybe the way our relationship had progressed would make this a more forgivable offense, I knew under the spotlight of his gaze that I’d been sadly mistaken.

In fact, I was beginning to think he was angrier because he’d been growing to trust me—because, underneath the rage simmering in his expression was another emotion…and I was certain it was something akin to disappointment.

“Um…yes. I’m going back to work,” I said, not knowing if he knew or simply suspected what I’d been up to.

When he stood, he seemed taller somehow, as if he’d grown several inches since I’d last seen him…but that was only because his presence was intimidating. With precision, he picked up the chair and carefully moved it back to its place against the wall between two decorative tables—and then he turned back at me. I readied myself to take the full brunt of his anger.

But his voice was low, like a wolf’s growl. “Where you should have been already. Would you like to tell me what you were doing?”

It rushed out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Just looking around.”

“Would you like to try that again?”

Again, I tried swallowing, but he took two steps closer and I could feel his wrath simmering just below the surface. I could keep trying to tiptoe around, but I was certain he already knew exactly where I’d been and had been sitting there, just waiting for me to reappear. I could lie—but the truth felt easier. “I was in the east hallway.”

His voice exploded. “You were breaching our contract!”

I hadn’t expected that—but I remembered the last time this had happened. He’d reviewed that stupid handful of papers to tell me exactly which terms I’d broken, at least three of the dozens of clauses I’d agreed to with my signature. This time, though, I’d broken one or two more, both of which I suspected constituted even bigger infractions.

I had the key and the journal on me, and both of those violated different clauses.

But, more than that, I’d broken his trust.

The only way out of this would be contrition. Rebelliousness, defiance…those had simply landed me in more hot water before. But if I were repentant, soft-spoken, reminding him of our nights together, maybe he would find it in his heart to forgive me.

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