Page 66 of On Thin Ice

When we arrived back at the mansion, Greg walked down the main hall toward the east steps while Sinclair and I took the ones on the west. He’d kept up the illusion that I was simply filling in as a date even as we entered the hall—because if Greg had really been curious, he might have discovered our secret. If I’d gone straight to Sinclair’s room, for instance, it might have been obvious.

Sinclair didn’t seem to care and he appeared to assume that I was going to follow him to his room. It took him a few seconds to realize I’d stopped at my door. “Probably a good idea,” he said, taking two steps back to join me. “I can help you hang up your dress and take off the necklace.”

“Actually…I’m feeling tired.”

His cool blue eyes softened as he ran the back of his fingers along my cheek. “It has been a long night—and I’m sure it was far harder on you.”

Although my insides were roiling with conflict, I really was grateful to Sinclair. Our heightened relationship wasn’t dictated by contract; it had been purely consensual—but, at this point, he might have demanded that I bend to his will. That he didn’t sparked in me again those feelings that had been escalating for the man since the moment I’d met him. “Thank you.”

So, after we entered my bedroom, I let him remove the necklace, replaced by his warm lips on my delicate skin. And I allowed him to help me out of the gown, revealing that I was only wearing a pair of white panties.

Under the heat of his gaze, I wanted him again, pushing back the thoughts that I had deserved my lot in life. After all, my brain said, why would you sell out so quickly?

But as my fingers unbuttoned Sinclair’s crisp white shirt, I forced out all the negative thoughts. I cared about him too—and it was nothing I could help.

By the time Sinclair was moving inside me, I had given myself over to pure passion and unmitigated desire. If I could have stayed in that altered state, I might have been able to sleep that night.

Sinclair held me close in his arms as his breathing slowed so much, I could hardly hear it. It was strange having him next to me in my bed—my one sanctuary in this place—but I found his arms comforting, nonetheless.

After a time, I thought he’d fallen asleep—until he spoke. “Would you like to see Swan Lake again?”

“You mean, like, in the next week or so?”

“No. Next time it’s in Denver again.”

“Oh.” This was yet another reminder that I would be here for a long time. “Yes.”

“You’ll just have to be prepared for a tragic ending. In the original, they die together but they’ve broken the curse. You mentioned you didn’t like Romeo and Juliet because of the ending—so I fear you might not enjoy any of the tragic endings. Most of them are quite reminiscent of Romeo and Juliet.”

“Then maybe not.”

Behind me, I felt him sit up. “Why not? You’re older now. You might appreciate it.”

Rolling over, I looked in his eyes—those captivating sky-blue eyes that had, over the past few months, managed to help me see other possibilities, even while I doubted all of them tonight. “I don’t think I would. I’ve never understood why people like tragedies.” My life had been enough of a tragedy—I escaped into books and movies for happy endings, not sadness…even if a sad story might have made my life seem less depressing.

“I can’t speak for everyone, but I appreciate them because they make me feel something.”

I had no retort for that, but he’d managed to make me feel more for him—because if he had to watch a ballet to experience emotion, to feel something that was more than his day-to-day…

And then my mind began putting pieces together. Earlier, Sinclair had been careful to not mention the fact that he’d probably brought other “dates” along to his family’s functions, but I knew it had to be true. And had those previous relationships been cold and unsatisfying, just like his childhood might have been?

I had to know.

“I wanted to ask you about something.”

Apparently, basking in the glow of good sex and having his current date enjoy what he did made him receptive. His eyes were mere slits when he answered. “Anything.”

“Who is NS?”

“What?”

“NS. The woman who called herself Mrs. Sinclair Whittier.”

Curious, he propped his head in his hand, his elbow denting the pillow underneath. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“The laptop I use to record everything downstairs—that was the screensaver, the text Mrs. Sinclair Whittier moving and bouncing around. And then, on the underside, initials: NS + WS.”

Sinclair smiled, his brows softening. “I think I might know who that is.”

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