Page 81 of Untouchable
When Kelly was right there betraying him.
He was washed with wave after wave of cold anger and pain, and he sat stewing in it for the rest of the drive home.
He was in a bad state when the car pulled through the gates and then up in front of his house. Something big and intense and broken kept swelling up inside him—something that felt like a dangerous, trapped, wounded animal—and he had to clench his fists to keep his hands from shaking as he climbed out of the back seat.
Nothing really had changed. He was still Caleb Marshall, a man who had always ensured he remained perfectly in control of his world.
He did what he wanted. Took what he wanted. Didn’t let anyone stand in his way.
He never let himself do anything, want anything, be anything that would cause him to be helpless again.
One woman wouldn’t have changed him. Wouldn’t have cracked the hard contours of his life.
He wouldn’t let that happen.
When he entered the house, Breah started to greet him pleasantly, but she shrank back when she got a look at his face.
“Where’s Kelly?” he asked in a low voice, trying to level out his tone.
“She’s upstairs, showering and changing clothes, I think.” Breah’s face twisted. “Is everything okay, sir?”
Caleb didn’t answer, although he’d always made a point of treating Breah with courtesy. Hecouldn’tanswer. He just strode down the hall and into the west wing of the house where Kelly’s guest suite was located.
He had no idea what he was going to say when he saw her.
When he got to her door, he stood outside for a few seconds, taking a couple of breaths and trying to get himself under control. If he lost his restraint, then Kelly would have the advantage, and he couldn’t give her that.
He swung the door open without knocking. This was his house. He could enter any room he wanted without waiting for an invitation.
Kelly had been buckling one of her high-heeled sandals. She was dressed prettily in a long skirt and sleeveless top that clung to her curves. Her long hair was loose, falling in lustrous waves over her arms and shoulders.
She must have dressed up for him.
She looked gorgeous. Like a pale, delicate blossom in the morning dew. Lush. Sensual. Innocent.
Innocent.
But she wasn’t. She’d never been.
She gave a little squeal of surprise at his sudden entrance, but her face changed almost immediately, smiling as she said, “Where are your manners, barging in like that? What if I was naked in here?”
Her eyes took on a familiar heated gleam as she spoke the last question in a lilting voice. He suddenly knew what she expected him to do.
Respond to the invitation. Get hot because she was hot. She’d done it the whole time. Pressed his buttons perfectly. Say one thing—and he would act this way. Say something else—and he’d do that instead.
Like Pavlov’s fucking dog.
And he was letting her. Letting her play him like a puppet.
No more.
“How was your meeting with your client?” he asked, pleased his tone was calm and natural.
Her brows drew together, sensing something was off, but she replied easily enough. “It was good. She wants me to paint the dog lounging on this velvet dog bed. You should see the fancy fringe on that thing.” She gave him another smile, this one sweet and amused.
She was expecting his mood to shift based on her expression and tone. She wanted him to laugh, come over to her, put his arm around her, lean down into a soft kiss. Yesterday he would have done just that.
She was waiting even now for him to do it, and her smile broke in obvious confusion when he didn’t.
