The Billionaire's Virgin(24)

“Yes.” The word was defiant and he wasn’t at all sure she was telling him the truth.

“I don’t think so, sweet thing. Tell you what, I’ll stay in here in case you need help, but I promise I won’t look.”

When she didn’t protest, he knew she was probably on her last legs.

He let out a breath, fighting the urge to simply sweep her up into his arms and dry her off like a child, turning around and pointedly giving her his back instead.

“Don’t look” Her voice sounded so small, so thin.

“I won’t. I told you I wouldn’t.” He folded his arms, hearing the sound of water sloshing. “There are towels on the rack. Help yourself.”

No response.

He stared at the white tiles of the built-in shower opposite him. “Oh, and don’t even think about putting those clothes back on.”

Another silence. But this time he thought he caught the sound of fabric rustling.

Really? She was really going to ignore him? Put those filthy, cold, wet things on again? No, just no.

He turned around and sure enough, Mia, wrapped in one of his big, charcoal bath towels, was bent over the pathetic pile of clothes on the floor, a scrap of white cotton in her hand.

Cursing, he moved over to her and pulled the scrap out of her grip.

“Hey!” Her head came up, her white face twisted with anger. “Leave my clothes alone!” She made a grab for the rest of them, but he simply kicked them away and stood in front of her, blocking her.

She gave him a look of pure fury. “Get the fuck away from my clothes! I need them!”

“No,” he said flatly, giving her nothing but calm authority. Because underneath the anger, he could hear something desperate. Something afraid. “You’re not wearing them and that’s final.”

She was shivering even though it wasn’t cold in the bathroom, her arms wrapped around herself, holding the towel tightly to her body. “D-Don’t tell me w-what to do. You c-can’t do that.” Her chest heaved. “I w-want my clothes. Give them to m-me!”

He wanted to touch her, soothe her. Calm her the way he’d done with the horses, stroke his hand up and down her back and murmur reassuring things to her, letting the sound of his voice relax her. But he sensed that would only make it worse right now.

“No,” he repeated. “They’re wet and they’re filthy. I have something you can put on until you can get new—”

“I don’t want new ones. I w-want those ones.”

She made as if to go around him, but he stepped in front of her again. Okay, so he couldn’t pretend he understood, but if she was particularly attached to those rags, he wouldn’t get rid of them like he’d planned. “Look, all I’m saying is that you can’t wear them now. They need to be cleaned. I’ve got some laundry for Mrs. Thomas anyway, so I’ll put them in with mine, okay?”

She glanced away, her gaze darting all over the bathroom as if looking for an escape route, her breathing still short and fast.

She’s scared, asshole, and you’re not making it any better.

He didn’t like that. He was used to giving women pleasure, not making them want to flee the room.

Irritated with himself, he stepped away from her, turning and bending to pick up the pile of dirty rags.

“N-No,” she whispered. “Please don’t.”

He ignored her. “I’m going to put them in the laundry. Go sit in the living room and I’ll bring you something to wear.”

Leaving the bathroom, he didn’t look to see if she’d followed him, making his way to the laundry and dumping the clothes on top of the washing machine he never used himself—he left all of that shit to Mrs. Thomas. As he did so, a flash of blue caught his eye. He stared, then shifted aside some stiff orange wool and grinned at the soft cashmere of the blue beanie he’d bought her the week before.

The peculiar satisfaction he’d felt the moment he’d caught a glimpse of it underneath her hideous orange hat filled him again, and he found himself reaching and picking it up. It was soft in his hand, and some strange impulse had him lifting it up and inhaling. The scent wasn’t unpleasant in any way. It was soft, musky, tinged with a faint sweet smell that could have been from a flower or something else, he wasn’t sure.

You fucking idiot? What are you doing sniffing her hat?

He didn’t know. Maybe he was crazy. He certainly felt crazy the past two weeks, obsessed with a woman he’d seen in a homeless shelter, who, for some completely inexplicable reason, had grabbed hold of some part of him.

And not the usual part. Though, if he was honest with himself, he’d certainly felt that part when she’d been lying naked in the bath . . .