“Thank you,” I splutter through my wheezing breaths, forcing my lids to keep open.
“Never thank me, Olivia Taylor.”
My breathing is heavy and labored, my body absorbing the aftereffects of my satisfying explosion. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”
He smiles. It’s only a mild smile, but any glimpse of the beautiful sight is welcome. It’s also needed more and more with each passing day. Drawing breath, he slides his fingers out of me and traces over my skin until he’s at my cheek. I know what he’s going to say. “You can’t hurt me physically, Olivia.”
Nodding my acceptance, I allow him to help me out of the bath and wrap me in a towel. He takes another from the nearby shelf and starts working it through my hair, ridding it of the excess water.
“Let’s dry these unmanageable waves.” He takes up position on my nape and leads me to the bed, gesturing me to sit on the end, which I do without complaint, knowing I’m about to have Miller’s hands working through my hair while he dries it. The hairdryer is collected from the drawer and he plugs it into a socket, then settles behind me in no time, a leg on either side of me, completely cocooning me with his body. The rush of noise won’t allow for conversation, which I’m quite content with. I just relax, close my eyes, and relish in the feel of him massaging my scalp as he blasts my hair with the dryer. I also smile when I imagine the look of fulfillment on his face.
All too soon, the noise dies and Miller is moving in, sinking his face into my fresh hair and locking his arms tightly around my waist. “You were harsh, Olivia,” he says quietly, almost cautiously. I hate his need to voice this, even if he’s entitled to, but I love his need to do it gently.
“I’ve apologized.”
“You haven’t apologized to William.”
I solidify in his hold. “Since when did you become a William Anderson fan?”
I’m nudged in the thigh with his leg. It’s a silent warning to rein in my sass. “He’s trying to help us. I need information, and I can’t get it while I’m here in New York.”
“What information?”
“It’s not your concern.”
My jaw tenses, my eyes closing to gather my patience. “You are my concern,” I say simply, breaking out of Miller’s hold and ignoring his audible exhale of weary breath. He’s trying to keep his patience, too. I don’t care. I grab my hairbrush from the bedside table and leave Miller falling to his back on a quiet curse. My face screws up in annoyance as I stomp into the lounge area, all but throwing myself down on the couch. Taking the brush to my hair, I begin to yank it through the tangles, as if in a silly fit of revenge I’m deliberately trying to harm one of Miller’s favorite things.
I slip back into despondency, continuously tugging the brush through my waves and getting a sick satisfaction from the discomfort it causes. The sharp stabs of pain are hogging my attention, therefore preventing me from thinking. I even manage to ignore the mild buzz under my skin, working its way deeper with each second that passes. He’s close by, but I don’t seek him out, instead dead set on ripping my hair from my head.
“Hey!” He halts my hand in its destructive tactics and holds it steady before prying the brush from my clawed fingers. “You know I have an appreciation for my possessions,” he rumbles, swinging his legs behind me and pulling my hair over my shoulders. His words, however arrogant they may be, go some way in bringing me around. “This is part of my possession. Don’t abuse it.” The soft bristles of the brush meet my scalp and slowly drag through to the ends of my tresses as we’re joined by the Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows.”
Miller’s temper refuses to make an appearance, his introduction of such a merry and hard-hitting track emphasizing that, leaving my grumpy arse to be grumpy alone. An unreasonable part of me was hoping to spike a bit of that temper so I’d have something to bounce off. “Why did you hang up on William?”
“Because it got out of hand, Olivia. You’re giving me a run for my money in the crazy department. I’m sending you over the edge.” There’s despair in his tone. Guilt. Reluctantly, I nod, silently accepting that he’s right. It did get out of hand. And he really is sending me over the edge. “You mentioned Charlie. Who is he?”
He takes a deep breath before he begins. I hold mine.
“An immoral bastard.”
That’s it. That’s all he says, and my next question, despite knowing the answer, tumbles past my lips as the stored air releases. “You’re answerable to him?”