House of Glass. Jen Christie

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СКАЧАТЬ walked to the vanity and looked for a jewel box, but there was none. There was, however, a string of pearls on the table. I traced my finger along the edge of those fat dollops of heaven, and felt a fine sheen of dust collect on my skin. It was sad and eerie, this place, as if time had stopped and was waiting for her. I decided to leave the trinket on the table and I turned to go, but then I hesitated, wanting to linger just another moment.

      There was a picture on the wall, and I stepped closer, analyzing it. Celeste St. Claire stared out at me with her chin raised, a defiant, almost arrogant look to her. Her hair was silver-white and styled into finger curls. Her beauty was apparent, but it was a cold beauty, self-aware. A dress hung from a hook on the wall. It was a floor-length silver silk gown. I ran my hand over the fabric, and the smooth silk caressed my skin in return. I lifted it and the dress lay languorously in my hand.

      I was, at that moment, possessed by a desire to be her—to be decadent and thoroughly intoxicating. Standing before the mirror on the dressing table, I pressed the silver gown against my body. It glowed in approval. I pulled my hair down from its bun, and a dark cloud dropped past my shoulders, heavy and thick. I shook it loose and pulled the curls forward, and foolishly tried to pose the way the lady in the statue did, hips jutted out, arm reaching.

      “Lovely,” said a voice. It was a deep male voice, jaded and mocking.

      I was startled and stumbled and a gasp gathered in my throat, but was squelched when I looked to the owner of the voice.

      The man was obscured in shadows, and a blade-width of darkness fell over his face. Only the straight line of his jaw and his full lips were visible. His body was tense and powerful.

      Then he came to me. There was a hitch in his gate that was forced. Even so, he ate up the space between us in a few steps and stood towering in front of me.

      Of course, I didn’t need to see him clearly to know that he was Lucas St. Claire. He loomed over me, hardened and angry. His eyes roamed my body and face with an awful, indifferent gaze, and then he reached out a finger and traced the line of my lips. I flailed backward, awkwardly, surprised at his boldness.

      “What are you doing here in my wife’s room?” His voice was low, almost a growl.

      “I—Mrs. Amber—”

      “Yes?” he interrupted. He pushed even closer, clearly enjoying my panic.

      “I was returning an item.” I took a breath. “Mrs. Amber told me to bring it here.”

      “I see.” He ran the back of his hand over a loose curl of my hair. “And this?” His touch slid farther down the tendril of hair, past my shoulder, only inches away from the shell he himself had once given me. “A game of pretend?” He leaned forward and whispered, his lips barely touching my ear. “Shall I play, too?”

      For a moment I was stunned. Was this the man who had once showed me such kindness? No, this man frightened me. He was different, hardened.

      The heat from his body surrounded me. Or maybe it was the heat from the house, I wasn’t sure.

      A palpable ripple, a shiver coursed through the house. I could even feel it in the wall at my back. I looked at Mr. St. Claire to gauge his reaction, to see if he noticed it.

      He didn’t. He was intent on me, his hands still in my hair, his lips just above mine.

      It was only my nervousness. My heart was beating fast making me breathless. But despite my fear, I had the overwhelming urge to do something bold and I gave in to it. I reached up and slid my hand between the buttons of his shirt, my fingertips barely grazing his skin. I pulled him toward me.

      It was the only encouragement he needed. I don’t know what shocked me more—the boldness of my actions or the feel of his lips as they collided with mine. The sheer force and shock of it stole all the breath from my body. His hands went to the small of my back, and pulled me against him.

      I became aware of another feeling, a rising recklessness within me. The awareness coursed through me and I felt emboldened, and possessed of a single-minded will that was entirely directed at Lucas St. Claire.

      My body rose to meet him and my hands roamed across the wide expanse of his shoulders. There was a deep rumble from somewhere inside him and a thrill shot through me to hear proof of his desire. He crushed against me, strong and demanding.

      I thought that I could hear the surf crashing against the rocks below, rhythmic and loud, but then I realized that it was my breathing. This other, bolder part of me had given in, worse even, had taken over, and my body was in full agreement.

      I ran my lips along his jaw and his stubble tugged at my skin. His body was rigid, muscles tense with restraint, and when I pressed against him I felt him hard as a rock.

      The distant warning in my mind that I had been ignoring got louder then. I could no longer blot it out. I needed to stop. Too much depended on my job. Here I was, kissing the man I had been forbidden to touch. Lingering in a forbidden place. I had been this close to putting on the dress. What was I doing?

      I put my hands on his chest and pushed—pushed him away with all my strength. He did not move. I ducked and moved out from beneath him.

      “I’m sorry…” I stammered. “I shouldn’t be here.”

      “No, you shouldn’t be here.” A slow smile spread across his face. “What happened? Did you get scared?” He took one step in my direction. “I could scare you in a different kind of way.”

      He was unhinged, not caring about anything, and the sharp lines of his face were marred by the jaded words that came next. “Is that what you want?”

      “No,” I said sharply. All the certainty that I felt from a few minutes before had evaporated. “No, that’s not what I want.” I only wanted to run.

      “You think I care what you want?”

      A realization dawned on me, fought up from the maelstrom of emotions and sensations that I was drowning in. He was full of hurt and anger, and something else, a recklessness. “I think you do care,” I whispered. I could think of nothing to do but escape. I backed away. “I think you care very much,” I repeated.

      “Do you?” He stepped back and leaned against the wall that I had just abandoned and crossed his arms over his chest. He chuckled, and it was a horrid sound. “Then you fool yourself.”

      I turned and bolted from the bedroom, across the glass floor, and the last thing I saw as I left the house was the gold statue of her, Celeste, the lost wife. He arm was reaching out to me and it seemed almost accusing. I slammed the door and ran up the stone stairs.

      * * *

      That very night I found out exactly why my door was locked behind me. After I had gone to bed, a group of men arrived, and I know for certain that they didn’t arrive by the gate, because I heard them climbing the stone stairs, drunk and rowdy, and I peeked from my window to see them racing across the lawn, carrying torches that flared in the wind.

      They banged upon the terrace doors and someone must have let them in, because then I could hear them inside the house. Their greetings echoed down the long halls until they reached my ears as a muted, threatening sound. It quieted after that, for a while at least, and I had almost drifted back to sleep when a roar of laughter came from somewhere deep in the belly of the house. Not СКАЧАТЬ