Call Lizzie old fashioned, but she preferred bare wood and a barre. Still, at least there was a mirror.
"Thanks, Lizzie. I'll see you later!" Audrey glided off in her practice skirt and leotard, happy to roam the halls barely dressed. A year ago, Lizzie would have done the same. But once she'd left Paris, modesty had crept up on her like a hyena in tall grass. A lifetime of being forced to strip in the wings had been erased within months. Shaking her head, Lizzie threw on her hoodie before packing up her little portable speakers.
At least she’d gotten to practice with Audrey. Teaching the girls together was fun, but teaching Audrey alone was especially satisfying. Demonstration yielded swift improvement, as well as allowing Lizzie to work on her own technique. And God, there was nothing better than dancing in tandem with another brilliant body, sharing every assemblé and pirouette.
Heading to her room, Lizzie planned the rest of her day—which was gloriously free. She couldn’t ski, of course, and she’d told Audrey the same. They’d both be fools to risk their ankles. But the hotel had many facilities hiding within its elegant rooms, and she’d have plenty of time to explore them.
For now, though, Lizzie had a simpler pleasure in mind. Finding her room, she slid her keycard into its slot and entered the luxurious little space.
She was on a lower floor than everyone else, and which meant a smaller room. Didn’t matter; she was staff after all. Even though everyone thought Mark terribly thoughtful for bringing her, the truth was that it had been an afterthought; a last-minute plot devised to fit his twisted needs.
And it was working beautifully. After just a single day, Lizzie had wormed her way into Isaac's good graces. Who knew she'd be so sickeningly good at falsehood?
Actually, it shouldn’t be a surprise; as anxious as it made her, Lizzie had always been a performer. Around Isaac, though, the lines between masquerade and reality blurred. When she was with him, she didn’t experience that familiar anxiety. She didn’t feel like she faking it.
But she was. Wasn’t she?
She had to be. That was the bottom line. Because if there was one thing this vile mission required, it was the complete obliteration of truth. There could be no slip-ups.
Pausing in the middle of her room, Lizzie was struck by a sudden thought: if she did this—if she trapped him, betrayed him—Isaac would never forgive her. He would never look at her with openness in his eyes, never laugh with her. Never kiss her again.
Just as quickly, Lizzie pushed those thoughts away. Nonsense. Utter nonsense. She didn't want his laughter or his kisses; what she wanted was her brother's security. And for that, she would commit any crime.
Her good mood evaporating like last night's frost, Lizzie made her way to the room's mini-fridge, which hid behind a lemon-and-cream cupboard door. It was almost lunchtime. She needed to eat, and she was pushing it, time-wise. The signs were easier to recognise, now. Now that she was used to them.
Next time, she wouldn't get carried away. She’d follow her routine to the letter, to the second. That was important, she knew, if she wanted to maintain her level of activity; if she wanted to keep her strength and avoid the kind of complications that might stop her dancing completely. She wasn’t a child, to hurt herself in an act of pointless rebellion.
This Lizzie told herself, again and again, fighting the resentment that still clung to her soul.
After testing and noting down her blood sugar, Lizzie undressed and took her insulin. She'd had a discreet word with the hotel manager yesterday afternoon; now her little fridge held a variety of small sandwiches, their crusts daintily removed. Lizzie set a timer, and when her fifteen minutes was up, she devoured seven of those ridiculous little sandwiches without pause.
She waited. She tested again. And then, finally, she ran herself a bath.
God, she loved baths. Showers were delicious, refreshing and invigorating, but baths—baths were pure decadence. Or at least, they were the way Lizzie had them. She turned the taps on full blast, pulling out a dedicated little wash bag from her luggage. Bath salts, bath bombs, little scented samples of bubble bath, shimmering body wash, various lotions and oils; she laid them all out meticulously on the bathroom counter, dashing some of their bright, glimmering contents into the tub as needed. She found her other wash bag—there were three in total: body, hair and face—and pulled out a tub of deep conditioner and a wide-toothed comb. Might as well.
With a sigh, she faced the mirror, reaching up to tug the hair tie from around her bun. Off it came; and then she rolled her hair out from around the soft, spongy donut that gave it shape, until only a long, twisted ponytail remained. One of the many reasons she kept her hair up: no tangles. It made wash day that bit less painful.
She took out the ponytail holder, but her hair remained comically in place, as usual. It would be trapped in the ghost of a style until water hit it, and then the tight curls she’d brushed out would spring back into place. Lizzie filled the sink with cold water. Then she dunked her head.
Ah.
Something about that freezing shock made the warm bath that followed a thousand times better. Maybe she was strange. Olu always said so. Whatever. She didn’t care; it felt good.
Holding the weight of her wet hair, Lizzie wrung out the dark mass. Then she opened her deep conditioner and slapped it on haphazardly before winding her curls up on top of her head. It’d hold.
And now, everything was in place. Her satisfaction rising, Lizzie stepped into the steaming water, clutching a rose bath bomb. Sinking into the luxuriously wide tub, she plopped the little pink ball down and watched it fizz. She still smiled like a child at the sight—the way the pink bubbles popped and spread, the way the bath bomb zipped around the surface of the water as it dissolved. Her aunt used to buy these, her father’s sister. But Auntie had married an American years ago, a man who Father described as a disgrace. There had been no visits.
Of course, Lizzie thought, she was a grownup now. Her parents had no control over her. She could do whatever she wanted, including locate her aunt.
Maybe she'd call Olu about it. Eventually. When talking to him felt less like choking on her own lies.
Then again, he’d been hiding things too, hadn’t he?
As soon as that poisonous thought whispered its way into her mind, Lizzie felt guilty. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same at all. She was choosing to work through her diagnosis alone—but Olu likely felt he had no choice whatsoever. He must have been hiding from their parents, burying pieces of himself, before she was even old enough to speak. Lizzie couldn’t imagine what that was like.
Maybe it had become a habit. At least, she hoped that was it. She hoped that was why he hadn’t told her. Because surely—surely—he couldn’t think that she’d react the way their parents would.
Surely he must know that it was he and Lizzie against the world. No matter what. Always.
Closing her eyes, Lizzie sank further into the tub, letting the rose-tinged vapours melt her frown away. There was no use thinking about it. She would do this for her brother, and she would use the information she gained to win back those pictures. She would destroy them. And then, she swore to herself, she’d tell Olu the truth about her illness. They’d rebuild their relationship. She would let him try to fix things, the way he always did, because that would make him feel better. And maybe, one day, he’d tell her about his sexuality simply because he wanted to.
Maybe.
“Having a good time?”
Her heart rate rocketing, Lizzie sat upright, water splashing everywhere. The thick twist of hair atop her head began to unravel, but she barely noticed as she wrapped an arm around her chest, staring wide-eyed at the man who had broken her peace.
He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame as though he had every right to be there. As though it were the most normal thing in the world.
Mark.
“What the fuck are you doing?” She hissed, her voice sharp as ever. But she wasn’t angry. She didn’t
have room for anger. Because she was terrified.
He walked into the little room, trailing his fingers along the counter, casting a smile over her crowd of toiletries. “How sweet,” he murmured.
“If you touch me,” she said, “I will carve out your eyeballs with a dessert spoon.”
He looked at her, apparently startled. “Oh, Lizzie. No need for dramatics. I assure you, I have no interest in…” He let his gaze drift over her body, his lip curling. “That.”
“Good.” She gave him a level stare. “Because I’m not joking.”
He rolled his eyes. "I'm sure. Now, onto more important things: why is Isaac having lunch with my wife and daughters while you hide away in your room?”
“Mark,” she replied, her voice just as light as his. “How the fuck did you get in here, and when will you leave?”
He arched a brow. “I paid for your room, my dear. Did you really think I’d have no way to access it?”
The last of her bath bomb fizzed through the water in front of Lizzie. As fury finally overcame fear, she grabbed the pink clump and threw it at him. It hit him squarely in the chest, sliding wetly down his slick, grey suit.
He looked up at her with murder in his eyes. “I hope you haven't just stained my Costello.”
“Buy another,” she said. “It’s not like you can’t afford it.”
Something in his reptilian gaze flickered. His thin lips set. He remained silent. And realisation dawned.
“Unless you can’t,” she said slowly.
He stiffened. “Elizabeth. Focus, please. While Isaac, for whatever unfathomable reason, seems to find you… compelling, I’m sure you’ll need to put in some work to complete your task. Lying around on your back won’t help unless Isaac is also present. So get a bloody move on.” After snapping that last sentence, he turned and stalked out of the room. Moments later, she heard the soft click of her bedroom door shutting.
Lizzie lay against the hard porcelain, the water feeling suddenly cool. A dried rose leaf brushed past her ankle, and she held back a shriek before realising what it was. Jesus. Fuck. Her heart was in danger of cracking her ribs.
Biting her lip, she slid beneath the water, feeling her hair spread out like a tangle of weeds around her head. She hadn’t even combed it. Didn’t matter.
Her hair could wait.
Thirteen
"Sure you don't want to join us, old chap?"
"Nah." Isaac gave Sir John what he hoped was a friendly look. The older man appeared unimpressed.
"Good for the constitution, is skiing," John insisted. "You ought to see the slopes with us."
Us being Kate and Mark, two people Isaac hardly wanted to spend time with. They hovered in the hotel's vast foyer, wrapped up in thick, protective gear, their skis in hand. Clearly, they were ready to leave. But Sir John had caught sight of Isaac wandering the halls after lunch, and apparently the old veteran had taken a shine to him. God knew why.
"Tomorrow," Isaac lied. "Busy right now. Need to call my publicist." Which, now he mentioned it, was true enough.
John's moustache trembled dismissively. It was a very expressive moustache. "Publicist! Bah. Glad I'm not a young fellow anymore, or I'd be in the papers like you."
"Yeah," Isaac said, his voice wry. "Maybe."
"Tomorrow, then! I'll hold you to that!"
Isaac waved the older man off, shaking his head. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but he had a sinking feeling that Sir John really meant that.
Jogging up to his room, Isaac thought for the thousandth time that this 'writer's retreat' wasn't much of a retreat at all. In fact, he'd never been so distractingly surrounded by people.
Lunch with the girls hadn't been too bad. Even Clarissa didn't grate on his nerves too much. But being stuck in this stiflingly opulent hotel wasn't doing shit for his temperament. He could always go outside—but then he might be forced to ski.
Of course, there was every chance he'd orchestrated his own doom in talking to Sir John just now. But the older man was too genuinely congenial to ignore. It was rare that people actually seemed to like Isaac, and call him pathetic, but he kind of enjoyed the unfamiliar feeling it gave him.
Isaac entered his room with something approaching a smile, pulling his phone from his back pocket. He wouldn't call Jane after all; he'd had enough verbal interaction for the day. But he'd text her, check his emails, try to write something. Follow his routine, let the written word and the bliss that was silence wash over him. He'd been sociable today; he deserved an afternoon of seclusion.
The little email icon on his phone was red and blinking, so he opened that first. Huh. There were a few from Jane, which was unusual—but she'd have called if something was wrong. Wouldn't she? Frowning, Isaac opened the first one—it'd arrived yesterday, apparently—and scanned the contents.
Persistent blogger... Repeated attempts to reach him... Losing her temper...
Isaac relaxed. Nothing was wrong. Jane was fine. Just pissed off by one of his... fans. God, that was a weird word to use, but it was the only one that fit. Apparently, certain people found convicted killers with an attitude problem worthy of fan-worship. And Tumblr blogs. Or whatever the fuck they were called.
A knock sounded at his door and Isaac put his phone down with a frown. Unexpected knocks made him anxious. They reminded him of bailiffs and police raids. Those things were hardly likely here, but his alarm bells still went off.
Old habits died hard.
Isaac strode across his suite and yanked the door open in one swift movement, a scowl twisting his face. "Yeah?" He demanded, ingrained distrust pushing its way to the fore. His eyes settled on the wall across the corridor before lowering to find the person who'd disturbed him.
Ah. Fuck.
It was Lizzie.
She arched a delicate brow as she pushed past him, sauntering into the room. "Charming," she said. "Do you always greet visitors that way?"
He turned his head to gape after her. There she stood, running her fingers over his furniture, eyeing the room as if she were conducting an inspection. Lizzie. In his hotel room. Why the fuck...?
"Close the door," she ordered. "And your mouth. You'll catch flies."
Isaac clamped his jaw shut with an audible snap. Then he slammed the door with a single push.
She didn't jump. Didn't even flinch. Just looked at him as if he were a toddler throwing a tantrum, a slight smile curving her lips. Her red lips. She was wearing makeup again, the kind a man noticed—it made her eyes darker, smokier, and her lips even fuller than they already were. Her clothes were simple; a cable-knit jumper and thick, woollen leggings. Completely appropriate for an informal afternoon. It wasn't her fault that the material clung to every single one of her curves—and there were many. She couldn't help the way she looked. She couldn't help the fact that her breasts, her hips, her thighs, the softness of her belly, looked like they were made for his hands.
So he should stop thinking about how good she'd feel under him.
Right now.
Clearing his throat, Isaac followed her into the room. He tried to seem calm. Casual. Unaffected. "You okay?"
"Yes," she said simply. She came to stand before his desk, her eyes flickering over the notebook and pen he’d abandoned there. But she didn’t ask; she simply brushed them aside, then hopped up and settled her arse on the wood.
He'd been moments away from sitting down at that desk before she arrived. What he wouldn't give to sit there now, in front of her, and spread her legs and—
"Concentrate," she said, every syllable sharp as a knife.
He shook his head, thoughts scattering. "What?"
"Stop thinking about fucking me. Concentrate." Her voice was deliciously low, husky. The way it might sound just before she came. The word fucking should've sounded strange, coming from her lips. It didn't. It just sounded sexy as shit.
"I don't... I'm not… I wasn’t thinking about that." He moved towards her, his words as slow as his steps. He felt like he was in s
ome sort of trance. This was a fantasy. Right? Or maybe a dream. Maybe he was sick, and he'd passed out and smashed his skull on the way down. Maybe he was in a coma.
She raised her leg, stretching it out before her in one long, elegant line. The tip of her foot collided with his stomach, stopping him in his tracks. When had they gotten so close? He could reach out and grab her. Pull her to him and take her mouth the way she obviously wanted him to. How the fuck had he ever thought that this was in his head? That she didn't want him? Because now she was here, looking at him with those knowing eyes, and there was absolutely no doubt in his mind.
He was not alone. Lizzie felt this too.
"What are you doing?" He rasped out.
"I've come to torture you," she said. "I think you'll like it."
His cock, already stiffening, became hard as stone. He wrapped a hand around her ankle, desperate for something—anything—to ease the flames she'd stoked with nothing more than her words.
But she shook her head, the fine curve of her nostrils flaring. "I didn't say you could touch," she admonished.
He let go.
"Good." She smiled again, and then she moved her leg. She didn't lower it—no, she brought it up higher, the movement almost unconscious, and held it there casually. She wasn't even wearing shoes, he realised; just thick, fluffy socks with little pom-poms hanging off them, dangling above her head. Pink, like her earmuffs last night. Adorable. But she wasn't adorable right now. She was a goddess.
"Come here," she said, her eyes burning into him. And Isaac obeyed, couldn't even imagine refusing her. He took two more steps until he was almost on top of her, and yet he remembered the rules. He didn't touch. She must have been pleased because she smiled. And then she said, "Strip.”
Well. That was unexpected, but she didn't need to tell him twice. Isaac tore off his T-shirt, then his jeans, and finally his boxers. Each brush of fabric against his suddenly-sensitive skin felt like a caress. His cock sprang free, heavy and swollen and so fucking desperate for her, but she didn't even blink. Certainly didn’t look. Her eyes were pinned to his as she murmured, "On your knees."
Undone by the Ex-Con_A BWWM Romance Page 10
