"This is gonna suck," I told my reflection, taking a deep breath, and attempting to walk out of the bathroom without stumbling too much. He said I had to wear them. He didn't say I had to be graceful while doing so. Not that he could command such a thing from someone who was, by nature, about as graceful as a newborn foal.
I made my way back to my room, walking a few awkward laps until I could do so without my knees doing that God-awful buckling pre-fall thing.
"I don't have all fucking day, Miss. Marlow," St. James' voice snapped through my door, making my heart fly up into my throat as I ruined my track record with the not knee-buckling thing. I righted myself, took a deep breath, and made my way toward the door.
"Really, there's no need to curse at me," I said, standing in my doorway to see him leaning against the jamb of his own, arms crossed.
"I'll curse at you whenever the fuck I want. Get used to it. Keep your mouth shut about it," he said, turning into his room and leaving me to wonder if I was meant to follow. Ultimately, I moved into his doorway.
If I thought my room was nice, his was, well, fit for a king. It was darker, heavy drapes hanging on the French doors to the balcony. The set-up was similar to that of my room, except his bed was bigger, his color scheme was deep chocolate brown instead of burnt orange, and the bathroom attached looked like fifty people could comfortably stand around in it... with shoulder room.
St. James had disappeared into said bathroom for a second before he reemerged, raising a brow at me like I was an idiot. I guessed I was supposed to follow him, so I did. "This will be cleaned every single morning," he said, gesturing to the deep wicker basket that held laundry. "You'll sort what will be washed here by the staff and what needs to be sent out for dry cleaning."
"Okay," I said, nodding. That was simple enough.
"You'll also make my bed, changing the sheets every other day. And on those opposite days, you will scrub my bathroom top to bottom." That was just lovely. I totally wanted to scrub his bathroom in heels. With a house his size, he had to have had a staff of people to do such things. "I do have a maid. Three actually," he informed me as if reading my thoughts. "But from now on, this," he said, indicating his quarters, "is your responsibility. As is anything else I should want, day or night."
"Is there some bell I should answer to?" I asked, trying to keep my tone mild though my words themselves were snarky.
"You'll answer to your name. Whenever, wherever, and however often I call it."
"Okay," I said, nodding. I was his personal maid. Or valet. Or whatever the hell it was called.
"I take my coffee black and often."
"Okay."
"When you don't have a detailed job to carry out, you can sit outside of whatever room I am in and wait for me to call you. Understood?"
"Yep."
"Nothing to say about that?"
"Nope."
"Good," he said, advancing so fast toward me that I moved to go back a step and ended up teetering on my heels. Luckily, or, unluckily, depending on where you were standing, his hands were already on me. As in, on me. He had snagged the front of my mini skirt and yanked it which, at once, settled me back on my feet, and pulled me toward his body. I had about a second to wonder what the hell he was doing before I felt his hands slip under the waist of my skirt. My hands flew out, moving to shove at his chest automatically before I realized what he was doing; he was tucking my camisole into my skirt. His fingers lingered after the tuck, flat against my belly, as his dark eyes roamed over my face.
There was a completely illogical, biological (I was convinced) tightening of my sex at the intimate touch. It had to have been biological because, really, he was a complete tool. And not to mention rude and inappropriate. That was not something I was attracted to in any way shape or form. So it was just some primal response due to a long dry spell on my part and, likely, the very strong alpha aura Byron St. James projected.
That was the only possible explanation for it.
It's not that he wasn't attractive; he was. Actually, he was the kind of handsome that belonged on ads for cigarettes in the 1960's- tall, dark, handsome, successful. But I was never the type of woman to be a sucker for looks over substance. While looks-wise, he won the genetic lottery, substance-wise, he had about all the appeal of a festering garbage can on a sweltering summer day.