Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 164263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 821(@200wpm)___ 657(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 821(@200wpm)___ 657(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
They still don’t seem mollified.
“We won’t leave the house,” I tell them as I hold the remote up to close the garage door. “This way.” I open the internal door and secretly want to die.
“This is Aleki.” He introduces me to the other man, he’s Polynesian or maybe Hawaiian, very handsome, and very scary.
“Hello.” I smile.
He nods but doesn’t say anything, how many women has he met in the past?
Insecurity screams through my bloodstream, they are used to rich women in palaces and here I am…my house is anything but rich.
We walk in and my eyes flick to Edward in a silent plea. Get them out of my house.
“You have two minutes,” he tells them.
They walk past us and begin to look around, they open the cupboard doors and peel the curtains back to check the window locks before disappearing upstairs. I stand on the spot, feeling violated.
“They’ll be gone in a minute,” Edward says softly.
I nod, I know this isn’t his fault but damn it, I hate this invasion of privacy. While he’s out and about is one thing, but damn it.
This is my home.
What do they actually think is going to happen here? Annoyed, I go to the kitchen and turn the kettle on and I hear them come back downstairs. “So we….”
“Baisse d’un ton.” Edward murmurs. (Translation: Keep your voice down.)
My ears prick up, Edward is speaking to them in French, he doesn’t want me to know what they’re saying.
“Ton sac est en haut. L’arme est dons la poche latérale.” I hear a muffled voice. (Translation: Your bag is upstairs, the gun is in the side pocket.)
“Merci.”
L’arme?
Gun…did I just hear something about a gun? I don’t speak French, but there are some words I recognize. I walk back out into the living area, “Au revoir, Mademoiselle Sorenson.” They nod.
“Goodbye.” I fake a smile; my mind is reeling.
Good riddance.
“Ne quittez pas la maison, Monsieur Prescott.” (Translation: Do not leave the house, Mr. Prescott.)
“Je n’en ferai rien.” (Translation: I won’t.)
“Verrouille la porte derrière nous.” (Translation: Lock the door behind us.)
Lock, another familiar word.
They walk out the door and I close it behind them and lock it, get out of my house, fuckers.
Edward’s eyes find mine and he gives me a soft smile. “You don’t like my men in your house?”
“No.”
“They’re gone now.” He takes me into his arms. “Forget about them.”
“Why did they say gun?”
“What?” He plays dumb.
“I heard the word gun.”
“They left a gun upstairs for me.”
“Why?”
“In case I need it.”
“Why would you need a gun to stay at my house?”
“Alora.” He holds me at arm’s length. “It’s a precaution and we won’t need it, but just in case something goes bump in the night, we have protection.”
“Has something happened before?”
“It has.” He walks to my back French doors and looks out to my little terrace garden. “This is lovely.”
“Don’t change the subject, Edward.”
“I’m not, your garden is lovely, but I told you before. I am a target and precautions need to be taken. I don’t sleep at premises other than my own, but seeing….”
His voice trails off.
“But seeing what?”
“Seeing as we are new and you wanted to cook me dinner here in private.”
In private?
I stare at him as I try to read between the lines. “Is Hermione going to be calling on your houses and you don’t want her to see me, is that what you’re saying?”
“No.”
“So what are we hiding from?”
“The paparazzi, as soon as I am photographed with you there will be a media frenzy and Hermione doesn’t need that added pressure right now.” He takes me into his arms. “And neither do you.” He kisses me softly. “Besides, I would like some time for us to be alone for a while without distractions.” He kisses me again, his tongue sliding through my lips. “Wouldn’t you?” I feel myself melt into his arms, he puts his finger under my chin, bringing my face up to his. “Okay?”
“Okay.” I smile, honestly, this man could sell honey to a bee.
He steps back from me. “So…show me around.”
“Well.” I snap out of my annoyance. “This is the living room.” I hold my hand out and point to the furnishings. “Armchair. Armchair. Couch. Coffee table.”
“You have beautiful taste.” He smiles as he looks around. “Something tells me that you like antiques?”
“Maybe a little.” I smile proudly as I look around the room and I try to see it through his eyes for the first time. I’m not going to lie, I love my home more than anything in the world. The walls are a warm cream with crown molding, the drapes are a deep coffee-colored velvet and hang from the twelve-foot ceilings. There is a huge, gilded mirror above the cream marble fireplace and Gobelin tapestries are hung in assorted gold frames. Chandeliers and pleated gold lamps add ambience. The details are in the deep red cushions and vases of flowers. The most beautiful thing about living here has been the joy of being over the top with my extravagant French furnishings. My place is small but it’s decorated as if it’s a palace.