Page 77 of Jane Deyre

“Try telling that to Detective Pete Billings, who’s now the head of LAPD’s homicide division. It may be a cold case, but he’s never given up on his search for little Charlotte Mason or her kidnapper. Justice will be served.”

“Fuck you,” he spits at me.

Red-hot rage surges inside me. I’m one breath away from taking him out, but swallow it back. Letting go of his collar, I shove the dickhead away.

“Get back to the dinner party. Do me a favor and sit in my chair. Away from Jane Deyre.” I glance down and then meet his eyes again. “And don’t forget to zip up your fricking fly.”

I watch him stumble away and then rap lightly on the bathroom door.

“Can’t you please go away?” The voice behind it is tearful.

“Jane, it’s me. Ward.” My voice is soft, but loud enough to be heard from behind the slab of wood.

“Please leave me alone.”

I twist the doorknob. The door is still locked. I blow out a frustrated breath.

“C’mon, Jane. Open the door.”

“No!”

“You’re going to miss dessert.”

“I don’t care. I’m not hungry.”

I huff out another breath and rake my fingers through my hair. She’s so damn stubborn.

“You’re giving me no choice.” My voice rises. “I’m going to kick down the door, so you better have your knickers up.” For a brief moment, I fantasize her in the wispiest of lace underwear. Her breasts quivering. Her legs parted for me. And in that moment of distraction, the knob turns. I step back as the door opens and Jane emerges. She faces me.

Her eyes are red-rimmed. She looks upset. I brush away a strand of hair that’s fallen onto her face.

She grits her teeth. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

She straightens her dress.

“What I wanted to tell you earlier is that you look beautiful in that dress.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I don’t need your platitudes. I wish I could return it.”

Nothing I say or do seems to warm her to me.

“Let’s go back to the dinner party. Edwina will be wondering what happened to us.”

“I’m going to do it for Edwina.” She pivots on her heels and brushes past me. I plant my hand on the small of her back, but she shimmies it off.

“I told you, Mr. Rochester. Please don’t touch me.”

I walk beside her. The candlelit hallway is wide enough for the two of us. “If that pig hits on you again tonight—though I’m sure he won’t—tell me.”

She turns her head toward me and looks at me coldly. “The less I share with you, the better. And I don’t need you to protect me. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

And with that, she picks up her pace and beats me back to the dining room.

I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. She wants nothing to do with me.

CHAPTER 41

Jane