Not only is Blake my jailer, but the whole reason I’m here in the first place. I have to stop lusting after him . . . which would be so much easier if he would stop being so hot.
I pick the book up and try to focus, but it’s useless. I stand and move cautiously toward the window, and when I look down, he’s gone. I breathe in a deep breath and look out over the city from my glass cage. It’s a sunny day, with the marine layer already out at sea. The sun glints off the tall buildings in the city, and the water of the bay shimmers. My eyes focus on the foreground, the pool below, down a long set of stone stairs. Didn’t Blake say he’d picked out a swimsuit?
I’ve never been much of a swimmer, but I look down at the pool again. Maybe the water would be good for my arm. And with no phone and no internet, I need to do something besides sit around obsessing over Blake or I’ll go insane.
I bring the book with me as I descend the stairs and slip into my room. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure Blake said he bought me a swimsuit.
Tossing the book on my bed, I head to the closet and root through the drawers until I find what I’m looking for—a black string bikini. I move into the room, stripping off my jeans and T-shirt and strapping myself into the skimpy suit. It fits, and I look pretty damn good in it, if I do say so myself. If you ignore the tie-dye bruises covering the upper half of my body, the black suit with my red hair and fair skin is striking.
I tie my hair back and dig through my bag for my sunglasses, then head across the hall to the stairs. When I reach the bottom, I peek into the poolroom to make sure Blake’s not there. It’s empty, so I scoot across to the French doors and let myself out onto the lower deck. I follow the stairs and the stone path all the way down to the pool, my arms wrapped around myself against the slight chill of the spring air. I dip my toe in the water and find Blake wasn’t lying. It’s heated, just short of bathtub warm.
The bathhouse is almost as big as my parents’ real house. There are two doors in the front. I open the first and find a large room with two leather recliners and a sofa pointing at a big screen TV on the wall over yet another fireplace, a black granite, fully stocked bar along the right-hand wall, and a poker table near the windows looking out over the pool. On the opposite wall is a gym of sorts: a free weight rack next to a weight bench, and a treadmill. There’s more sports memorabilia here, and the smell of stale cigar smoke and sweat, giving it a definite man-cave feel.
I close the door and move to the next one. It opens into a bathroom, complete with a mammoth, glass-enclosed shower and a tall antique cabinet full of towels and a variety of floats. Grabbing a towel, I head back out to the pool.
I drop the towel on a lounge chair on my way to the deep end, where I stand staring at the smooth water before I lower myself in and float on my back, moving my shoulder through its range of motion.
Something buzzes over the water and I jerk upright, worried it’s a bee. But when I look at the edge of the pool, there’s an enormous greenish blue dragonfly perched there. I move closer to inspect it and am surprised when it doesn’t fly away. It just sits there, open-winged, staring at me with its gigantic eyes.
“Can I borrow your wings?” I ask it.
It doesn’t answer.
Something moves on the balcony, and I look up to find Blake leaning his elbows on the rail, watching.
I’m living in a fishbowl. But as a tingly rush skitters through me, I can’t help wondering how sick it makes me that I don’t I hate it.
Chapter Twenty
I SPEND THE next week sleeping late, swimming, and focusing on staying mad at Blake. My dragonfly keeps me company a lot of the time, just sitting on the same spot on the pool edge, watching me. I’ve even started consulting it on all my plans to get back at Blake.
As much time as I’m spending at the pool, I’m starting to get some of my color back. Under my tan, my bruises have faded to a pale yellow, and my arm only hurts when I tweak it.
Blake and I have eaten most dinners together, though I rarely come up from the pool for lunch. He’s started stocking the fridge behind the bar in the bathhouse with fruit and cheese and yogurt for me to nibble on. I refuse to thank him.
When I come out of my room, he is filling a travel mug with coffee from the pot.
“Going somewhere?” I ask when I see his messenger bag on the sofa.
He presses the top onto his mug and turns. “I’ve got to head into the office for a few hours. Cooper is on his way.”
“Is it something with Ben?”
He just looks at me for a heartbeat. “We’re not coming up with the evidence we’d hoped.”
“Meaning?”
“His office is clean. No blood or any trace that would indicate Weber died there.”
“Meaning . . . ?” But I know what it means and my stomach knots.
“Meaning, at the moment, all we have to tie Arroyo to the murder is your testimony.”
I wrap my arms around my middle at the sudden cold that sends a shiver through me.
“We’re going to get him, Sam,” he says. “But this is why it’s so important that we keep you out of harm’s way.”
The elevator door slides open and Cooper is standing there, his usual scowl fixed to his face. “Get a move on, Montgomery. You’re going to miss the meeting.”
Blake gives me a look, then steps into the elevator. As soon as he’s gone, Cooper drops into the armchair and starts channel surfing. He stops on a rerun of Myth Busters.
I get myself a cup of coffee and sink into the sofa.
He points the clicker in his hand at the TV and looks at me for the first time since walking in. “You know they’re from here, right? Adam and Jamie? I saw them film the one where they tried to blow up a bathtub.”
“They didn’t try to blow up a bathtub,” I say. “They were trying to bust that movie myth that you can survive an explosion in a bathtub.”
“Whatever. They do most of their stuff over in Alameda.” He settles deeper into his seat, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.
There’s a long, awkward silence, and finally I stand. “I’m going to head down to the pool and work my shoulder. Blake usually watches from up here,” I say with a wave of my hand at the balcony, because I really, really don’t want Cooper to come to the pool with me. But then I realize how that sounded. “I mean . . . he stays up here when I’m down there . . . and . . . watches.”
Cooper’s scowl deepens.
I spin for my room before I dig the hole any deeper and change into my suit. When I come out, Cooper is in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
I tiptoe across the hall and down the stairs before he sees me. When I dive into the pool, I find I can actually take a full stroke overhand without my shoulder hurting. After ten laps I’m tired, but not sore. I climb out of the pool and sprawl across a lounge chair, talking to my dragonfly and waiting for my shoulder to start aching. When it doesn’t, I dive back in and swim some more.
When I finally make my way back to the house hours later, the sun is hanging low over the bay and I’m medium rare. But I feel really good. The best I have in a while.
It’s quiet upstairs, so I move to the stereo in the wall and turn on the music so Cooper will know I’m here, but some twangy female voice floods my ears—one of Blake’s country favorites, no doubt. I turn it off fast and move to the big open area between the stairs and the pool table.