Page 49 of The Rented Bride

Her eyes narrowed an instant before she entered his room. He followed and closed the door behind her.

She whirled to face him. “Mr. Weston—”

“Trent,” he cut in.

“What?”

“You must call me Trent, even in private. A slip like that could be disastrous.”

Cassie angled her head in acknowledgment. “Trent. What the hell is going on?”

“Don’t you think my grandfather will notice if we’re not sleeping in the same room?”

She hesitated. He supposed she hadn’t given their sleeping arrangements any thought.

“You didn’t say anything about this in the contract,” she said.

“But I did. The contract states that our arrangement is strictly business. We’ll share the same room, but not my bed. I’ll sleep there.” He indicated a chaise in the corner of the room. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but he didn’t sleep much these days.

She returned her gaze to his face. “All right, but your staff is going to think I’m a whore for jumping into bed with you.”

“No one in this household would dare refer to you in any way other than honorable.” He held her gaze. “Not even under their breaths. Listen, Cassie, I told the inner sanctum about our arrangement, but not everyone who works at Brettonwood knows the truth. I believed that those closest to me needed to know, but as much as I trust my staff, it would take only one person slipping up or calling the tabloids for things to go bad. Which is why I insisted we talk here, privately. We can’t make a habit of having private discussions in hallways.”

She arched a brow. “Like the one we had last night when you propositioned me?”

“That’s right.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

“You can change in the bathroom.” He crossed to the armoire opposite the bed and opened the top drawer. As expected, his underclothes had been moved and women’s lacy underwear, stockings and a pair of long, pink cotton pajamas lay neatly folded in the drawer. Trent looked at Cassie. “Doris put your underclothes here. I imagine your other clothes are hanging in the closet.”

She glanced at the closet. “You sure there isn’t an iguana hiding in there?”

Trent grinned. “If there is, Ms. Adams, just let me know and I’ll slay the beast for you.”

She stared for two heartbeats, and he wondered if he’d said something inappropriate.

“Mrs. Weston,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’re married, remember?”

Trent nodded. He wasn’t likely to forget anytime soon.

She walked to the pulled armoire and the pajamas from the drawer, started to turn, then stopped.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Um, yes.” She hesitated, then turned, giving him her back. “Can you unzip me?”

He grasped the zipper and his cock jerked when the fabric parted as he lowered the zipper over the contours of her back, revealing creamy skin, then the lace of her bra. He stopped at the crest of her rounded buttocks. She was petite, but fit, her body built to be a man’s playground. He swallowed hard and let his hand fall away.

“Thank you.” She hurried to the bathroom.

Trent yanked his bowtie loose, then unbuttoned the first two shirt buttons. A soft knock at the door drew his attention.

“Come in,” he called.