Susanne James - Undressed by the Billionaire

The fact that she didn’t have a clue what she was going to say was immaterial, Savannah thought, tugging on her jeans. This was just one of those moments when doing nothing wasn’t an option. She refused to have Ethan think she was repulsed by his scars, or that she made a habit of accepting hospitality and then changing everything around for her host. Caring about someone came with responsibility, which meant she couldn’t turn her back on him. And as this might be her last chance to search beneath Ethan’s public persona, and find the real man underneath, she had no intention of wasting it.

MAYBE the fates had decided she deserved a bit of luck, Savannah concluded as she followed a group of servants carrying fresh towels and a tray with a pot of coffee on it. There couldn’t be that many people staying at the palazzo , surely?

All she cared about was finding Ethan, and as she waited, concealed in the shadows while one of the servants knocked on a door, she thrilled at the sound of his voice. Finding him filled her with relief.

She waited for the staff to come out again, and when their footsteps had died away she came out of hiding and cautiously approached the door around which they’d been clustered. The handle yielded all too easily, and as she pressed the door open a crack she could hear the shower running.

Opening the door fully, Savannah slipped inside. She found herself in a mannish-looking sitting room where the scent of good leather and books was overwhelming. She looked around. Okay, so now what? There was hardly anywhere to hide. As she had suspected, Ethan’s tastes were plain. The floors were polished wood, and the sofas were dark-brown leather. The walls were lined with books and not much else, other than some vibrant modern paintings.

Originals, Savannah noted with interest, signed with a letter B that had a diagonal line through it. She could imagine what a psychologist might make of that. And as for the content: frightened, wide-eyed children without faces or proper form. The paintings were brilliant—but, in the same way Edvard Munch’s The Scream both fascinated and repelled, these paintings were deeply disturbing. And there were shadows in them … lots and lots of shadows.

Were the paintings an autobiographical account of Ethan’s childhood?

She’d bet her life on it. And this window into his psyche was both more illuminating and far worse than anything she had imagined. That he had immense talent was in no doubt, and as another type of artist she found that bond between them reassuring—though everything else about the paintings troubled her and told her she was right to be concerned. Listening, she was reassured to hear the shower still running. What other secrets could she uncover in the time she had?

She wasn’t here to pry, but to sense things, Savannah told herself, remaining motionless in the middle of the room. And then the water stopped running. And she was completely exposed. She braced herself. All the clever words and questions she’d been preparing for Ethan deserted her. But when he didn’t emerge from the bathroom curiosity got the better of her. Tip-toeing to the door, she peeped through a crack. Sensation streamed through every inch of her at the sight of Ethan standing in front of a mirror with just a towel around him.

He was magnificent.

Although his scars were far, far worse than she had thought, she had never seen anyone half so virile or appealing. His legs were beautifully shaped and muscular, and his naked torso was everything she had dreamed of. The extent of his injuries, of his scarring, only proved it was a miracle he had made it through, and the thought of the pain he must have experienced cut her like a knife. He was twice the man she’d thought him. And more.

Savannah jumped back in alarm as Ethan thrust his fists down on a marble counter-top. For a moment she thought he’d seen her and that that must have prompted the angry action, but then she realised he was leaning over his braced arms with his shoulder-muscles knotted and his head bowed, as if the sight of his own body had disgusted him. She knew then that everything she had feared for him was true: Ethan’s injuries had scarred more than his body, they had scarred the man.

‘Savannah?’

She gasped out loud as he wheeled around.

‘Savannah! I’m speaking to you!’

The ferocity in his tone made her back away.

‘What do you think you’re doing here?’

‘Looking for you …’ She backed away, hands outstretched in supplication. ‘I knocked, but you didn’t hear me.’

‘You didn’t hear the water running?’

‘I heard it, but.’

‘You didn’t leave immediately?’

‘No, I.’

‘You what?’ he flashed across her. ‘Wanted to try out your amateur psychology on me?’ As he spoke his glance swept the paintings which he knew she must have seen. ‘I thought so,’ he spat out with contempt when she didn’t reply.

‘Ethan, please.’

‘I thought we’d agreed you’d stay away from me?’

‘Did we?’ Her voice was trembling. ‘I don’t remember that.’

Straightening up, Ethan dipped his head. His stare was menacing.

‘Stop trying to intimidate me.’ If only her voice would stop shaking.

‘Then tell me why you’re here.’

‘Like I said, I was looking for you.’

‘Because?’ he prompted harshly.

‘I wanted to speak to you.’

‘And so you sneaked into my room?’

‘No!’

‘Go back to bed, Savannah.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. But how was she going to put all her thoughts and impressions into a few short sentences when Ethan would never give her the time? Shorthand was her only option. ‘I care about you.’

‘You care about me?’ Ethan’s laugh was cold and ugly. ‘If you only knew how infantile that sounded.’

‘Caring for someone is infantile?’ Savannah threw up her hands. ‘Then I’m guilty.’ The feelings she had developed for Ethan were so deep and so complex, at this point she had nothing to lose. ‘I’ll admit, I’m not good with words.’

‘No, you’re not.’ Grabbing his robe, Ethan threw it on, belting it to hide his mutilations from her gaze. ‘Get out of here, Savannah.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she informed him stubbornly.

‘Must I throw you out?’

She wanted to run as far and as fast as she could from the expression on Ethan’s face. He had turned so angry and dark, and so utterly contemptuous of her. ‘You wouldn’t—’

But her voice wobbled and Ethan pounced. ‘Can you be sure of that?’

‘I’m absolutely sure you would never hurt me.’ Standing her ground, she stared him full in the face.

‘Have you finished? Can I continue with my evening in peace now?’

‘I’ve not nearly finished!’ Like a cork in a bottle her frustrations had been tamped down long enough. ‘You can’t dismiss me. I’m not a child!’

‘You certainly look like one to me.’

‘Then you’re not looking closely enough. I’m a woman, Ethan, a woman with feelings; a woman who won’t let those feelings go just because you say I must.’

Ethan’s answer was to curtly angle his chin towards the door. ‘And now I’m asking you to leave.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

He tried sweet reason. ‘It’s been a long day and you should be in bed.’

Savannah shook her head. ‘I’m not a child you can order to bed. All I want to do is talk to you.’

‘Well, I’m right out of conversation. Now, get out of here. Out!’ He backed her towards the door. ‘Try to get this through your head, Savannah …’ Bringing his face so close she could see the amber flecks in his steel-grey eyes, Ethan ground out, ‘I don’t want your company. I don’t want your conversation. And most of all I don’t want you snooping around here, spying on me.’