Cynthia’s breath hitched as she took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.
Mike’s smirk widened as he shut the door behind him, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
“I asked you a question, Mrs. Richard.” His voice was a lazy drawl, but his eyes were anything but relaxed. They flickered to the phone in her trembling hands before dragging down her body.
It was the dress. The damn dress.
Cynthia had only thrown it on because she thought she would be alone. A thin, silk nightgown the maids had placed for her earlier—barely covering anything. The smooth fabric clung to her curves, innocent yet sinful.
Mike’s gaze darkened.
She swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter. “I… I was just—”
“Stealing from me?” His brow arc
