The Devil's Chord

Chapter Fourteen

Sherlock frowned at the bathroom door. The water had shut off ten minutes ago. What could she be doing in there?

The door opened and her head peeked around the side of it. Her wet hair hung loose around her face, the strands the deep red of de-oxygenated blood.

“These aren’t my clothes."

“What do you mean?” He got to his feet.

She scowled. “What else could I mean?”

He conceded the point. It was a rather inane question. Clearly his own exhaustion over the past few days was finally creeping up on him. “Allow me to take a look." He grabbed hold of the door latch.

“No. I’ve only got a towel on." She yanked the handle away from his hand.

He stared down his nose at her, relishing the fact he could do so, since her feet were bare. “You’re being irrational. I’m not going to ogle you. That’s John’s area. I need to examine your luggage.”

The image of her naked silhouette briefly surfaced before he viciously shoved it away. The mental effort shot a stabbing pain behind his eyes, irritating him further. Through the three-inch gap in the doorway, he deliberately raked his gaze over her exposed shoulder, past the side of her towel-covered torso, down her toned calves to her feet and slowly back up. “Besides, you have nothing that interests me.”

Her mouth fell open and he took advantage of her distracted indignation and threw the door open. She was wrapped in a blue towel, its soft folds covering her from chest to upper thighs. Any energy she’d acquired from the shower dissipated, leaving her wobbling sideways. He caught her arm before she could stumble into the counter and guided her to a chair beside the brightly lit vanity.

“Sit.”

It was a tribute to her exhaustion that she complied without protest, sagging back into the cushioned seat. He surveyed the open maroon bag sitting on the counter. Various fabrics spilled out, their bright jewel-tones reflecting on the shining white marble. He ran a hand across a deep cerulean blouse. The cool, slick feeling of mulberry silk slid across his skin. Nestled to the right lay a purple cashmere jumper. He held up a pair of linen trousers. There were no tags to be found. Custom made. He set it back in the bag. Miss Walker was staring at his feet, her fingers gripping the hem of her towel. He frowned and followed her gaze, then wished he hadn’t.

Lacy green satin lay across the toe of his leather shoe. Shiny black beads decorated the bra and he found himself irresistibly reminded of belladonna and its toxic berries. An adulterous husband in Dorset had experienced its potent effects after devouring a mixed green salad served by his vengeful wife.

“I doubt it’ll fit you,” she said, startling him out of his reverie.

He stared at her. Had he missed something?

She smirked, gaze darting from the bra to his chest. “You’re more than welcome to try it on though.”

Inexplicably, the back of his neck grew warm. He looked down at the offensive bit of lace. He couldn’t just leave it there, but he felt oddly reluctant to touch the delicate undergarment.

This was ridiculous. It wasn’t poisonous. Stooping, he slipped one finger beneath one silky strap and picked it up. After careful examination, he tossed it to her.

Her cheeky smile morphed into surprise. It landed in her lap and she caught it before it could tumble away.

Sherlock lifted one brow. “Of course it won’t fit me. It’s your size. In fact, all of these clothes are designed to fit you specifically.”