Jilted By Nephew, Claimed By King

The bathroom door locked with a satisfying click. Annelise turned on the shower, cranking the handle until the water was scalding. Steam began to fill the small, tiled room, fogging up the mirror. She leaned over the sink and looked at herself. The thick, black-rimmed glasses she wore were just clear glass, but the frames were heavy enough to obscure her cheekbones. Her skin looked sallow, thanks to a specially formulated foundation she ordered from a theatrical supply company in Berlin. "Time to breathe," she whispered. She took off the glasses. Her eyes, usually hidden, were a piercing, icy blue. She pumped a handful of oil cleanser into her palm and began to scrub. The gray, dull complexion melted away. The fake freckles dissolved. The contouring that made her face look rounder and softer vanished. She rinsed her face. When she looked up, the woman in the mirror was striking. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, lips that were naturally full and red. It was a face that had graced the dossiers of three different intelligence agencies, usually under the "Wanted" section. She stripped off the hospital gown. First, she carefully worked a solvent along the edges of what looked like smooth, unblemished skin on her torso and limbs. A thin, membrane-like layer began to peel back, revealing the truth beneath. Her body was a map of violence. A jagged white line on her ribs from a knife fight in Prague. A circular pucker on her thigh from a bullet in Sudan. And on her right shoulder, a star-shaped scar from shrapnel in Syria. This biomedical film was her most crucial piece of camouflage, hiding the history that would instantly betray her meek persona. She stepped under the spray, letting the hot water pound against her muscles. She closed her eyes, letting the tension bleed out of her. For a moment, she wasn't Annelise Phelps, the collateral bride. She wasn't the Ghost. She was just a body in warm water. CRASH. A heavy thud from the main room shook the doorframe. Annelise's eyes snapped open. Her hand shot out, grabbing the disposable razor from the shower caddy. She snapped the plastic head off, holding the small blade between her thumb and forefinger. She turned off the water. Silence. Then, a groan. A low, masculine sound of pain. She grabbed a towel, wrapping it tightly around her body, tucking the end securely over her chest. She kept the razor blade hidden in her palm. She moved to the door, listening. "Damn it," Francesco's voice muttered. Annelise relaxed her grip on the blade, slipping it into the fold of the towel at her waist. She unlocked the door and opened it a crack, feigning hesitation. "Hello?" she called out softly. Francesco was standing near the bathroom door. He was shirtless, clutching a first aid kit in one hand, his other hand braced against the wall. His skin was pale, sweat beading on his forehead. He had clearly slipped or twisted wrong, aggravating the burns on his back. He looked up as the door opened. A cloud of steam rolled out, enveloping Annelise. Her wet hair clung to her neck. Her skin was flushed pink from the heat. The towel hit mid-thigh, leaving her long, toned legs bare. Francesco froze. He blinked, as if trying to clear a hallucination. The mousy, plain girl he had rescued from the fire was gone. In her place was a siren. The humidity made her skin glow. Without the glasses, her eyes were devastating. His gaze dropped to the water droplets racing down her collarbone, disappearing into the white terry cloth. He felt a jolt in his chest that had nothing to do with the pain in his back. Annelise saw the look. She saw the pupils dilate. She saw the confusion warring with sudden, raw attraction. Mistake. She had let her guard down too much. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. She crossed her arms over her chest, hunching her shoulders to hide her posture. She forced a blush to her cheeks-a trick of holding her breath and tensing her diaphragm. "Don't look!" she squeaked, turning her face away. Francesco snapped out of it. He realized he was staring. He realized he was shirtless in a bathroom doorway with his ward. He turned around abruptly, his back muscles rippling with tension. "I apologize," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "I... I needed the antiseptic from the cabinet. I slipped." "Just... just give me a minute," Annelise stammered. She slammed the door shut. She leaned against it, her heart hammering against her ribs. That was close. Too close. He had seen too much. Not just the beauty, but the body. A body like hers didn't belong to a girl who spent her days knitting and drinking tea. It belonged to an athlete. A soldier. She looked at the razor blade in the towel. She needed to be more careful. Francesco Lancaster wasn't just a rich boy. He was a predator. And predators noticed when the prey didn't smell right. Outside the door, Francesco stared at the wood grain. He ran a hand through his hair. The image of her-wet, glowing, terrified-was burned into his retinas. Who the hell was she?