Deviation by Heather Hildenbrand Page B

it means. Nor time to care.
    I close the cabinet with a click and hurry across the room to switch the lamp off. The switch digs into the ball of my bare foot. I hope it’s the only pain I experience from my little excursion. The light dies and darkness swamps the space, magnifying the smoky scent as I cross the room. I slip out the door, pulling it shut behind me with as little force as possible.
    I whirl, lace and silk hem lines flying, and head for my room, forcing my feet slow and steady against the plush carpet.
    No one saw.
    No one saw.
    My bedroom door is open. A bulky form that is absolutely not Obadiah moves inside the frame. A scream bubbles up and turns to an animated curse as somehow, in a moment of reflex, my Taylor-channeling from earlier comes back to me.
    At my string of invented oaths, the form turns to greet me. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my robe and pull them out again, half terrified, half sure of myself. “What the hell are you doing in here?” I demand.
    Williams hovers near the foot of my bed. His face reddens at the same time his brows knit in confusion. He looks from me to the lump on my bed that poses as me. “What are you doing out there?” he asks, regaining his composure.
    “I asked you first. Don’t question me. I don’t have to tell you anything.”
    “I was …” His eyes shift to the mound of pillows I have shoved underneath my bedclothes. When they dart back to me, they travel. Lingering, enjoying, leering. I cinch my robe tighter. Suddenly, I know exactly what he’s doing here. Acid rises in the back of my throat.
    Someone comes up behind me. At the scent of the familiar cologne, my shoulders tense.
    “What is happening here?”
    Oh God. The contraband in my pockets weighs a hundred pounds.
    I whirl, indignation pasted on. “This asshat snuck in my room and was going to … take advantage of me,” I say. The pause in my words is obvious. But Titus is too intent to notice my sensibilities.
    “What?” His eyes narrow in on Williams. He didn’t even take time to doubt me—a terrifying sort of relief. “You’re supposed to be in debriefing for the redhead.”
    “I finished early.” Williams manages to keep his eyes away from my robe.
    It’s too thin. The fabric is gauze. Probably transparent.
    “This is strike two, Williams, but it’s a big strike. Your shift is over. I suggest you take your leave,” Titus says. If voices were vipers, he’d be the deadliest in the pit.
    Williams mumbles an apology and skirts out the doorway. He looks half terrified Titus will swat him as he passes. Titus doesn’t move. Williams disappears down the hall without another glimpse back. I wish he hadn’t left so quickly. Titus studies me from the open doorway.
    I muster contempt, which isn’t difficult. “I hope you fire him.”
    “He only came for something he thought was being given away,” Titus says pointedly.
    I swallow.
    I’m not her. I can’t say that. “I’m picky,” I say.
    For some reason, that makes Titus laugh. He tips his head back and the sound seems much louder and longer than my joke warrants. Before he can punctuate it with a threat, or something worse, Obadiah arrives.
    “I know you said twenty but my driver was … Oh, hello, Mr. Rogen.” Obadiah’s pale cheeks flush to a bright shade of crimson. He tucks his hands behind his back. It’s a gesture I know he uses to feign confidence.
    “Whitcomb,” Titus replies. He eyes Obadiah, then me, then my outfit. Understanding dawns slowly. He wasn’t informed of the call. The box in my pocket lightens some. “You still going with picky?”
    I yank Obadiah by the wrist, pulling him to my side. The two of us up against the big bad Creator. Adrenaline pumps through me. Without a scrap of hesitation in my voice I say, “I’m going to bed.”
    I swing the door shut and hold my breath.
    One, two, three—
    “Holy shit, you just slammed the door in his face,” Obadiah whispers.
    When I get to ten and Titus