Free Forget Me Not by Stef Ann Holm Page B

bed.”
    â€œWha . . .” Josephine’s eyes fluttered open, her long lashes thick, dark fringes. “What?”
    â€œI said, time to get up.” For the hell of it, he gave her bottom a light smack.
    She gasped, then rolled onto her back and jerked the sheet beneath her chin. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”
    â€œIt’s past three-thirty. You should have been up a half hour ago.”
    â€œYou’re crazy.” Her eyes were wide. “Get out, or . . . or I shall scream.”
    â€œI’m getting out. So are you.” Turning, he looked for her clothes. He found them in a wrinkled pile on the floor. Grabbing hold of a fistful of fabric, he tossed the skirt and blouse onto the bed. “Get dressed. You’ve got a kitchen to clean up.”
    Even in the dim light, he saw the dejection shimmering in her eyes. “I was going to. When the sun came up.”
    â€œSun’ll be up just after you’re done.” The corn liquor bottle was within reach, and he grabbed it before she got any more brilliant ideas. “Get dressed.”
    She sat upright, her hair falling over her shoulders. Her gaze fell on the pile of clothing strewn at the foot of the bed, but she didn’t say anything about the poor condition they were in. Even he could see the splotches of red over everything.
    â€œGive me a moment,” was all she said.
    J.D. walked away from her then. Beneath his hardened exterior lay a spark of respect for her. He’d thought for sure she’d feel sorry for herself and tell him she wasn’t able to clean up because she was too tired.
    Josephine Whittaker was turning out to be a contradiction to his predisposed opinion of her.
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    Josephine was fully awake now. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. She had the slightest fringes of a headache. Three short sips of Boots McCall’s fiery liquor had been all she’d been able to swallow. She’d never been a drinker. Just a social glass of sherry shared with friends, and perhapsa small splash every so often in a moment of emergency. Hugh had done enough indulging for the both of them, so she had never abused liquor.
    Now, looking back on the evening, she was ashamed she had resorted to the spirits. She’d taken the coward’s way out. Josephine Whittaker had vowed no longer to be spineless the moment she’d boarded the train in Manhattan. She should have attacked the mess with vigor and been done with it before going to bed. But Boots had deflated her to jelly with his jests at her expense.
    In the clarity of daylight—well, almost daylight—she was angry. Mostly at herself, a lingering bit at Boots. She’d clean the kitchen. And she’d do a good job, too.
    By the time she was as presentable as she could get, the aroma of coffee came from the kitchen. Its pungent scent reminded her that she hadn’t eaten the night before. Nor had she eaten much at all since leaving New York. She was used to a fine selection of rich foods and sauces. All she’d been offered thus far on the train and at the Bar Grub restaurant were greasy portions of unidentified platters heavy with meat and thick gravies. If she didn’t eat something agreeable in flavor soon, she was going to wither away to nothing. Already the clasp on her skirt seemed to have loosened.
    Josephine took a deep, fortifying breath, then left her room feeling as if she could do anything.
    J.D. had his broad back to her when she entered the kitchen. He stood at the dry sink, viewing angles of his chin in a mirror hanging by a string from a cupboard knob. A basin of water was before him, and he held a straight razor. He scraped the blade across his neck in an upward motion, then swished off the soap in the water.
    She couldn’t recall ever seeing Hugh shave himself. His valet had always groomed and dressed him. Impeccably