So she’d repaint it herself.

Hours later, Analise wiped away splatters of the ice-blue paint that had reminded her of Nathan’s eyes. A fresh breeze blew through the open windows to circulate the air. She propped her arms on the roller handle and surveyed her creation. The ivory linens and the antique furniture were a lovely contrast with the new paint. Nathan would be impressed. The sound of the door closing had her rushing to clean up. Plus, she had yet to start dinner, which she’d promised that morning. She hurried into the bathroom.

Downstairs, Nathan cursed beneath his breath as he stalked into his office. He slammed his briefcase on the surface, and the letter from the Yale Journal of Linguistic Studies fell to the floor. He bent to pick it up and studied the offer for a permanent section in its hallowed pages. Crumpling it in his fist, he threw it across the room.

Rather than celebrating his coup, the dean had spent the better part of the afternoon chastising him about his houseguest. The rumors and the chiding were all Analise’s fault, he realized. If she didn’t look like such a damned ingénue, no one would care. But instead of lauding his latest triumph, the dean had accused him of corrupting an impressionable minor.

The arrogant old prick refused to understand that Nathan didn’t need the awkward Analise for physical pleasure. He only wanted the fecund mind, ripe with innovative ideas and eager to please him. Now that he had a quarterly column to produce, having her close by would be invaluable. As long as she remained quiescent, dependent on him for everything but her next breath. And perhaps even that.

He smiled when he heard her timid knock at his door. The smile turned to a scowl when he saw her disheveled appearance. Paint caked to her hair, streaked across her shirt. “What the hell have you been doing, Analise?”

She twisted her hands together. “I painted the bedroom. It was a horrible shade of pink, but I fixed it.”

Of course it was pink. The fact that she specifically mentioned hating the color was precisely why he’d instructed the decorator to choose that particular color. Analise would have to learn that only one person’s wishes were fulfilled. “You painted the room today,” he repeated quietly.

“Yes. I bought the paint this morning. I didn’t want to bother you.” Analise could sense the anger in him, but she was baffled by its source. “I paid for it myself, out of my accounts.”

“Your accounts.” Nathan reclined in his chair, his voice pitched low.

The width of the desk separated them, and, instinctively, Analise leaned closer to hear him. To explain. “I know we discussed whether I should talk to you first before I spent money, but the paint and supplies weren’t expensive at all. I only painted my room.”