Marta responded from the depths of the commercial-size kitchen. But her words didn’t penetrate the fleecy towel.
Concerned more with the water tracks she was leaving on the black marble entry floor than with who might be calling on her dad, Mallory hurriedly yanked open the heavy door, expecting at most to direct a deliveryman elsewhere.
It’d be impossible to judge who was more shocked by her sudden appearance in a skimpy bikini—Mallory, Connor or Claire, whose breath escaped audibly. “I thought you said she had her own place,” Claire muttered in an accusing voice.
“Mallory?” Connor sounded incredulous. And Mallory’s hands shook so hard, she had trouble dragging the wet towel off her head. She made a fumbled attempt to cover the greater expanse of flesh left open to the scrutiny of her unwelcome guests.
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