And before dinner she'd found all her new clothes unpacked and neatly put away in the closets. Elvire might only be playing at being Roche's housekeeper, as she herself was pretending to be his wife, but it was impossible to fault the way the other girl carried out her duties, Samma thought grudgingly. She took a leisurely shower, put on her nightdress, and sat down at the dressing-table to give her hair its nightly brushing, tensing as she wondered if she could hear the sound of movement from the adjoining room. She picked up her brush, grimacing. She would have to get used to this unaccustomed proximity, or she would end up a nervous wreck. It was his room, after all, and he was entitled to use it—or find more congenial surroundings as the mood took him, she told herself, as she began to tug the brush through her hair. And stopped, her attention totally arrested by the noiseless opening of the communicating door. Roche walked into the room. His hair was damp, as if he too had been in the shower, and he was wearing a dark blue silk robe, and nothing else, as far as she could gather.
