Jeez. Hopefully not. Hadn’t she humiliated herself enough tonight?
Last night, she silently corrected after lifting her cell phone from the coffee table and squinting at the screen. Surprise widened her eyes. She’d slept clean through from, like, nine last night ’til six thirty in the morning. She never conked out that long, or that deeply. Whatever sleep did manage to overtake her generally ebbed away by four thirty or five, and she usually got up by quarter to six.
Maybe the effort of tamping down on rampant lust for an off-limits bear daddy willing to provide fringe benefits knocked a girl out. If so, she could toss her Tylenol PM for the duration of her time in Captivity.
As the thunder of her own overexcited pulse rushing in her ears subsided, she listened to the quiet room. The whisper of vents blowing heat into the suite, the hum of the minibar, and—yes, there it was—the slow, steady breaths of a sleeping human male.
So close, and yet so far.
Returning to sleep was wishful thinking. Risky thinking, too, since entering dreamland left her vulnerable to the whims of her subconscious. Better to get up, get dressed, and get moving.
Using her phone for light, she tiptoed to the bathroom, stopping at the closet to grab clothes she’d unpacked last night. He’d hung his parka on a hanger next to her coat and stowed his boots next to the shiny, black pumps she’d worn yesterday. His duffel bag sat on the floor just below the luggage rack that held her trunk. It startled her a little, seeing the incongruously masculine items amongst the carefully curated subset of her possessions she’d chosen for this trip. Something about the juxtaposition of Trace’s big, scarred boots and her glossy, French-made pumps shot a new, painfully sharp jolt of lust through her. For a protracted moment her hand loitered over her trunk where her mini-wand remained packed in an interior pocket. She was sorely tempted to use it to take the edge off. But no, the idea of resorting to self-service in the shower while the man who’d worked her into such an uncomfortable state without even trying slept in the next room seemed a bit pathetic.
Not a man, Isabelle, a client. Please remember that small fact.
Oh, hey, check that out. Staring down professional suicide took the edge off pretty well. She continued into the bathroom. After showering and completing the rest of her morning routine, she felt steadier.
Actually—she eyed herself critically in the mirror as she added a finishing touch of mascara to what she considered to be her dialed-down weekend work makeup—she looked steadier as well. Amazing what a solid nine hours of sleep could do for a person. Undoing the topknot she’d gathered her hair into before her shower, she reached for her brush, then paused. Weekend work, she reminded herself, to be accomplished discretely while she posed as a woman visiting her lover’s hometown for the first time. She swept her hair into a smooth ponytail and secured it with one of the elastics she kept on the handle of her brush.
Yes. Better than yesterday’s updo, this said, “I’m here to relax.”
The tan, cashmere fisherman’s sweater, dark jeans, and brown, suede, shearling-lined boots with stacked heels said the same. Minimal jewelry, she strategized, and went with thin, gold hoop earrings.
Last, but not least, she rubbed moisturizer on her hands, frowning as she considered her bare fingers. No ring yet. What were people going to make of that?
She and Trace ought to pin down a few key details of their cover story before she circulated too widely around town. When and where had they met? They also needed to exchange some personal details—family history, upbringing, education—stuff a couple on the brink of getting engaged would know about each other.
As if you would have any clue.
Well, she had common sense, didn’t she? They weren’t going to sit down for a heart-to-heart with anybody. They just had to exchange pertinent information and synch up their fake courtship. Get their story straight.
With that goal in mind, she walked back into the main room, surprised to find it now filled with hazy daylight. The seven a.m. sunrise had snuck up on her. Trace, too, judging by the motionless form on the bed.
She approached, hoping to gauge how deeply asleep he was, and then just…stared. Stood over the enormous four-poster and stared at her nearly naked, sleeping man—client—like someone well on her way to getting slapped with her first restraining order.
You should go. Turn yourself around right now, get out of here, and call his cell to wake him when you’re a safe distance away. Yes, she should give him a wake-up call from the lobby. Or from the parking garage. Or better yet, from Los Angeles.
What she absolutely, positively should not do was continue to stand there, drinking in the sight of his alluringly relaxed face, or the fascinating changes in shade and texture created by his beard thinning out to stubble under his jaw and giving way to smooth bronze skin along his throat. She certainly should not peruse the terrain of his body, starting with the long collarbones framing his wide, bare chest—a chest liberally covered with dark hair that fanned out across his bulging pecs and the hollow of his diaphragm, then narrowed down to a thinner, sparser trail that bisected rugged hills and valleys of abs and nearly disappeared above his belly button, only to spread like a river emptying into a delta just below, and then flow out of sight beneath the waistband of blue gym shorts.
At that point, her eyes stalled, and she choked on her own spit. The sheet curtained the lower half of his shorts, but nothing could hide the proud ridge bulging diagonally under the flimsy shield of fabrics. It rose and fell enticingly as he shifted one densely muscled thigh, sliding the sheet lower still. And then, as if awakening to her gaze, it surged, lengthening and thickening to mouthwatering new dimensions.
“’Morning, Izzy,” a gravelly voice murmured.
“Good morning,” she whispered, completely focused on the… Oh, shit. She jerked her attention away from his groin and, without stopping to consider better options, met his hooded, blue stare.
One dark brow arched. “Something catch your eye?”
“I…uh. Aren’t you cold?”
He laughed. “It’s seventy-some degrees in here.” Her focus followed like a puppy on a leash as he ran his hand down his chest, his abs, all the way down below the sheet, and, have mercy, adjusted himself. “No. I’m not cold.”
She licked a line of sweat beading above her upper lip. “I wanted to see if you were awake.”
His hand retreated to rest low across his abdomen. “I am now. What do you need?”
“I thought we should get to know each other…”
His lips curved into the off-center smile that quickened her pulse. “That’s a great idea.” With a breathtaking display of crunching abs, he sat up. A warm, calloused palm cupped her cheek. Long fingers threaded into her hair and slowly drew her face closer to his.
With her lips hovering over his, near enough that the tips of their noses almost touched, her rational mind kicked in. “No.” She jolted back, rubbed a hand over her forehead. “I mean, we should get our cover story nailed down, so we respond consistently when people ask us, you know”—she looked around, feeling hopelessly out of her depth—“stuff.”