He eased away, lay back against the pillows, and folded his arms behind his head. “Stuff like?”
Did he know what the position did for his shoulders and biceps? Was he deliberately testing her willpower? “Who am I? Where am I from? What do I do for a living?”
“You’re Isabelle Marcano, attorney at law, from L.A. Despite how I’ve come off in our short association, I actually don’t like to lie. We should stick with the truth as much as possible, don’t you think?”
“That’s fine, but there are some fictions required. How did we meet? How long have we been seeing each other? When did we know it was love?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “We met through a mutual friend, and we haven’t been seeing each other long, but”—his laser blue stare burned into her—“I knew it was love the first time I kissed you.”
Something jumped around in her stomach. “You’re good at this.”
Both big shoulders lifted and lowered. “I had a decent chunk of time last night to consider things. When I went downstairs to order dinner, I overheard a few people talking and realized there’s a blizzard of speculation swirling that would put last night’s whiteout to shame. Because our relationship has implications for the airfield, they’re invested.” His expression sobered. “Very invested.”
“That’s understandable,” she said, gently. “From mid-October through mid-February, the airfield often provides the only way in or out of Captivity. Hence, the name.” At his raised brows, she added, “I did my homework before I came.”
“Guess it’s time I did mine.”
“How about I order us up some breakfast, and we complete the rest of our homework together before we head to the airfield?” She stepped over to the nightstand and picked up the phone. “What can I get for you?”
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sort of hemming her in by the nightstand and dragged a hand absently through his hair. The outside of his knee brushed her jeans, and she swore she felt the heat of his skin through the denim. “Just order breakfast for Trace. They’ll know.”
That gave her pause. He had a standing breakfast order at the only inn in town. Come here often, big guy? “Oh. Okay.” She depressed the button for the front desk.
Still sitting on the edge of the bed, he ran his hand down the back of his neck, and around to scratch his pec through a springy mat of chest hair. Scratching an itch. Her fingers wanted to take over the task. She tightened her grip on the phone, belatedly realizing he’d spoken to her.
“Huh?”
“Okay if I borrow the bathroom while you do that?”
“Uh-huh.” Nice going, Izzy. Really showing off seven years of higher education with those responses.
“Great. Back soon.” He stood, and suddenly she was face-to-chest with the man. A lot of chest. A lot of man. Swallowing, she managed a very husky, “Take your time.”
He grinned, turned, and walked away, treating her to a view of his bare back. She bit her lip while her eyes slowly toured smooth slabs of shoulder muscles, sloping erectors, the long line of his spine that ran all the way down between two shallow dimples and disappeared below the waistband of his shorts. Shorts that did nothing to disguise the perfect contours of his glutes.
“Good morning. How can I help you?”
“Sorry…?”
“Good morning, Isabelle.” The voice on the other end of the line warmed. “Rose speaking. Can I help you with something?”
“Breakfast,” she managed, but in truth, no one could help her. Not with her real problem. Namely, she was going to burn in professional purgatory for entertaining illicit thoughts about her client.
…
Trace took a slightly torturous walk down the short hallway to the bathroom. He stopped to grab his bag as he passed through the closet area, and tried to ignore his rock-hard cock by listening to Izzy order, “Just an omelet,” and then proceed to specify egg-whites and spinach—but only if the spinach was organic—no cheese, no…
Shutting the bathroom door ended his eavesdropping on her breakfast order. He turned to the mirror, surprised to find a smile on his face. He probably shouldn’t be so entertained by her formidable powers of self-restraint, but he couldn’t help himself. No good food, no good sex, no sensible shoes? Where were the limits to her determination to make her life as uncomfortable as possible? And what compelled him to want to push at those limits?
The smile disappeared. God knew he was no poster boy for how to live one’s best life. There’d been a time when he thought different, but he’d learned. And that late-breaking realization accounted for her presence in Captivity. That, and a late-breaking tendency of seeing his dead brother materialize out of thin air, wanting to have a word with him.
Probably an important thing to remember. He drew in a deep breath.
The room smelled like a woman. Like temptation and salvation.
Like Izzy.
And it stirred something in him that had awakened last night when she’d confessed her secret intention to cut loose in Captivity. He didn’t want to glorify the emotion too much, because a lot of what he felt came down to simple, basic lust, but hope sparked in there too. Hope that maybe an eyes-on-the-prize attorney and a burnt-out bush pilot could bring each other a few desperately needed perks during the course of doing what they had to do.
He closed his eyes and inhaled again. Oh yeah. That right there? Definitely the scent of hope. He imagined her smoothing body lotion into her skin, or spritzing perfume on her pulse points, or… He opened his eyes and took in the staggering array of personal products neatly arranged on the counter like expensive sentinels. Holy shit. No wonder she’d needed a damn trunk. Okay, the room smelled like high-maintenance hope, but hope, nonetheless.
By the time he’d changed into the jeans and sweater he kept in the go-bag, and returned to the main room, the suite smelled like breakfast. Izzy sat at the table by the window, sipping coffee and scrolling on her phone. She put it aside as he walked over. “Hi.” She smiled, a little tentatively, and gestured at the assortment of covered plates on the table, along with her single, small plate with the lonely half-moon of pale omelet. “I think maybe they brought up a double order of your regular breakfast.”
He lifted metal warming covers off the plates, stacking them as he went. Green chili omelet, breakfast potatoes and a side of bacon, a short stack of pancakes. Rose had also thrown in a couple of raspberry scones, which were kind of a house specialty. “Nope. This looks right.”
He placed the stack of lids on the coffee table and took the other seat at the table.
“You can eat all this?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “I don’t do it every morning, but if I get stuck in town for some reason, it’s definitely an upside of staying at the inn.”