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This was true.
“And I had to use your phone to see if you had any medical conditions. Also, to find out your name. So, it made sense to let your closest contacts know that you were okay at the same time.”
When he puts it that way, it seems less like an intrusion and more of a kindness.
Still, I glare at him. “How did you know my passcode?”
He chuckles again. This time, it doesn’t give me a warm feeling. It’s more of a scoff, really. A patronizing chuff. And he doesn’t answer the question. His “security team” probably hacks phones all the time. It’s only peasants like me who think that passcodes are necessary to get into a device.
“Look,” he says, stepping forward. “Like we agreed earlier, there will be things I can’t tell you, and things you won’t want to tell me. We have to both accept that, or this isn’t going to work.”
What exactly isn’t going to work? Our little impromptu pajama party? No, he didn’t mean that. He means something more.
“That’s so patronizing,” I say.
“You can look at it that way,” he murmurs, “or you can see it as me … protecting you.”
Despite the warm water, I feel a chill. “What do you mean? Protecting me? I don’t need protection.”
I don’t live in his world of rare gems, luxury vehicles, and priceless art. I have nothing to steal. No rich parents to extort money from. I’m safe.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says. “Whether you like it or not, our paths have crossed. From now on, you need protection.”
Chapter 8
The Dark Tide
“Idon’t understand.”
“Then I’ll make it simple for you,” he says, downing his champagne. He tops up my glass, and then his own. “I made a mistake today, bringing you here.”
Again, rude.
But at the same time, I feel the sting of truth. As much as I‘m loving this incredible bath, I know I don’t belong in it. I am an imposter. I don’t belong in a fancy hotel room, and I certainly don’t belong in the same room as this powerful, ridiculously sexy man. Gods don’t dirty their hands with measly peasants.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says when he sees my face drop. “I don’t regret it. Not for a second. And I’d make the same mistake again in a heartbeat.”
“Then why call it that?” I ask. “If you’d do it again?”
“The same reason we all do things we desire, despite knowing the consequences.”
Desire. I have a warm feeling in my pelvis that has nothing to do with the bath water.
“You think too much,” I declare. “I thought we were just going to have a lovely night in and forget about it all tomorrow morning.”
His eyes glimmer, and his stern expression fades. The fiery glint is back.
“What?” I ask.
“Ivy Mickelson,” he says, with those flames in his eyes. “Surely you know that it would be impossible to forget you.”
His eyes. His words. His obvious desire.
Instead of arguing, instead of asking the dozens of questions crowding my head, I finish what’s in my glass and place it carefully on the ledge beside the ice bucket. I push my thoughts away and focus on my body. How the water, still so warm, feels against my skin. How my muscles loosen and my bones feel light from the booze and the compliments—and perhaps the head trauma. And how my insides are humming with pure longing for this novel, powerful man. I want him to come over to the tub, but he doesn’t move. He’s waiting for a signal. I still feel the shyness, but it shrinks in comparison to my craving. I swallow hard and push myself up enough so that my nipples break the water, and he can see them properly. Without looking down, I know my breasts are glistening in the muted light.
The man exhales audibly, a hot breath pushed out through his teeth, and he finally comes over. He lopes like a jaguar. My body is already zinging before he touches me, but when he finally does make contact—a light finger on my shoulder—I feel that electric thrill.
This has never happened before. Not with myself, not with others, and certainly not with Jeff, the image of whom I quickly expel, because if anyone can dampen desire, it’s my catastrophe of an ex-boyfriend.
