Isabelle looks as if she is going to be ill at any moment. I believe her anger stems from my inability to lie, but I realize I have a lot to learn about this woman when she spits out, “This is your fuck pad, isn’t it?”
Her question catches me off guard for a moment. I’ve never referred to my penthouse as that before, but technically, that is what my apartment is about, so I guess she has a point.
“And that is….” Isabelle’s words trail off when they land back on the bedside table.
“My trophies? Yes,” I reply, having nothing to hide. “But I don’t collect them. They’re given to me.” That sounded better in my head, where it should have stayed.
As her nostrils flare withthe hope oxygen will lessen the white-hot anger pumping through her, Isabelle’s eyes snap back to mine. Her glare already has my cock twitching under my towel, but it stiffens painfully quick when she slips her hands under my shirt before sliding her black lace panties down her thighs.
Once she has them bunched in her hand, she throws open the drawer, stuffs her panties inside, then slams it shut. “There you go, another trophy added to your collection.” She doesn’t air quote the word ‘trophy.’ She doesn’t need to. Her disgust is relayed all over her face. “Because that’s the only way you’ll ever add my panties to your collection.”
Believing neither the lie she just spilled nor the promise in her eyes that she’ll be my biggest challenge, I bark out, “Get back in bed, Isabelle.” When her stance strengthens, I snap, “Now!” My irritation isn’t because of her statement. It’s because I was already struggling not to touch her, so you can imagine the fight now since she is sans panties.
While sucking down air to quench the needs of my screaming lungs, I move to the left side of the bed. When I slip beneath the black sheets, Isabelle remains standing at the end of the bed. Her breaths are ragged, and her eyes are glossed with more than an alcoholic sheen. I still have a lot to learn about her, but I’m confident in declaring she’s battling with herself. She is torn between racing for the door and jumping to my command.
I’m more than pleased when she chooses the latter. “Good choice,” I mutter under my breath when she clambers onto my bed before sliding under the sheets.
When the sweet smell of her heat-slicked skin streams into my nose, I lean over to switch off the light. Although darkness does little to elevate her provocative aroma, it takes care of the yearning look she’s directing my way.
“Good night, Isabelle,” I whisper into the dark.
“Good night, Isaac,” she replies, clearly disappointed.
I don’t sleep with intoxicated women,I remind myself when my astuteness slips for the third time tonight,but all bets are off in the morning.
9
“Isaac… golly gosh. I’m so sorry.” Catherine’s hand shoots up to slap her red face as she pivots away from me. I’m both shirtless and shoeless, and although she’s been my housekeeper slash personal assistant for years, she’s never seen me in such a disheveled state. “I wasn’t anticipating for you to still be here.”
Her assumption holds credit. Anytime my thumb is logged into the security mainframe of this building, her phone alerts with a message. Since I only ever bring my ‘dates’ here, I’m usually gone long before they wake, leaving the task of kicking them out to Catherine. It’s presumptuous of me, but before today, it saved a heap of awkwardness.
“I’ll come back in a couple of hours.” A smirk curls my top lip when she garbles out, “Will two hours be long enough?”
“Two hours will be fine,” I assure her, somewhat frustrated.
A beautiful woman with ravishing curves spent the night in my bed, yet my hands never left my side. Frustrated is barely a drop of water in the ocean to explain how dissatisfied I am. Usually, that’s all my apartment is about—my satisfaction. I’ve not been granted the same proficiency this time around.
“Before you go,” I mutter, stopping Catherine halfway to the door. “My…guest…” I tighten my jaw, annoyed about my stumble of Isabelle’s title. Although I hardly know her, it feels wrong referencingher in the same manner I have the other ‘guests’ I’ve brought here. “Is without suitable clothing to leave in.” I wave my hand across Isabelle’s dress draped over the leather couch in the living room. It was risqué for a club, so not only is it unsuitable for daylight hours, it will have her eyed by more than security if she leaves in it. “Is there somewhere close by I can purchase her more suitable daytime attire?”
“Certainly.” Even with Catherine only speaking one word, her smile is still heard in her reply. “There’s a boutique dress shop two blocks over. The price tags are outrageous, but the dresses aredivine. Only the best designers stock their clothing with them.”
I appreciate that Ravenshoe is attracting high-profile designers, but Isabelle isn’t a brand-name type of woman. When I tell Catherine that, I don’t know what surprises her more—my admission Isabelle isn’t one of the Stepford wannabe-wives who usually occupy my bed or the fact I know her name. It may be a combination of both.
“Okay.” Her gray brow arches as she ruminates for a minute. She’s old enough to be my grandmother. I initially hired her to remove evidence of my escapades from my apartment with the discreetness someone her age has in abundance, but her services soon became invaluable. I now truly see her as family more than a member of my staff. “There’s a department store on the way to Hopeton. I could perhaps grab her some items there?”
“Yes, that will work.” While pacing her way, I dig my wallet out of my pocket. The foreignness of our conversation isn’t lost on me when Catherine accepts my credit card without the slightest hesitation. She purchased almost all the items in my walk-in closet. I’ve just not once asked for those procurements to be undertaken at a department store. “Jeans, long-sleeve shirts, and running shoes appear to be her go-to wardrobe selections.”
“Okay, good. That gives me plenty to work with,” Catherine responds with a smile, pleased I’ve interreacted with Isabelle often enough to get a sense of her fashion style. “Should I choose a selection of outfits, or is this a one-time-only deal?”
Her question is as personal as it comes, and I struggle to answer it. As I said earlier, Catherine is like family to me. However, even if she were Nick, I’d still be tongue-tied. Discussing personal matters isn’t a strong point of mine.
After a couple of seconds of deliberation, I say casually, “Return with a selection of outfits.” When hope flares through Catherine’s eyes, I talk faster. “Then Isabelle can pick what she’s most comfortable in.”
“Of course.” She doesn’t believe my excuse, and I have neither the time to argue nor the ability. I pride myself on the fact I’m an honorable man. I refuse to tarnish that for something so inconsequential. “I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
After gathering Isabelle’s skimpy dress from the couch and snagging a dry-cleaning bag out of the kitchen drawer, she skips out of my penthouse. If I’m not mistaken, she appears to be happy for me.
I wish I could confess to the same phenomenon. Discretion is all I know, but I tossed it out the window last night when I demanded Hugo take Isabelle and me to my apartment building, and it’s taking everything I have not to do it for the second time in under twenty-four hours. The fact Isabelle is sleeping well past the early hour she usually rises to pound out her frustration on the pavement has me cautious she’s still under the influence of alcohol. I refuse to mention the possibility that the blond gent she was with slipped something into her drink, or I’ll never let Isabelle out of my sight, day or night.
