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Oh, my God—she’d gotten on a plane with him without a word? As a burst of shamed heat settled in her stomach, his features came back to her and she remembered exactly the reason she’d let him steamroll her into doing what he wanted—she’d been that easy.
But why had he wanted her so badly?
The guy was incredibly awesome, and by the looks of the plane that was now, only God knew where, he was rich as well.
So what was his reason for absconding with her? Could he have felt the chemistry as strongly as she had?
It just didn’t make good sense and she couldn’t make herself concentrate right now; her usual analytical reasoning was nowhere in sight. His reason would have to wait. She needed a glass of water, like pronto. She needed to brush her teeth. She needed to pee—hell—she needed basic clothing to cover her nudity.
Maybe after she had those few necessities to soothe her—maybe then she would allow herself to question his actions.
Max Santiago—her husband. And even as the thought formed, a slight buzz came to her ears as she remembered hearing the name ‘Villarreal’.
Where had that memory surfaced from? The insane wedding ceremony maybe? Surely Max had told her his last name was Santiago?
Suddenly her brain went into overdrive as she forced herself from the bed. Wrapping the sheet around her torso, she stumbled to a door that she prayed concealed a bathroom. She opened it and bingo.
She quickly took care of her business and then stood at the vanity, staring in the mirror and berating herself harshly. Glancing around, she found toothpaste and a neatly wrapped and ready toothbrush that she quickly made use of. There were several bottles of water on a shelf, along with an array of single-dose envelopes of over-the-counter painkillers. She opened a packet and a bottle and downed the pills and two-thirds of the water.
Now for her clothes and her purse. Suddenly, all she could think about was finding her purse. She wanted her lifelines, and she wanted them now. Her phone, her credit cards, her passport. Shit. Another hazy memory hit her. Had he asked her about her passport?
Was she even now somewhere other than the US? Bitch. This just kept getting better and better. She took a breath and tried to think of a time when she’d acted so irrationally, but nothing came to mind. She’d never done anything stupid in her life. She vaguely remembered a friend from college telling her about a time she’d left with a man she’d only just met in a nightclub. The girl had gone on and on about the man’s limo and his Black American Express card. Erin had been appalled at her friend’s actions—but now she’d done way, way worse.
Preparing to fix what she’d fucked up, she opened the bathroom door and took a few steps forward with the sheet still wrapped around her like a sarong, and came face to face with—her husband?
She sucked in a breath as her feet came to a stumbling halt. As she felt color flush her cheeks, she noticed that he didn’t smile but only raised a single, mocking eyebrow. His gaze pierced hers, sending her stomach to her feet in a mess of stupid feminine weakness. Then his eyes trailed down her body, stopping at her breasts and thighs, before sweeping down to her bare ankles and feet before slowly moving back up again.
Erin’s heart rate kicked up to a vicious degree, and as he took one step forward, for the life of her she couldn’t stop herself from taking one step back.
He obviously noticed and, thankfully, he immediately stopped. His lips twisted diabolically as he drawled slowly, “You look beautiful, sweetness.”
Her pulse accelerated alarmingly at both the compliment and the endearment. Oh, yeah. It was damn well obvious why she’d waltzed into that freaking wedding chapel with him. Even now, with her composure under attack, hating herself for what she’d done the night before, he still made her knees weak. Could her emotions be any more screwed up? She wanted to scream at him; she wanted to throw herself in his arms and hope he kissed her senseless once again. But she did neither of those things—she was too confused to do anything but stand on her own two feet while she kept her mouth clamped tightly closed.
He prowled another step closer and then another, and with each step he took she scooted away, until the base of her spine was flush against the built-in bureau. The magic of his touch was blaring in her memory—it wouldn’t help her case in the slightest if she were to feel it now, when she desperately needed to retain what little brainpower she had left.
He was dressed for the new day in a crisp suit that screamed Savile Row, and he came so close that she was forced to lift her face to maintain eye contact. When she did, he put a single finger under her chin and lifted it further, jarring her nerves alarmingly. “You are fucking gorgeous—and undoubtedly the best coup I’ve pulled off in my lifetime.”
