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Lucas closed his eyes.
She felt wonderful. Warm. Soft.
Perfect.
But what was he doing here, in her bed? He remembered returning from the hospital, anguished and exhausted. It had been late; the servants were all asleep, even Dolores. When he was a boy, she’d often waited up to see if he needed anything, though she’d never admitted to it.
Tonight, he’d been relieved to find she hadn’t gone back to those old habits, as she still sometimes did. He was too tired, too distressed to talk to anyone.
He’d gone slowly up the stairs to his rooms, pausing on the landing to look down the hall toward the guest suite. Was Alyssa still awake? Was she thinking about what had almost happened before he’d been called to the hospital?
He’d surely thought about it. Even sitting beside his grandfather’s bed, the old man’s icy hand in his, memories of those unplanned moments had come to him.
They had been unplanned, hadn’t they? Or had Alyssa sensed it was the right time to draw him deeper into her net?
Lucas closed his eyes.
She insisted she didn’t want to marry him any more than he wanted to marry her. What was the truth? He was too weary to think about it. A hot shower. A night’s sleep. He’d known those were what he’d needed.
He would sort things out in the morning.
He’d gone to his suite. Undressed in the dark. Showered, let the water beat down on his neck and shoulders while he stood with his head bowed and his hands flat against the glass wall of the stall.
Restored in body if not in spirit, he’d pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and fallen into bed, but sleep had been as elusive as peace of mind.
He’d thought about Felix. It was a good sign, wasn’t it, that he was conscious? The dazed expression, the silence, would pass…wouldn’t they?
And, inevitably, he’d thought about Alyssa. How it had felt to hold her. How she’d returned his kisses. How close he’d come to slaking his thirst for her, a thirst that had gripped him from those first minutes in the stable at El Rancho Grande.
He’d tossed and turned until his blankets looked as if a demented Boy Scout had tied them in giant granny knots. Disgusted, he’d finally decided to go down to the library for a book.
Instead he’d bypassed the stairs and walked down the hall.
Where the hell do you think you’re going, Reyes? he’d asked himself.
The answer was simple.
He’d gone straight to the guest suite, paused outside its closed door. He listened for a sound, checked to see if light shone under the door and found neither.
Why would Alyssa be awake at this hour? And what would it matter if she were?
Just walk away, he’d told himself sternly.
Even as he thought it, he’d turned the knob, opened the door, made his way quietly through the sitting room to the bedroom.
Alyssa lay sleeping in the canopied bed, her face gently lit by starlight. By exhaustion.
His fault.
He’d put her through hell the past day. Two days. He’d lost track. And yet, even now, she was beautiful.
His heart turned over. He wanted to wake her. Tell her he was sorry for everything, that he’d gone out of his way to frighten her in the stable, that he’d forced her to come here with him because who was he kidding? He had forced her. He’d given her about as much choice as a mouse trapped by a posse of cats.
The only thing he wasn’t sorry for was what had happened in this room a few hours ago.
He’d wanted her. She’d wanted him. Her honest passion, her fire, had damn near stolen his breath.
The lady could be gentle as a kitten, tough as a tigress. He knew little else about her but he surely knew that.
