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An airshaft.
All the way to Rome so she could overlook an airshaft.
Well, so what?
She wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter. Besides, right now she felt as if she were walking in her sleep. She’d done that a couple of times, when she was little. Once she’d awakened in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge.
The next time, she’d been halfway out the conservatory door into the garden when she’d walked into one of her brothers. Falco, or maybe Rafe. Whichever, he’d startled her into wakefulness; she’d shocked him into a muffled oath.
“What are you—” they’d both said, and then they’d shushed each other and laughed, and agreed to keep quiet about the whole thing, because he’d obviously been sneaking back into the sleeping house and she’d just as obviously been sneaking out of it.
Anyway, she still remembered the feeling when her eyes had blinked open. She’d been awake, but not really. Her feet had seemed to be inches off the floor, her eyes had felt gritty, her body had felt … the only word that described it was floaty.
That was exactly how she felt now as she waited patiently for the bellman to finish showing her how to adjust the thermostat, how to open and close the drapes, how to use the minibar.
She yawned. Maybe he’d take the hint.
No way.
Now he was at the desk, opening drawers, snapping them shut, moving to the TV, turning it on and off, and, oh my God, now he was showing her how to set the clock radio …
Anna gave herself a mental slap on the forehead. Duh. He was waiting for a tip.
She opened her purse, dug inside, took out a couple of euros and, less than graciously, shoved them at him.
“Thank you,” she said. “Grazie. You’ve been very helpful.”
Her form would probably have earned demerits from Sister Margaret, who’d taught tenth grade deportment, but it satisfied the bellman, who smiled broadly, wished her a good day and exited, stage left.
“Thank God,” Anna said, and fell facedown on the bed.
Everything ached.
Her arms from keeping her elbows tucked to her sides the last couple of hours of the flight. Her shoulders from hunching them. Her butt from pretty much doing the same kind of thing to keep her thighs and hips from coming into contact with Hannibal and the Hummer.
Her head hurt, too. A baby a couple of rows back had decided to scream in protest at the unfairness of life. Anna couldn’t blame the kid; she’d have screamed, too, if it would have done any good.
But it wouldn’t.
She had done something awful, and being packed into the middle seat would never be sufficient to expiate her total, complete, hideous feelings of embarrassment.
Anna groaned.
Embarrassment didn’t even come close. Humiliation was an improvement, but horror was better. Much better. She was totally, completely, mind-numbingly horrified at what she’d done. What she’d almost done.
Okay, what she had done and what she had been on the way to doing …
His fault. The stranger’s. All of it, his fault.
First, driving her temper into the stratosphere, then confusing her, then charming her.
An overstatement.
He had not charmed her. He could never be the charming type. He’d simply lulled her into thinking he was human. And maybe just a little bit interesting.
Pleasant conversation. A couple of smiles. His looks had been part of it, too. She had to admit, he was nice-looking.
A hunk, was more like it.
