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If she were at full strength she would pick up the phone right now and call hotel security to have him thrown out. Even if it would be somewhat problematic explaining why they should be kicking out the man whose credit card details were on the room.
Unfortunately, though, she wasn’t at full strength. She dragged her weary body out of the bed. If nothing else, the make-up sex had killed her second wind stone dead. She could happily sleep for a month now.
So she’d just have to go for damage limitation.
Grabbing a bunch of cushions off the sofa, she jammed them into the middle of the bed in case he got any ideas about joining her once he’d finished his shower.
And just in case she got any ideas...
She whisked his discarded T-shirt off the floor as the only nightwear option on offer—the hotel’s satin robe had been about as useful as a negligee in a rugby scrum—and put it on to establish a second line of defence. The shirt hung down to mid-thigh, the sleeves covering her hands, and looked less enticing than a potato sack. Perfect.
Not so perfectly, it smelled of him—that far too enticing combination of washing powder and man.
She hauled herself back into the bed, trying not to notice the sexy scent as she prepared to stay awake for a few minutes more in order to give Dane his marching orders. Curling into a tight ball with her back to the wall of cushions, she watched the winking lights across the Hudson River through the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and stared at the corner suite’s awe-inspiring view of the Jersey shoreline.
The buzz of awareness subsided into a relaxing hum and the tender spot between her thighs became pleasantly numb. She inhaled his scent, lulled by the sound of running water from the shower.
The thundering beat of her heart slowed as her mind began to drift. Her eyelids drooped as she floated into dreams of hot, hazy days on the water and muscular arms holding her close and promising to keep her safe.
For ever.
* * *
Dane sat in his shorts and concentrated on finishing off the last few bites of the burger and fries he’d ordered from room service, mindful of the soft snores still coming from the pile of bedclothes a few feet away.
What was he still doing here?
Xanthe had been dead to the world ever since he’d come out of the bathroom. He’d thought at first she might be faking sleep to avoid the conversation they still needed to have about why she’d lied to him in his apartment. Letting him believe she had terminated the pregnancy. Why the heck hadn’t she just told him about the miscarriage then, instead of waiting for him to figure it out on his own?
But after ten minutes of watching her sleep, her slim body curled in the bed like a child and barely moving, he’d conceded that not only wasn’t she faking it, but she wasn’t likely to stir until morning.
Given that, he had no business hanging around. They weren’t a couple. And he didn’t much like hanging around after sex even when the woman he’d just had sex with was a casual date, let alone his almost-ex-wife.
But once he’d begun to get dressed he’d been unable to locate his T-shirt. After hunting for a good ten minutes, he’d finally spotted a blue cuff peeking out from under the bedclothes. A quick inspection under the covers had been enough to locate the missing shirt—and trigger a series of unwanted memories.
Xanthe in her wet swimsuit on the deck of the pocket cruiser, pulling on his old high school sweatshirt to ward off the chill after a make-out session in the water. Him grabbing one of his work shirts to throw over her as she raced ahead of him into the motel bathroom, her belly rebelling in pregnancy. And a boatload of other equally vivid memories—some mercilessly erotic, others painfully poignant.
That old feeling of protectiveness had struck him hard in the chest—and stopped him from walking out.
He’d messed up ten years ago. She was right. He hadn’t been there when she needed him. But there was nothing he could do about that now. Except apologise, and she hadn’t wanted his apology.
He knew a damn distraction technique when he saw one, and that was what she’d done—used sex and chemistry as a means of keeping conversation at a minimum.
He’d been mad about that once he’d figured it out in the shower, but he’d calmed d
own enough now to see the irony. After all, mind-blowing sex had always been his go-to distraction technique when they were kids together and she’d asked him probing questions about the humiliating scars on his back.
Dumping the last of the burger on the plate, he covered the remains of the meal with the silver hood and wheeled the room service trolley into the hall.
Uneasiness settled over him as he returned to the suite. He needed to leave. She could keep the undershirt. He had a hundred others just like it. He didn’t even know what he was still doing here.
But as he approached the bed to grab his work shirt off the floor and finish getting dressed a muffled sob rose from the lump of bedclothes, followed by a whimper of distress.
Edging the cover down, he looked at her face devoid of make-up, fresh and innocent, like the girl he remembered. But then her brow puckered, her lips drew tight, and her hand curled into a tight fist on the pillow beside her head. Rapid movement under her eyelids suggested she was having some kind of nightmare as she stifled another sob.
His heart punched his ribcage and got wedged in his throat. He needed to go. But instead of heading for the door he crouched beside the bed and rested his palm on her hair. He brushed the wild curling mass back from her forehead, instinct overriding common sense.
‘Shh, Red, everything’s okay. Go back to sleep.’
