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She narrowed her gaze and nodded, pulling a piece of paper from her back pocket and closing the distance between them, so she could hand it to him. He took it, but before she could move away, he snaked a hand out and caught her wrist, holding her where she was, his expression a mask of warning. He read the name to José then disconnected the call, slipping his phone back in his pocket.
“Let me go,” she said with cool determination, but her eyes were huge and her breath raspy. He could feel the fine tremor of her flesh, the gushing of her pulse and he knew that she was battling through this raging torrent of desire, just the same as he was.
But she was tired.
So tired. One look at her face and he felt her exhaustion as though it were an actual feature on her face, like another nose. He felt it as though he shared it.
“You’re tired,” he said, and she rolled her eyes in a way that flickered a tiny flame of amusement to life.
“Yes. I’m tired. But I’ll be fine. I need to sit with Josh.”
“I’ll do that,” he said, the words graveled, called from deep within his soul.
Her eyes flew wide. Was she surprised by the offer? Could he blame her for being so?
“He’ll be surprised if he wakes up in a strange room with a strange man. He’ll be terrified.” Her condemnation was obvious.
“Then I’ll come and get you,” he said. “My room is right next door. You’ll likely wake when he does.”
Her cheeks flushed pale pink, and her eyes jerked away from his. Her breathing was labored and the air throbbed with sensual heat. It flared between them, and if she looked even slightly less wrecked, he would have lifted her to his desk and taken her amongst the files and stationery.
“Your room,” she whispered, and a shiver ran the length of her body. From his vantage point, he could clearly see the way her nipples were straining against her clothes, two beautiful peaks hard and begging for his touch.
“Come with me,” he commanded, the words angrier than he’d intended. Only he was angry at himself and his animalistic impulses to take her even when she had been through hell looking after their son.
He held the door open and she preceded him through it then waited with a degree of uncertainty. He moved ahead of her, his face stony and impassive, as he strode down the corridor. He moved past Joshua’s room, and a distance away, before stopping and tilting his head, indicating that she should go inside.
She appeared to hold her breath as she did so, and when she entered, she still held it, so she was almost completely frozen. Almost. Her eyes moved. From the enormous bay window that overlooked Kensington Gardens to the wall of mirrors that marked the large dressing room, to the glossy white door that led to an ensuite, to a Rembrandt he had hanging across from the bed, and finally, to the bed itself. The king-size bed with crisp white bedlinen and a grey throw blanket at the foot, and plush European pillows.
She walked towards it, her fingers running over the bedlinen, her expression tight when she turned to face him.
“You really mean for me to sleep in here? With you?”
His eyes fired with glittering intent. “Yes.”
She wanted to fight that, but perhaps the fight had left her, because she simply let out a shuddering breath and then nodded. He watched as she kicked off her shoes and shrugged out of her jacket, laying it on the edge of a chair, then pulled back the duvet.
“Don’t let me sleep long,” she said, climbing into the bed. She looked so small, and so uncomfortable. Her body was crammed hard to the edge, as though by sleeping right there she was somehow resisting the symbolism of actually being in his bed. As though she were only half-there. She yawned. “And wake me as soon as Josh wakes. Or if he’s sick. Or needs me.”
He nodded, but speech was beyond him. He knew he hated her, and yet the sight of her in his bed, all soft and sweetly feminine, almost made him forget that for a moment. At the door to his room he pressed a button, just below the light switch, and the blinds came down, turning the room into a blackout.
“Sleep tight, Elizabeth.”
Chapter 8
SLEEP TIGHT.
Not bloody likely.
Elizabeth lay down in his enormous, fluffy, cloud-like bed and stared at the painting on the wall opposite – it couldn’t be genuine, could it? And then he plunged the room into total darkness, and she wished he hadn’t, because robbing her eyes of sight only brightened her other senses, so that the scent of Xavier Salbatore surrounded her, shrouding her in memories and agonizing desire.
But mere minutes after her head hit the pillow, the fevered, angry thoughts dissipated, leaving only powerful, seductive memories that dragged her into a deep, suffocating sleep.
She slept better than she had in years. She slept with all of her body and mind.
And when she woke, it was to a rumbling, vaguely-familiar laugh.
Xavier!
