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“Lie down,” I snap. “Before you hurt yourself further.”
“I need to find Gabriel Lacroix.”
“You found him.”
She blinks at me. The poor thing reminds me of a little bird, lost and broken and at the mercy of the world. “You?”
I nod. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Raquel,” she whispers. “Raquel McHale.”
My throat goes dry. “Raquel,” I echo, equal parts amazed and bewildered. It suits her, a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. A thought rips me from my thoughts, however. “Wait a second, you’re Chet’s daughter?”
She passes out again before I get an answer, but I don’t need one. Now that I’ve wiped most of the dried blood off her face, I can see the resemblance. She has Chet’s straight nose and high cheekbones. I’m fascinated by her full lips, her long lashes, and the light scent of peaches beneath the salty tang of blood in the air.
Now that I have a moment of calm, it’s hard to deny her beauty. Raquel is…
Wow.
Stunning is probably the best way to put it. I have to tear my eyes away as I pull the blankets up to cover her body, ignoring the strain in my pants. Just because she’s out cold, that doesn’t give me the right to ogle her. I’m not a fucking creep, and if she really is Chet’s daughter, that makes her doubly off-limits.
I take a seat on the edge of the bed and breathe a heavy sigh.
Well, shit. So much for our peaceful Friday morning.
Chapter 3
Raquel
While I’m glad I’m not dead, the raging headache makes me wish I was. The pounding pressure behind my eyes is so overwhelming that I’m nauseous. Gulping air, I summon all the strength I can muster and sit upright in bed. The blanket slips from my shoulders and bunches around my stomach. It’s then, and only then, that I realize I’m wearing nothing but a man’s oversized shirt. I don’t even have underwear or pants on.
Someone undressed me.
Heat floods my cheeks, my rabbit heart racing like it has a marathon to win. Embarrassment weighs heavily in my chest as questions race through my head.
Where am I? Where are my clothes?Whoundressed me?
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
A man’s deep voice rumbles straight through me. I crane my neck to the side, startled to find a man seated casually in an armchair next to my bed. I have half a mind to scream, but then my memories rush back in with the force of a tidal wave.
The explosion. My getaway. Crashing through someone’s front yard because I drove straight through the night and could barely stay awake.
I instinctively clutch the blanket to my chest with a gasp.
The man simply chuckles. “Relax. I had to patch up your wounds and make sure you didn’t ruin the sheets.”
My tongue doesn’t work. No matter how hard I try to speak, I can’t bring myself to form sounds. This man is drop deadgorgeous. If I weren’t feeling like a splintered mass of bones, I’d already be on my way to steal him from a criminal’s private collection because —damn— is he a work of art!
He has cropped chestnut brown hair and green eyes. His strong jaw is accentuated by a seductive five o’clock shadow. There’s an air of severity to him, a stoicism and silence that is actually a bit uncomfortable to sit in for too long. I think it’s the concentration of his gaze and the way that he sits completely still, a statue of fine marble caught in a contemplative pose. He looks to be around Dad’s age, maybe in his early forties, though his rigid stature and seemingly permanent scowl makes it hard to tell.
The longer I stare at him, the hotter my skin burns. He smells delicious, like vanilla and sandalwood. A wet heat pools between my legs at the thought of being surrounded by his sheets inhisbed. He said he patched up my wounds, so does this mean he was the one to take my clothes off?
I don’t know why the idea turns me on so much.
“Gabriel?” I whisper, unsure.
He nods. “Yes. Though I must ask that you call me Pierre while you’re here. The other members of the household don’t know me by that name.”
