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I don’t know who moves first, but she’s already in the guest bedroom, slamming the door shut before I can even take a step. “Goodnight, Mr. Bellamy,” she croons from behind the door. A second later, I hear a telltaleclick.
“Locked doors, Evelyn?” I try the knob to reinforce the suspicion—the door won’t budge. “You really don’t trust yourself…”
“Trustmyself?” She sounds close. I imagine her on the other side, her back braced against the door, fighting to keep her voice from losing its polished cadence. “Frankly, Mr. Bellamy, the only person in this equation I do not trust is you.”
I laugh, but the sound echoes back harsher than expected. “Perhaps it’s better if you lock yourself in,” I admit. “Because I wouldn’t want to…” I shake my head and start for my bedroom. “Never mind.”
I’m halfway down the hallway when I hear the door open. I find her standing in the doorway, still only in the bra and panties, her chin high in the air. “You what? Because you wouldn’t want to what?”
I shrug, forcing myself to meet her gaze. I don’t know if it’s because she’s breathing faster, her chest heaving with indignation, but the entire bloody hallway smells like roses. “Because I wouldn’t trust myselfnotto call for security if you creep into my bed again tonight. Frankly, Ms. King, a lack of employment has left you unsure of boundaries.”
Her mouth falls open. Her eyes widen. One might think I’d slapped her before her expression transforms within a second. She goes from furious to smiling. Speechless to simpering.
“Oh really?”
I’ve never heard such a pleasant tone come from her lips. I’m on guard before she starts toward me, her eyes blazing. She pushes past me, trailing that floral scent, and marches right to my bedroom and over the threshold.
“I wouldn’t want to affect your sleep,” she says while lifting the edge of the duvet. “So why don’t I just take your bed? I’m sure you don’t mind—”
“I do mind.” She nearly jumps out of her skin when I advance another step, approaching the bed. “One non-negotiable fixture of my bed isme.I’m sure you prefer the safety of a locked door anyway.”
“Are you sure you want to risk it?” She lifts one leg and braces the knee against the mattress as if readying to slip beneath the covers. “What if I can’t keep mycreepinghands to myself during the night?”
“I suppose you’ll just have to keep the consequences in mind,” I say, invoking my previous threat to call security.
“And what about you?” She braces more of her weight onto her knee. “Are you sure you can keepyourhands to yourself, Mr. Bellamy?”
I turn to the dresser and undo my tie before shrugging off my suit jacket. “Trust me, Evelyn. I will have no damn problem in that department.”
I hear her inhale sharply and then exhale. “Good,” she says. “Because I sleep in the nude.”
Bloody hell.My jaw tightens. I undo my shirt and kick off my oxfords, but leave the slacks on. When I turn to the bed, I find her sitting on the edge with her back to me… and her bra in her hands.
“That’s fine with me.” My damn voice sounds too rough. She stiffens but reaches back to drag a corner of the duvet closer and over her shoulders.
“Fine.” She slides her body onto the mattress, each movement slow and deliberate to keep every inch of her shielded by the blanket. She gazes up at me, her eyes daring with the duvet drawn to her chin. “Goodnight, Mr. Bellamy.”
I approach the bed from the other end and wrench the linens back. I position myself with my back facing her. “Goodnight, Ms. King.”
CHAPTER21
evie
Iwake up in Graeme Bellamy’s bed—naked—for the… No matter the number, this latest occurrence marks too many damn times. I wish I’d spent the night tossing and turning—as one might while sleeping beside a man who, for all intents and purposes, seems to thrive on my discomfort. Not to mention the mess with Danny and whoever might be after him potentially tracking me here.
I should have been a nervous wreck all night.
But no, my limp, languid muscles say it all. I’ve slept better than I have in… Way too long. Ever, even? I blame the mattress. It feels like heaven in comparison to the lumpy monstrosity from the motel. My body is liquid, every muscle rejuvenated and soothed—and the fact hasnothingat all to do with the faint heat ghosting my skin or the scent in my nostrils. How in the hell is it possible for someone to smell so damn good? I bury my nose into the sheets and inhale before I can stop myself. Spice. Musk. Cologne. Graeme Bellamy is a drug unto himself, and I hate myself for the warmth that spreads throughout my belly as I breathe him in.
I can tell without even opening my eyes that it’s already morning. Warm sunlight grazes the part of my shoulder not covered by the blanket. I don’t know if he’s awake, though I assume it’s nearing the time he should arrive at the office. As if my thoughts are the cue, I feel the mattress shift beneath the weight of another moving body.
“Four times.” He sounds husky in the morning, and my damn toes curl within the sheets, the traitors. “I counted,” he adds.
I take my time responding, arching my back to stretch out my body as though I’ve just woken up. “Four, what?”
“Four times that you touched me during the night.”
I drag myself upright, clutching the top sheet to my chest. I crane my neck to look down at him and instantly regret it. Polished, the man is handsome. Rugged, with tousled bed-head and heavy-lidded eyes, the bastard is a god. My heart skips a beat when I take him in—several beats, in fact.
