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What if, even after her blushing confession about wanting him, she’d changed her mind and fled?
The very thought sent a vicious twist of reaction through his stomach. He’d want to go after her, but he wouldn’t. He’d barely been able to rationalise his actions the first time. If he chased her down again he’d look like a madman.
He stepped out of the elevator and scanned the large open-plan living space.
Her bags were gone.
His hands curled into fists.
No. No.
‘Jordan?’
He checked the kitchen, found it empty, and was about to turn and stride out when his gaze caught on a bowl filled with a bright assortment of fruit on one of the black granite surfaces.
The tension in his muscles eased a bit. The bowl hadn’t been there earlier. How likely was it that Jordan had decided to leave him a parting gift of fruit?
Quickening his pace, he headed towards the bedrooms, and there, in the smallest of the rooms, were her rucksack and handbag.
Mildly amused, he grabbed the bags and took them to the master bedroom. Did she think he would let her sleep in a separate room? He wasn’t the kind of man who took his pleasure with a woman and then slept alone. When he took a lover to his bed he expected to find her next to him in the morning, preferably with a smile on her face and a body that was soft and willing.
He returned to the living room and spotted what he’d missed earlier—the large sliding door to the terrace sitting slightly ajar. He still couldn’t see her, though—not until he went outside and saw she’d dragged one of the loungers into a shaded back corner of the terrace to escape the sun.
Was she sleeping?
He approached quietly. She lay on her side, her long legs curled up, her cheek resting on the back of one hand. Her hair flowed loose and he marvelled at the melding shades of red and copper and gold that never failed to fascinate him.
A paperback lay on the ground, a cardboard bookmark next to it. The haphazard placement of each suggested the book might have slipped from her grasp when she’d nodded off.
Would she be annoyed when she woke to find she’d lost her place?
He found his mouth curving as he pictured tha
t little scowl she developed when she was unhappy about something—the one that made her look about as fearsome as a grumpy kitten with its hackles up.
He’d seen that expression a number of times in the last five days—usually when she was making her dissatisfaction with his behaviour known.
It occurred to him there was no one in his life who dared to call him out on his arrogance the way she did—except maybe for his mother, who did so only occasionally and was wise enough to know when to give his temper a wide berth.
He crouched beside the lounger, unable to resist tucking a stray copper curl behind her ear. Her nose was still pink from yesterday, and he was pleased she’d sought the shade to protect her skin.
She stirred, her soft lips parting, but her eyes stayed closed. She whispered something and he leaned in to catch the words.
‘Is she coming back?’
He realised she was still asleep, or maybe hovering in that place between sleep and wakefulness where dreams and reality sometimes blurred.
Had she meant Camila?
His heartbeat slowed as he thought back to that first meeting in his office.
Six weeks. Wasn’t that how long she’d said it had been since her stepmother had died?
It wasn’t long.
A sudden surge of tenderness took the edge off the potent, ever-present desire that hummed inside him like an electric current when he was around her.
Jordan projected such natural buoyancy and strength it was easy to forget she must still be grieving. Hurting.
