Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(41)

I nodded, and he reached out, capturing my hand. Pressing a kiss to the back, he bowed to me before backing out of the bedroom, a smile on his face.

As soon as the door clicked closed I wanted to collapse, but I was afraid of getting his jet any more dirty than I'd already made it, even though he clearly didn't care about its interior. Stumbling to the door in the back, I let myself into the bathroom.

And it was a bathroom. Utterly decadent. I felt like a jerk just standing in it, but I wasn't about to let a good hot shower go to waste. I turned the water on and stepped inside.

For a long while I stood in the hot spray, watching the water run black and brilliant as the pigments on my skin washed down the drain, until finally it ran clear. Only then did I use the luxurious soap and wash myself. By the time I was done the water was running cold, and I shivered as I stepped out and wrapped myself in a large, fluffy towel that had been sitting on a heated towel rack. I took the opportunity to relieve myself before stepping into the bedroom.

Someone—Malcolm perhaps, but probably a private and discreet in-flight steward—had drawn the shades down on the windows, making it lovely and dim inside the bedroom. The bed stood against one side of the plane, up against the windows, and for a weird moment the thought of sleeping next to a line of windows thirty thousand feet in the air gave me a little thrill of fear, and I realized that if I slept here, I wouldn't have my gun with me.

It'd been years since I'd slept without my gun by my bedside. I always had it. I never stayed over at men's houses. I had to have my gun.

I hadn't thought this through very well...

On the other hand, I didn't think Malcolm was the sort to assault me while I was asleep, seeing as how I was quite willing while I was awake. And it wasn't like someone could just break into a plane, thanks to the aforementioned thirty thousand feet of air between me and the ground. I should be safe.

I didn't really expect to sleep, though. I felt naked. Far more naked than actually being naked felt, which I didn't care about.

I bit my lip, then decided that since I had no idea what was in store for me, I'd better at least try to get some shut eye. Shedding the towel to the floor, because I'm classy like that, I slid under the soft white down comforter and thousand thread-count sheets. The bed was surprisingly warm, and I wrapped myself up in it.

I must have been more tired than I thought, because the moment my head hit the pillow, I passed out.

It was the best sleep I'd ever had.



I really had been more tired than I'd thought, because I slept until we landed in Croatia early in the morning the next day. I'd forgotten that we were passing into a whole new time zone. When I opened my eyes, I was reaching for my bedside table as I always did before I realized it was Tuesday, and I was nowhere near New York City.

The thought shocked me and I sat up.

“Oh, you're awake.”

I turned my head to see Malcolm sitting in a buttery leather chair at the other side of the plane, drawing in a sketchbook. Had he been drawing me while I slept? The thought should have creeped me out a bit, but instead I just felt a burning curiosity to see his sketch. I kept my tongue, though. I hated it when people asked to see my rough work. Or loved it. I could never tell. But I didn't want to know if he was good or bad at it. It would ruin the illusion he had built up around himself, a brilliant man capable of anything.

I wanted to believe in that. I'd been disappointed in too many men before. I wanted to live the fantasy just a few days longer.

While I'd slept, Malcolm had changed into a beautiful pair of slacks, another incredible sweater, and a jacket that was far too fashionable for a man of his age. But he made it look good. He worked it. I realized I was still naked. Behind him, one of the window shades had been pulled up, presumably to give him some light to work by, and I saw the runway outside. Mountains hulked beyond it.

“I need to get dressed,” I said.

“Your clothes will be here soon,” he replied. “I will be very upset if they are not.” He continued sketching in his book. He looked like he actually knew what he was doing. For a moment I watched him, the light from outside illuminating his beautiful face, all planes and angles and hidden strength. The sun on his hair gleamed golden, and I longed to run my fingers through it, but before I could gather up the energy to act on the impulse, the door opened and a young woman entered, carrying an armful of clothes.

Immediately I felt shabby. Impeccably dressed and with long, golden hair curled up on her head in an elaborate coiffure, she was gorgeous. Wide blue eyes took me in, assessing, and then laid her burden down on the chair. “Thank you for your patronage,” she told Malcolm, her beautiful accent rounded, with sharp ends bracketing each word. Smiling at me, she exited.