Talking was only slightly less palatable to her right now than moving was, but she forced herself to do a little. “You have a boat. You can take me back now.”
Explaining had never been on the table.
“And how should I do that? Bundle you up like a hurt kitten and deposit you back on the mainland? Hope you can catch a ride or what?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s easier said than done. Especially when I’ve just spent a day nursing you back to health. I don’t go for having my work undone.”
“A hurt kitten. Work. You’re full of compliments for me.”
“I’m not in a complimenting mood, Andrea.” He stopped abruptly. “Is it even Andrea?”
Well, that was no surprise. Once she left Michael Reynolds’ employ, she knew they would quickly discover her résumé, her whole background, had been fabricated. The only reason they hadn’t before that was that Michael’s previous assistant had been so harried and eager to get on to her next position away from such a demanding boss that she had barely glanced into her successor’s credentials. Then Andrea herself was supremely in charge of such matters once she had assumed the role as Michael Reynolds’ executive assistant.
Mr. Reynolds. An ogre according to most of his prior assistants, he had been the perfect boss for Andrea Prentiss. So aloof he insisted on the formality of not even using first names between them, he had no more interest in her or looking into her background than he did in most people if they were competent and appropriate to their purpose. And although most men would see a young woman’s purpose as sexual—she had no illusions about that—Mr. Reynolds had more than he needed on that score and he had never wanted sex from an executive assistant. Too messy for him and consequently perfect for her. He wanted intelligence, capability and above all else, unflappability. Emotionless unflappability. And for that, she was ideal. Speaking so many languages didn’t hurt either.
She didn’t regret her years with Michael Reynolds. Underneath that hard exterior, he was a good man and she had been happy for him when he fell in love with Vanny Donald. She was only sorry she couldn’t stay to arrange the wedding—assuming he had ever gotten around to asking Vanny—but by then it had proven too risky to stay, for a number of reasons. One of which was standing in front of her now, grilling her.
“Andrea will do,” she said.
“So what’s the deal, then, Andrea? Why the big charade, with Michael I’m talking about. Eight years and you’re not even who you said you were and then you disappear without a word?”
“Thank you for the recap. I’d quite forgotten.” She was trying for her frostiest Stepford secretary voice, but it was rusty and further undercut by the fact that he scooped her up as if she really did weigh no more than a kitten and carried her to the newly made bed, depositing her in the middle, sitting up. He then fluffed the pillows behind her. She wanted to be mad, but it felt so fresh and warm and comfy in his bed. All those years of living as Andrea Prentiss had softened her too much and the last six months had not whipped that need for softness out of her. Sadly. From the way he was glaring at her, she probably wasn’t in for too much more of it. Once she was fully healed—forget about even taking her back in his boat—he’d probably rather toss her into the ocean and make her swim back.
She had a horrible thought. Worse than being tossed into the ocean. “You didn’t tell Michael I was here, did you?”
“Michael, is it now? Not into the character of prim and prissy executive assistant anymore?”
“Did you?”
He watched her carefully, then sat on the edge of the bed. “What if I did? Why does that scare you so much?”
Panicked, she tried to get out of bed and with no more than one hand, he prevented her. “Settle down. My communications systems aren’t exactly state of the art. They were down for the storm and calling big brother wasn’t exactly the first thing on my mind when they got restored.”
“So no one knows I’m here.”
He paused.
“I have to leave if they do.”
“No. No one knows you’re here. Hell, I’m not even sure you’re really here. I’d watch you sleeping and think that maybe I was just dreaming this whole bizarre episode.” He swiped his slight five-o’clock shadow. “The only reason I know it’s not is if I dreamed you showing up here, it sure as well wouldn’t have been with a knife wound and half unconscious.”
The way he said it and the way his eyes quickly swept her face and then skittered away again made her think that he meant he would have dreamed her showing up for sex. That was all he wanted from her originally anyway, wasn’t it? What had possessed her to show up here as if he would care that she was hurt and in trouble?