“What? Why not?”
“It’s raining and dark. You’re tired, and I don’t have to be anywhere.”
But where would I sleep? Turning, I scan the warehouse-sized penthouse. The kitchen and dining area opens into the monstrous sitting room. There’s a hall that leads to… A bedroom? Multiple bedrooms?
I head in that direction, veer into the dimly lighted corridor, and poke my head in the first doorway.
A workout room the size of my house stretches toward an exterior glass wall. Beyond the windows is a rooftop pool, the illuminated blue water rippling beneath the rain.
“Rich people,” I mumble, “have all the things.”
“Indeed.” His arrogant self-assertion breathes against my nape.
I continue down the hall, pausing at the only other doorway. His bedroom.
He slips past me and sets the gift bag on a tall bureau. I want to know what’s in that bag, but it came from Marlo. If their relationship is at a gift-giving level, I’d rather not know.
Why does it matter? Trace is a job, not a lover or boyfriend or even a friend.
Except I’m standing on the threshold of his bedroom, thinking about the possibility of sleeping in his huge king-of-the-casino-sized bed.
The exposed brick walls bring the warehouse ambiance into this space, with large picture windows, a private balcony, and a bird’s-eye view of the Mississippi River. The charcoal bedding plays off the elegant use of red in the pinstriped furniture gathered around a fireplace and wall-mounted TV screen. It’s masculine and industrial. Modern and cozy.
“Is this the only bedroom?” I lean a shoulder against the door jamb.
He nods. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“How many women do you say that to?”
His head drops, and his hands fall to his hips, as if he’s annoyed by my question.
I can’t figure him out.
He disappears into a closet and returns a moment later with a white collared shirt. “You can wear this to bed.”
It’s a beautiful herringbone shirt, with a split yoke between the shoulder blades and perfectly aligned white stripes. I can’t imagine what it cost, and he wants me to sleep in it?
I pull the buttons through the holes. “I never agreed to stay.”
He wings up a brow.
Yeah, it was a stupid thing to say. We both know I’m not going anywhere.
“You can dress in the bathroom.” He flicks a finger at the double-wide doorway to the en suite.
“I’m a dancer. We change clothes anywhere and everywhere.”
“Suit yourself.” He steps back into the closet and closes the door partway, blocking my view.
Man, he’s a hard nut to crack.
Speaking of nuts, what am I doing? Should I seduce him? Ignore him? Play with him? Play hard to get with him? I’m so out of practice, I don’t know where to begin. But I do know what I want.
Him.
Preferably on top, but I’ll take him behind, beneath, and upside down. I’m flexible like that.
I strip my clothes and undergarments, pull on his shirt, and button the front up to my breasts, leaving the neck wide around my chest. Then I roll up the ten-feet-too-long sleeves and let the collar slide off my shoulder. But not before I sniff the fabric and shiver a little.
The closet door swings open, and swear to God, the man who emerges transports me into the era of Viking kings and barbarian battles.
Tall, lean, and bare-chested, he moves with graceful intensity toward the bed. Brawn ripples across his back as he pulls down the bedding. Textured blond hair falls rebelliously over his brow as he picks up the clothes I left on the floor. His navy pajama pants hang so low on his sculpted hips I have to swallow the drool pooling in my mouth.
“What?” His head cocks.
He knows what.
“You…uh…” Good God, I’m stammering. Dizzy. Pulsing between my legs. “Gimme a minute. This is a lot to take in.”
He gives me the same full-body perusal, his eyes glittering with unguardedness. An air of casualness. All pomp and circumstance discarded with the suit. Yet standing there all chiseled and confident, he looks more formidable than ever.
“You make use of that workout room, huh?” I circle his strong stance, devouring the cuts of muscle and golden dusting of hair on his forearms and below his navel.
He pinches the pressed collar that hangs off my shoulder and slides it toward my neck, causing the other side to fall. “I should’ve given you a bigger shirt.”
A laugh escapes me. “The angry scowler suddenly makes jokes when he puts on pajamas? Is that your superpower?”
“That’s not a superpower.” His lips twitch for a fraction of a second before they return to their natural downward bow.
“It could be. Lure unsuspecting women into your bedroom with your cryptic glare. Out come the pajamas and bam! Laughter and mayhem. Like the Joker.”