"You're drunk," she reminded him with a pat on the arm. "Now, let go and we'll get you upstairs, okay?"
He leaned on her heavily as they made their way-slowly-toward the lobby elevator. The girl at the front desk gave her a grateful look as Violet passed by, and held the elevator open for them as Violet and her handsy, drunken companion continued to grab her and exclaim how wonderful her hair smelled. Eventually, though, she got him up to his room and managed to get the keycard out of his wallet and in the door.
"Almost there," she encouraged.
"Almost to kissing?"
She stifled a laugh at the tipsy hope in his voice. "Almost."
They wobbled their way across his suite to his bed, and he collapsed into it, flopping onto his back with a groan. Violet pulled back just in time before he dragged her down with him, though her chin-length hair went flying. "Ooof."
"In bed," he said, as proud as if he'd accomplished something. He raised his arms, clearly expecting her to leap into them.
She snorted. "Fat chance." She glanced down at his legs and then gestured at his feet. "Let's get those shoes off of you, okay?" Violet leaned in and bent over to untie his laces. For a billionaire with tons of money, he sure did have some grubby sneakers on.
"I don't mind when you're angry at me, you know."
She continued to work on a knot in the laces. "That's a good thing, then, because I'm angry at you a lot."
"It's when you ignore me I can't stand it. When you give up on me and cut me out. It's like you're gone again, and I hate it."
Damn it, she needed to stop feeling sorry for the man. Pulling viciously on his shoe, she managed to tug it off and tossed it to the floor. His sock followed a moment later. "Other foot now."
"Miss you," he said softly.
She ignored him, prying off his other shoe, then jerked off his sock. "There we go. You should probably take off your jacket, too. And that shirt is filthy. Come on."
He sat up slowly, and she helped him remove his clothing. When his shirt came off, he groaned and fell back on the bed, scratching his chest. "Man, that's good."
She gazed down at his chest in surprise. She remembered a tall, lanky Jonathan with a lean, boyish chest and nary a chest hair. He'd filled out. His arms were tanned and brawny, ripped with muscle. His pectorals were furred with a light sprinkling of dark chest hair, and there was a trail down his abdomen that just begged to be followed. Violet felt the oddest urge to run her fingers along the cords of his muscles and see if they felt as hard as they looked. Oh, Jesus. He even had a super flat abdomen and little taut ridges down at his hips. Oh, that was sexy.
God, that wasn't fair. Ten years had passed. He should be gross and balding, not hotter than she'd ever seen him.
And he was gazing up at her with that dopey, drunken smile on his face while she was lusting over his tanned, tight abs. She saw an ugly black tattoo of skulls and money on his upper arm. "Drunken night in Rio?"
"Nope." And he just smiled at her. "Do I get my kiss now?"
"Boy, you sure did fixate on that, didn't you?" Violet muttered, but she considered him for a long moment. At least he was out of the damn bar. "Brush your teeth first."
"Yes, ma'am."
"That's yes, Ms. DeWitt," she corrected in a sassy voice, then wanted to slap herself for flirting with her drunken ex-lover. Terrible idea, Violet. This man was bad news. She just needed to keep reminding herself that. "Go on." She wiggled her fingers in the direction of the bathroom. "Brush up."
He bounded up from the bed-and nearly cracked his head open, running into the wall. She smothered a giggle and sat down on the edge of the bed as he wove his way, stumbling, to the bathroom and began to vigorously brush his teeth. He kept glancing back to her as if checking to make sure she was still on the bed and hadn't escaped.
If it had been anyone but Jonathan, she would have been amused.
But since it was Jonathan, she was just . . . confused. He'd been so upset over their fight that he'd taken to drinking, and now that she was with him, he was acting like a giddy-albeit drunken-schoolboy. It didn't make sense, really.
Unless everything she'd thought about him was a lie.
Maybe he really hadn't known about the baby. She wanted to ask him about it, to get a real, straight, honest answer out of him, but he was drunk. There was no point in questioning a drunk man. It would have to wait. She clasped her hands and watched as he rinsed his mouth, then used mouthwash with great gusto, swishing away to ensure his mouth would be clean enough for their kiss.
Then, he wobbled back into the room and gave her a slit-eyed smile, his eyes practically closed out of a mix of exhaustion and alcohol. "Kiss me now?"