She was twenty-eight, he noted, only child of Matthew and Georgina Riggs, née Corrigan—divorced. She’d studied art at Columbia. Articles on her were few and far between, which told him she shied away from the media. But she was represented by one of the top artist agencies in New York. According to her official bio, she’d had her first major showing at the Windward Gallery, New York, at the tender age of twenty-two, and lived quietly in the mountains of North Carolina.
Unmarried, which was handy.
There was, he thought, a great deal more to Sasha Riggs than that.
So he’d have to find out the great deal more, one way or the other. But not tonight, he decided. For tonight, he’d let it all rest, and see what came.
He set the tablet aside, stripped down. He might have preferred the night to the morning, but since he had morning to face, he’d get a decent night’s sleep.
He left the curtains and windows open and, listening to the night, thinking of stars, of fortune, of women with secrets, began to drift off.
The knock on the door brought him out of the half sleep and into mild annoyance. Rolling out of bed, he snatched up his jeans, tugged them on.
It didn’t surprise him overmuch to find Sasha at the door, but it did to see her in the hallway wearing a thin white sleep-slip that barely hit the middle of her very pretty thighs.
“Well now, this is interesting.”
“She’s at the window.”
“Who would that be?” He’d started to smile, but when his gaze finally managed to travel from those thighs up the white silk, beyond breasts and throat to meet her eyes, the smile faded off.
Dream-walking, he thought. The trance glazed her eyes like glass.
“Where are you, Sasha?”
“With you. She’s at the window. She said if I let her in, she’d give me my heart’s desire. But she’s made of lies. We should make her leave.”
“Let’s have a look.”
He took her hand, led her back across the hall, into her room. Shut the door behind him.
She had it dark as a cave, he noted, curtains drawn tight across the windows. He added some light, and Sasha lifted a hand, gestured toward the curtains.
“There she is. I told her to go away, but there she is.”
“Stay here.” He walked to the window, yanked the curtains open. He saw a shadow pass—a bare flicker—thought he heard a rustle, like the dry wings of a bat. Then there was nothing but the sea under a three-quarter moon.
“There, she’s gone.” Sasha smiled at him. “I knew she’d leave if you were here. You worry her.”
“Do I?” he queried.
“I can feel some of what she feels. Not all. I don’t want to feel all.” Hugging herself, she rubbed her arms. “She left it cold. It’s fire she wants here, but she left the cold behind.”
“Come, back to bed with you, where it’s warm.”
To settle it, he moved to her, picked her up, carried her over.
“You smell of the forest I painted.”
“Well now, I’ve spent considerable time there.” He tucked the covers around her. “Warmer now, are you?”
“She’ll come back.”
“Not tonight.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. You can sleep now.”
“All right.” And with a trust that baffled him, she closed her eyes.
Studying her, Bran considered his options. He could go back to his room, assume she’d come for him if she needed to. He could spend a very uncomfortable night on the floor. Or . . .
He stretched out beside her, watched night press against the window. She smelled of orange blossoms, he realized. And breathing her in, slept.
CHAPTER THREE
Warm, blissfully content, Sasha rose out of sleep slowly, like drifting up to the surface of a quiet pool to float. Wanting to cling to that sensation of feeling safe, happy, she kept her eyes closed, gave herself permission to snuggle in for just five minutes more.
On a sigh, she glided her hand up the sheet.
And froze.
Not the sheet, but skin. Warm, firm skin. With a heart beating under her palm.
Her eyes popped open. The first shock was seeing Bran, sleeping still, his face inches from hers. The next was realizing her head was nestled on his shoulder as if it belonged there. They were curled up together like contented lovers, his arm cradled under her, her hand resting on his heart.
And it wasn’t a dream.
On a strangled gasp, she scrambled back, rolled, nearly tumbled off the bed before she gained her feet.
He sat up with a jerk, all tousled hair, stubble-shadowed cheeks, and hard, naked chest. “What?” he demanded, as those dark eyes cleared of sleep instantly. “What?”
“What?” she tossed back, pointing at him. “What?” And jabbed her finger in the air. “What!”