The Billionaire's Virgin(26)

Swept off the streets and into a limo. And from there into a penthouse apartment hundreds of feet up into the air. Given rich food and a bath, then having your clothes taken from you . . .

Yeah, that must be pretty intense.

He sat there for a moment, thinking. Then he got up and went back into the living room, picking up her ragged backpack. Slinging it over his shoulder, he returned to the bedroom and set it down beside the bed, where she’d see it when she woke up.

He didn’t understand most of what she was going through right now, but he imagined she’d want her own things near her. He didn’t have many of those himself, not when everything he had was bought and paid for with his father’s money, a situation he was entirely happy with, because if it wasn’t his then he wasn’t responsible for it.

Except for his mother’s ranch. That, he wanted.

And her. She’s yours now.

Xavier stared at the woman in his bed. The shaking had stopped and she was breathing evenly, deeply asleep now. All snuggled up beneath the comforter like a little animal. Her hair had began to dry in thick silky curls against the white pillow case and he had a sudden intense desire to touch it, run his fingers through it, bury his face in it and inhale that sweet, musky scent again.

But he didn’t. Instead he went over to a chair in the corner of the room and sat in it.

She’d probably never had anyone watch over her while she slept.

Well, he would be the first.

* * *

Mia woke slowly, aware of nothing at first but the fact that she was blissfully warm. Then she realized that not only was she warm, she was also lying on something that was nothing at all like the cold, hard ground of her place behind the Dumpster.

It was soft and warm, just like the thing she was wrapped up in.

For a long moment, she didn’t move, not wanting to open her eyes because she was terribly afraid that this was a dream. That in a second she’d wake up and, instead of this warmth and softness, there would be bone-chilling cold and concrete beneath her, the stink of trash and oil in the air, and the roar of the city in her ears.

But then, if this was a dream, she needed to wake up and face reality, because the longer she lived in dreamland, the harder it was going to be to leave it.

She steeled herself and opened her eyes.

There was a huge window opposite her, not the rough brick of the building she normally slept against, and through the glass poured the dull white light of a snowy winter’s day.

She took a breath, for a second unable to grasp where she was and how she’d gotten here. Why she was warm, not freezing, and lying on softness instead of huddled against rough brick.

Then she remembered.

Xavier. He’d taken her from the streets and brought her back to his penthouse. Given her some food and then a bath and then . . .

A shiver worked its way the entire length of her body and she sat up sharply, her heart thundering in her chest.

She’d fallen asleep in the bath and he’d come in. He’d found her naked and vulnerable in the water.

Yeah, and he didn’t do anything to you, remember?

Mia let out a long breath and leaned back against the headboard of the biggest bed she’d ever seen, let alone been in. No, that’s right, he hadn’t touched her. He’d given her a towel and let her dry off, and then he’d given her a robe to wear.

Glancing down, she found she was still wrapped in said robe, the fabric a dark charcoal color and pretty much the softest thing—apart from the blue beanie—that she’d ever touched. Okay, fine, but she was also naked underneath it and she didn’t much like the idea of that.

Lifting her head, she glanced around the room, trying to spot where he’d left her clothes. She remembered him threatening to take them away and her being a frantic about that. She hadn’t been able to explain it at the time, too exhausted to be coherent, but she needed those clothes. They were hers and since she didn’t have very many things that were, she wanted to keep what she had. Also, if she didn’t have her clothes, she couldn’t leave, and having an escape route if things turned bad was important to her.

No, not “if,” “when.” Because things always turned bad eventually.

Didn’t look like her clothes were here, but then he’d told her he was going to get them cleaned, hadn’t he?

Then another thought struck her, sending a cold spike of panic straight through her gut. What about her backpack? Where was that?

She flung back the comforter, slipping out of the bed. But her feet had barely touched the floor when she spotted the backpack sitting right next to the bed. She was sure she’d left it in the living room, which must mean that he’d brought it into her.