lids parted, and she struggled to focus on the handsome face across from her. “Please don’t. He’ll just worry.”
“He should worry.” He nodded toward her feet. “Where are your shoes, Chloe?”
She gnawed the inside of her cheek. Why hadn’t she come up with a plausible explanation for that?
Because there wasn’t one. Other than the truth, which she wasn’t ready to voice.
Why had she ever thought she could “vamp” anyone? Especially her husband, whose rough-and-tumble approach to lovemaking did nothing but leave her feeling sore and inadequate. She was pretty sure the woman in her bed hadn’t been crying out in pain, so the problem wasn’t with her husband, evidently.
Frigid. The word echoed in her head, the mean nastiness of it making the hair rise on the nape of her neck.
She lifted the glass and found it empty. Held it out.
“I don’t think...” Brad began.
Only to stop when she whispered, “Please.”
Getting up, he went over to the bar, retrieved a cut-glass decanter of amber liquid and poured some in her glass, the lug-lug from the bottle strangely satisfying.
She noticed he didn’t refill his own tumbler, just took up his post again and watched her. Her shoulder hitched in an awkward shrug. “If you were in the middle of doing something, don’t let me stop you.”
She giggled as she said the last word, and her eyes widened. “Sorry. It’s been a while.” And she’d never been much of a drinker. It was amazing how it dulled the pain, though.
Something she could get used to.
He ignored her comment and said, “Shoes?”
Oh, that’s right. He wanted to know what she’d done with her stupid shoes.
“I left them behind, along with all my other little shackles.” That rock in her ring hadn’t been so little. But then again, her daddy’s investment money had probably paid for it, too. Something about that thought made her laugh again.
Brad’s hand covered hers, his fingers as warm as fire. Just like the alcohol sloshing around inside her. But when she tried to lift the glass to her lips, it wouldn’t move. Because Brad was physically holding her arm in place.
“Hey.” She tried to tug free of his grip.
“I think you’ve had enough for tonight.”
“Oh, no. Not nearly enough.” Her head felt like some kind of weird flower that when deprived of drink began to wilt...wilt...wilt...until someone watered it again. She snapped it back upright when her forehead touched Brad’s muscular arm and tried to burrow into it, a strange lethargy taking hold of her.
Gentle fingers prised hers loose from the glass and set the drink on the wooden floor beside the ottoman. Just as she started to wilt again she felt arms at her back, beneath her knees, and she levitated just like she’d seen in those horror movies when a demon possessed someone’s body. But when she tried to hold her arms out to float higher, she found them trapped against her sides.
And while this demon growled in a low, deep voice just like the ones in the films, the tone didn’t sound angry. Instead, the soft words circled the air above her face. She pulled them into her lungs, knowing somehow this being was powerful enough to keep all the other demons at bay. Including Travis. Her breath exited again on a sigh, along with the will to do anything but snuggle close and slip away into oblivion.
* * *
Brad pushed open the door to his bedroom, thankful he and Katrina had not spent time on the king-sized mattress like he’d planned. Instead, he set Chloe on top of the brown silk coverlet, not quite sure what to do with her. The guest bedroom hadn’t been used in ages and he didn’t think the bed even had a sheet on under the tan striped spread.
He gazed down at her, something inside him softening as memories from their childhood washed over him. The three of them bobbing in the pool in Jason’s parents’ backyard, tossing a young Chloe high into the air and hearing her happy scream as she hit the water and sank—then spluttered back to the surface ready for more.
How embarrassed he’d been when his friend’s folks had to come to the police station to pick him up when, at eighteen years of age and fed up with life, he’d careened around a dangerous curve on his motorcycle, intent on putting an end to his pain, only to have the damn bike slide out from under him on the unpaved road before he’d hit full speed. When he’d opened his eyes—still very much alive—all he’d been able to think of was that his parents had been right about him: he screwed up everything.
Chloe’s parents had dragged him home with them that night. He could still see the wide-eyed stare Chloe had given him when he’d walked through the front door, road rash burning up one of his cheeks and the side of his right arm. The way she’d covered her mouth with both hands in horror.
That look had convinced him that checking out really would hurt someone—even if his parents had sniffed in disgust and simply sent his chopper off to the nearest repair shop without a word. They’d tended to show their displeasure in an entirely different way—a locked door was a powerful weapon.
Yes, he and Chloe Jenkins had been through a lot together.
But never in his wildest dreams had he pictured her in his bed. Well, maybe he had. But he’d damned himself from here to eternity for wanting to peel off her wedding dress and have her innocence all to himself.
Shaking off the thought, he started to pull one corner of the bedspread around her, but her coat was still wet. He really didn’t want her to sleep in it—especially as she’d begun shaking the second she’d entered the apartment, despite the fact that late spring in New York tended toward warm and humid. Her continued shivering was the only reason he’d handed her the glass of whiskey in the first place.
He couldn’t do anything about her damp hair—the loose strands a charming melding of blond and red—but he could slip her coat off and at least let her sleep in dry clothes.
His fingers went to the knot at her waist, and he frowned at how tightly she’d cinched the thing. If he’d had any doubts about leaving her in it, that quashed them. He worked at the tie until one loop loosened then slid free. Taking a deep breath, he parted the edges of the coat. The air whistled right back out of his lungs at the sight that met his tired eyes.
Holy hell.
A black negligee—opaque lace on top with a floaty skirt made of some kind of see-through fabric—was all she had on...well, other than the tiniest pair of panties known to mankind. Panties that were clearly visible. Clearly sheer.
He swallowed hard, torn between the desire to devour her with his eyes and wrap the coat tightly back around her. His body was having a tough time knowing which of his mixed signals to obey, although he might as well finish what he’d started and take the coat the rest of the way off, so she could at least sleep in comfort.
Unlike him, who’d probably have this image seared onto the backs of his eyelids for the rest of his life.
He slid the coat off her, turning her body to the side as he pulled it out from under her. What in God’s name had Chloe been thinking, walking around downtown New York like this?
She was the cautious one. The one who’d balked at riding on the back of his motorcycle, even after he’d tamed some of his wilder urges.
And yet here she was. In his apartment, like a sexy flasher from one of those secretary fantasies. She sure as hell hadn’t come here to seduce him with the get-up.
Then who?
He remembered the smeared mascara. The haunted look in her eyes.
It suddenly became clear in a rush. Jason’s random comments about his brother-in-law took on new meaning. How he’d said Chloe never complained but Jason was convinced something