The East Wing master suite was ridiculous. It had a fireplace, a balcony overlooking the ocean, and a bed that was roughly the size of a small island.
Kenton closed the door and leaned against it, exhaling deeply.
"She knows," he said. "She's doing this on purpose."
"Obviously." Carleigh walked to the closet to unpack her bag. She opened the mahogany doors and stopped.
"Where are my clothes?"
Kenton walked over. The closet was empty of the sensible pajamas she had packed. Instead, hanging on the silk padded hangers, were rows of sheer, lace negligees. Red, black, white. All transparent.
"Oh for God's sake," Kenton groaned. "Mother."
"I can't wear these," Carleigh said, her face heating up. She grabbed a scrap of black lace. "This is dental floss."
"Check the drawers."
Empty. Just more silk.
"I'm sleeping in my dress," Carleigh announced.
"Don't be stupid. It's silk, it will wrinkle and you have to wear it to brunch tomorrow." Kenton walked to his suitcase. He pulled out a crisp white dress shirt.
He tossed it to her. "Wear this."
Carleigh caught it. It was soft, high-thread-count cotton. "Fine."
She went into the bathroom. She showered quickly, trying to keep her bandaged hand dry. When she put on the shirt, it hit her mid-thigh. It smelled like him. That scent-clean, masculine, familiar-wrapped around her like a ghost.
She stepped out.
Kenton was standing by the window, looking out at the dark ocean. He had taken off his jacket and tie. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top.
He turned when he heard her. His gaze dropped to her legs, bare beneath the hem of his shirt. He swallowed hard. The room seemed to get five degrees hotter.
"You take the bed," he said, his voice rough. "I'll sleep on the chaise."
"The chaise is five feet long, Kenton. You're six-two."
"I'll manage."
He turned off the lights. The room plunged into darkness, lit only by the dying embers of the fire.
Carleigh crawled into the massive bed. The sheets were cold. She stayed on the far, far left edge, practically hanging off.
She heard Kenton shifting on the chaise lounge. A groan of discomfort. A sigh. Then silence.
Two hours later, a crack of thunder shook the house. The storm had broken.
Carleigh gasped, sitting up. She hated thunder.
"Carleigh?" Kenton's voice came from the darkness.
"I'm fine," she lied, her voice trembling.
Another crash, louder this time. A flash of lightning illuminated the room.
"Move over," Kenton said.
She felt the mattress dip. He was in the bed.
"Kenton-"
"Shut up. It's a big bed. Stay on your side."
He lay down on the far right. There was a mile of space between them. But his presence was there. Warm. Solid.
Carleigh lay back down. The thunder rumbled again, but it felt distant now. The rhythm of Kenton's breathing filled the space between them.
Sometime in the night, the temperature dropped. In her sleep, seeking warmth, Carleigh rolled over. She backed into something solid.
An arm wrapped around her waist. A heavy, muscular arm. It pulled her flush against a hard chest. A nose buried itself in her hair, inhaling deeply.
"Mine," a deep voice rumbled in sleep.
Carleigh's body went rigid. The warmth was a trap, the scent of his skin a trigger. The emergency room, the flash of a needle, the cold indifference in his eyes-it all came rushing back. Her breath caught in her throat, a silent scream. This wasn't comfort; it was capture. Every muscle screamed to flee, but she was paralyzed by the memory and the weight of his arm. She lay there, wide awake in the dark, a prisoner in his unconscious embrace, counting every one of his breaths and praying for the dawn.
