“He’s going to be fine, Molly.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I have good instincts.” He let his hand drop, as if he’d decided touching her was a bad idea. “You’re shivering. Get in the shower. And don’t lock the door. If you keel over, I want to be able to drag you out before you drown.”
“I’m not going to keel over.”
“Maybe not, but don’t lock the door.” He left the room and she gazed at her surroundings.
If the circumstances had been different she would have been reaching for her phone and sneaking photographs because she was unlikely to see this view again in her lifetime.
She’d never been inside an apartment on Fifth Avenue. The generous expanse of glass that framed the room boasted an incredible view of Central Park. In her apartment, if she stood on the toilet and leaned out of the window, she could see the tops of a few trees, but no way would she ever be able to claim to see the park.
She stripped off her clothes, left them in the room and walked into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the stress of the past couple of hours. She tried not to think about Daniel, a man she barely knew, just a few steps away.
They hadn’t even been on a proper date, and yet without him she wasn’t sure she would have made it through tonight.
Afraid of missing a phone call from the vet, she didn’t linger. Wrapped in an oversize towel, she walked back into the bedroom and saw a pair of jeans and a sweater lying on the bed. The sweater was a soft shade of pink. You didn’t need a qualification in psychology to know it belonged to a woman who wasn’t afraid to release her girlie side.
She wondered how many women had left clothes in Daniel’s apartment.
Her own clothes had vanished, so she had no choice but to wear the ones he’d left her.
The jeans were a tight fit, but the sweater was perfect and it felt good to be clean, even if she did look like a swirl of fondant icing.
“Are you decent?” The deep tones of his voice came through the door and suddenly she felt self-conscious, which was ridiculous given that she was here because of Valentine. It wasn’t romantic, or even personal. In fact her presence in his apartment didn’t have anything to do with their relationship at all.
“Yes.” She croaked out the word. “Come in.”
He strolled into the room and the sudden heat almost suffocated her. Maybe it wasn’t romantic, but it felt personal. Suddenly all she could think about was the way his mouth had felt on hers. The searing heat, the urgency, the dizzying chemistry.
“The clothes fit? I would have given you a bathrobe, but it would have swamped you.”
The thought of walking around his apartment naked under a robe did nothing to cool the heat pumping around her body.
“The clothes are fine, thank you, although whichever one of your girlfriends left them is a little smaller than me.” She tugged slightly at the jeans and saw his gaze travel slowly down her body and linger on her hips.
“They belong to my sister.” His voice was huskier. Thicker. Layered with a new intimacy as if he, too, was reacting to the forced familiarity. “I don’t entertain a whole lot of overnight guests.”
She’d assumed his apartment was as busy as Grand Central Station with women coming and going according to a strict timetable. “Fliss?”
“Harriet.” The corner of his mouth flickered. “Fliss wouldn’t be seen dead wearing pink. She’d think it was some sort of statement. If you know her, then you probably know that.”
“I don’t know her well. We exchange a few words when I drop off Valentine, that’s all.” But now she had a million questions, most of them about Daniel. She’d thought he was a player, but now he was telling her he didn’t have overnight guests. “Having a woman in your apartment is unfamiliar?”
“I work long hours, more hours than most relationships can tolerate. When I date—and that is nowhere near as often as rumor would have you believe—I’m often late, or I end up canceling, so most of the time I relax by seeing friends. I sent your clothes to be cleaned, by the way, along with my suit. They’ll be back here tomorrow. You must be hungry. Come downstairs and I’ll make you something to eat.” He walked out of the room and she stared after him, digesting everything he’d said.
Her stomach was knotted with tension, as were her limbs. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to force food past her dry throat.
She told herself her lack of appetite was caused by anxiety about Valentine, but in reality she knew the cause was more complicated than that.
She followed him, passing a large book-lined study and a master bedroom decorated in muted shades of green and brown. The place had a feel of understated luxury, but it was lived-in luxury, as if every design feature was there to add comfort for the inhabitant, not to impress.
The stairs were an elegant curve of contemporary glass and the centerpiece of the living room was more glass, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the dazzling lights of Fifth Avenue and the darkened expanse of Central Park.
Almost as eye-catching was the artwork on his walls.
“Are you interested in art?” He opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.