She climbed the steps and though still slightly woozy, yanked hard on the front door. One last glance at the threesome told her all she needed to know. Alex was reaching for his cigarettes, rage simmering in his expression, Phil Robertson looked worried, his brow knit, his lips in a tight little knot, and Nick just stared after her, his blue eyes bright with that same sexy, irreverent challenge that she’d found fascinating from the moment she’d woken from the damned coma.
He alone was the man she could trust.
Never in his life had Nick been involved with a married woman, hadn’t ever considered it. He lay on the bed, stared up at the ceiling and tried to force Marla out of his mind. Impossible. She was wedged in tight, a seductive image that brought a sheen of sweat to his brow and caused his damned cock to ache. The house was quiet, everyone presumably asleep. Nick rolled over, tried to conjure up any other vision but Marla’s seductive eyes, and couldn’t.
And she’s just down the hall.
But she’s Alex’s wife.
Their marriage is already in trouble. You can see it. He never pays her any attention. She doesn’t remember him and she wants you as much as you want her. Go on, get out of bed. Just go check on her.
His gut clenched and he threw off the covers. This was nuts. He yanked on a pair of jeans, didn’t bother with a shirt or shoes, opened the door and walked into the hallway where security lamps gave off a dim, barely existent glow that pooled on the carpet. He walked directly to the door of the suite, placed his hand on the knob and stopped. What would he say to her? What would he do? Nothing. He couldn’t do a damned thing.
Gritting his teeth he went downstairs and poured himself a d
rink. What would be the price of his lust? A family broken? Two kids who would become the product of divorce? Marla would never want to move to Oregon and he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted anyway. He just wanted to kiss her and touch her again, to feel that sizzling connection they’d experienced fifteen years before.
And you’d love to best Alex, get a little back, admit it. You don’t like the way he treats her and you’ve never really gotten over the fact that she threw you over for your brother.
“Son of a bitch.” He tossed back his drink, wiped a hand over his mouth and hiked back up the stairs. God, he was a fool. He’d reached the bedroom landing and had started toward his room when the door to the suite cracked open and Marla stepped into the hallway.
“Oh!” Her hand flew to her chest and her eyes opened wide. “Nick,” she whispered. “You scared me half to death!”
“Sorry. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me, neither. I thought I heard Cissy get up.”
“It was me.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“You didn’t.” She seemed flustered and looked back through the door. God, she was beautiful in some kind of satin pajamas that were a size too large from the looks of them, her hair rumpled, sleep still heavy in her eyes.
“I—I’d like to talk to you,” she said and he had trouble keeping this eyes off the V of her neckline where her pajama top buttoned. The hollow of her throat was visible, that feminine circle of bones he found so fascinating, as enticing as he remembered.
“I’ll buy you a drink. Full bar downstairs.”
“Just what I need with all the drugs in my body,” she teased then flashed him a dazzling grin. “Give me a minute to get my robe.” She was through the door in an instant and in the thirty seconds it took her to retrieve the matching wrap, he kicked himself a dozen times. This was stupid. Treacherous.
But he couldn’t stop himself and as she slipped through the door, he caught a waft of her perfume and his gut tightened. She closed the door with a soft click, then cinched the belt of her robe as they walked down a flight to the darkened living room. Rain drizzled down the ancient glass of the windows. Nick struck a match to the logs stacked in the grate, then poured himself a drink. Marla, looking nervous, her fingers playing with the ties of her robe, stood by the crackling flames.
The room, illuminated only by the shifting firelight, seemed to shrink.
“Sure I can’t get you anything?” he asked, dropping ice cubes into his short glass.
She hedged, didn’t meet his eyes. “Maybe a brandy. A small one.”
He grinned, found a snifter and poured a thin stream of amber liquor into a squatty crystal glass. “That’s my girl,” he said before he saw her reaction, the way she bit her lip anxiously. He handed her the drink and touched the rim of his glass to hers. “To better days.”
“And nights,” she said, then took a sip, her eyes regarding him over the rim of the snifter. Wide and green, they stared at him. Her face had healed, the scar in her hairline was barely visible and her hair surrounded her face in short mahogany waves.
“So, what’s up, Marla?”
“I . . . I want to know what happened. I was out of my head for five days and all I remember are images, people coming in and out . . . nothing clear. I thought maybe you could catch me up. Has anyone contacted Pam’s family?”
“Not that I know of. But then I’ve spent a lot of time up to my eyeballs in accounting records for the company.”