Furious, she couldn’t resist taunting him. “So what’re you going to do with me, Zane?” she baited, still reeling from his assessment of her as a “brat.” “Turn me over your knee and spank me?”
He stopped dead in his tracks. His face went stark white. His fingers slackened, and he squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if in so doing he could call up his fleeing patience. “No, Kaylie,” he said, slowly opening eyes as hard as glass. “As soon as you’re safely back at the hotel, I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“Meaning?”
“That you’ll just have to find yourself another bodyguard.”
No! Desperation tore at her. “But I don’t want anyone else.” She coiled her fingers around the lapels of his jacket and held on tightly, as if afraid he might run. “Don’t you understand,
Zane. I want you. You.”
Staring down at her upturned face, he let out a groan and dragged her closer still, kissing her over and over again. She felt him shudder against her, as if he were trying and failing to rein in impossible emotions.
Oblivious to the pedestrians hurrying, head and umbrellas tucked against the wind and rain, they held each other, she clinging to him as if to life itself, he embracing her as if she were a rare and fragile creature he was afraid to release for fear of never seeing again.
The wind and rain blew past, but they didn’t care.
Finally he stepped away, his expression tortured and grim. He took both her chilled, wet hands in his. “This can’t happen, you know.”
“It already has.”
He shook his head, though his eyes betrayed him. “Then it has to stop.”
“No!” She knew what she wanted. Zane, Zane, Zane!
“Come on. You’re getting drenched,” he muttered, twining his fingers through hers as he pulled her up the steps to the glorious old hotel. Built to resemble an English castle, the hotel stretched a full city block. Gold brick, leaded glass and tall, narrow windows created seven stories. Lush gardens and brick courtyards surrounded the sprawling building.
Zane, propelling Kaylie by her elbow, hastened her through the lobby and into an elevator. Once on the seventh floor, he unlocked the door to her room and made a sweeping search of the suite.
“Take a hot shower and I’ll meet you downstairs for dinner.”
She wouldn’t let him go. “Stay with me.”
“Kaylie—”
“Please!”
He groaned and pulled his hand from hers. “I can’t. You can’t. We can’t!”
“But—”
“Don’t you know this is killing me?” he finally admitted, as she reached for him again, trying to kiss him, feeling tears fill her eyes.
“I love—”
“Oh, God, Kaylie, don’t!” he whispered, his voice raw as he left her and closed the connecting door between their rooms.
Later, at dinner, he refused to talk about their relationship. Instead, he was all business, sitting stiffly across from her, his gaze moving restlessly over the other guests, looking, searching for danger that didn’t exist.
The meal, in Kaylie’s opinion, was a disaster, and upstairs in their suite again, things didn’t improve. He closed the door between them and refused to kiss her.
“I don’t understand,” she cried against the door panels, slamming her fist against the wall in frustration, but she received no answer.
The next few days were torture. Zane acted like a complete stranger. He was distant and proper to the point that she thought she might scream. She tried to draw him into conversation, but his replies were quick monosyllabic answers. No more laughing. No more jokes. No more ad-libbing to her lines. Stiff and businesslike, he became the antithesis of the man with whom she’d fallen in love.
On the set three days later, she cracked. She blew her lines for the third time when the director waved everyone off the set and called for an hour break.
Kaylie, cheeks burning, walked straight to the docks. Zane was near her side, though, of course, he didn’t say a word. Not one solitary word.