SIX
For the first time in years Michael slept until almost nine in the morning. He was usually up and dressed by six, seven at the latest. He had slept hard. Sometime during the night he had let go of Isabel, and she had turned toward him. She was still in his arms, cuddled up against him. Her face was pressed into the side of his neck, and he could feel her warm breath on his skin.
Barely awake, he realized he had a beautiful woman in his arms, and damn, he wanted her. Fortunately, his mind cleared, and he gently pulled away from her, got out of bed, and went into the bathroom to take a cold shower.
By the time he was dressed, his mind and body were back to normal.
“Isabel, time to get up, babe.”
“I’m up,” she said, facedown in the pillow.
“Come on. Wake up. We need to get going.”
“I’m up,” she said again but didn’t move a muscle.
It took three more tries and a threat to carry her into the shower to get her moving.
Groaning, Isabel rolled herself off the bed and staggered into the bathroom, the marble tile floor cold under her feet. Propping her hands on the vanity, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair hung over her left eye, and there was a slight crease in her cheek, a sign she had slept through the night without moving much. She splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, then dug through her bag for something to wear. She decided on a short, straight khaki skirt, ballet flats, and a blue short-sleeve T-shirt. It was a bit snug across her breasts, but it was soft and comfortable, and after yesterday’s fiasco she was determined that today would be laid-back and stress-free. After she brushed her hair, she looked in the mirror, gave herself an encouraging smile, and opened the door.
Michael was pushing a room service cart to the table. He looked up when she returned to the bedroom. Her hair was down around her shoulders, and he remembered how silky it felt. Her legs were simply sensational, long and perfectly shaped. Her skin was soft and smooth. He knew because she’d had one leg draped over him most of the night. He remembered stroking her... Oh hell, he was at it again, conjuring up all sorts of inappropriate but thoroughly satisfying ways he wanted to make love to her. He really needed to get away from her before he completely lost his mind.
Halfway across the room she stopped. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” His voice was curt.
“Then why are you glaring at me?”
“I was thinking about something...”
“Anything I can help with?” she asked.
He laughed.
“You’re in a strange mood.”
She sat at the table and reached for a glass of orange juice, and he noticed drops of blood on her bandage. “Where’s the sack with the supplies to change your bandage?” he asked.
“In the bathroom on the counter, I think, or maybe on top of my bag.”
He found the sack, placed it on the table next to her, and sat down.
“Do you want some coffee?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I’ve tried to like coffee,” she remarked, “but it’s too bitter for me, no matter how much sugar I add. The lattes look so good with caramel and foam, but they taste awful. I’ve tried almost every combination.”
“If you’re going to drink coffee, you should learn how to drink it black. It’s an acquired taste.”
“Did you acquire a taste for it?”
“I had to. There were some days I needed it to stay alert.”
He didn’t go into detail. She assumed he was referring to his time with the SEALS, but she didn’t ask. He had turned away without an explanation.
Michael moved his chair closer to her, and while she ate yogurt and blueberries, he carefully removed her bandage. “You shouldn’t have gotten this wet,” he admonished.
Her shrug indicated she wasn’t concerned, as though her shower was more important than any other worry. Michael understood. He would have done the same thing. Washing away any traces of the blood from the shooting would have been his first priority, too.
He cleaned the area with the antiseptic she was given, then opened the package of gauze and tape. “Does it hurt?” he asked. The injury was swollen and angry-looking.