7
Sloane
When I wake, it takes a moment to orient myself to the strange room.
Everything is done in shades of gray and black. The furnishings are contemporary and masculine. An unlit fireplace dominates one side of the room. A sofa and chairs are clustered into a sitting area nearby. Heavy black drapes are drawn across the windows so the room is dark, but a pale glow from an open door across from me provides enough light to see my surroundings.
I sit up, shivering. I have no idea what time it is or how much time has passed, but I’m starving, and I have to pee.
The glass of water on the nightstand sits there like a dare.
Ignoring it because it’s probably drugged, I swing my legs over the side of the king-size bed and pad across plush carpeting toward the open door. Inside it, I find a massive master bathroom. Automatic lights come on when I enter, illuminating acres of white marble and glass.
I use the toilet, then rummage around in the drawers under the sinks until I find a tube of toothpaste. I do the best I can to brush my teeth with my finger, then wash my face and attempt to tame my snarled hair with my hands.
It doesn’t work. I look exactly like what I am: a kidnapping victim.
Except I hate that word. I’ve gone to great lengths to avoid having it pinned on me. Once you accept the victim label, it sticks.
Get it together, Sloane. Take a deep breath and remember who the fuck you are.
I close my eyes, center myself, and clear my mind.
I have no clean underwear.
I don’t know why that’s the first thought that floats into my consciousness, but it is. I breathe through a moment of pure anger at Declan. No clothes, no cell phone, no toiletries, no birth control pills—
Oh, shit. Without my pills, I’ll start my period any minute. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to ruin this skirt by getting blood all over it. It’s rumpled and wrinkled, but nothing that can’t be fixed.
I need a change of clothes.
Heading out of the bathroom, I find another door that leads to a walk-in closet. Lights blink on in here, too. The closet is filled with identical black suits hanging in a row, along with a row of identical white dress shirts. A few pairs of black jeans complete his entire wardrobe.
Opening a drawer in the square wood dresser in the middle of the room, I find perfectly folded white undershirts. Another drawer reveals perfectly folded cotton briefs, both black and white. In a third, I find black T-shirts, also folded like they’re on display for sale in a store.
It appears Declan is a bit anal retentive about his clothing.
Which is fantastic considering I’ll soon be bleeding all over it.
I strip out of my skirt, shirt, jacket, and panties, and step into a pair of white briefs. They’re too big and fit like diapers, but who cares. Next I pull one of the white dress shirts off its hanger. It drapes halfway down my thighs when I put it on. I roll up the sleeves and am just pushing the last button through its hole near the hem when a voice speaks from behind me.
“What are you doing?”
I resist the instinct to whirl around in surprise. Instead, I pause for a moment, then look over my shoulder.
Wearing one of his collection of identical black suits, Declan leans against the doorframe. His big arms are folded over his chest. His expression is guarded. His beautiful eyes are endlessly blue.
“I know your memory isn’t so sharp because you’re a senior citizen, so I’ll remind you that I’m not talking to you.”
He holds my gaze just long enough to make my heart skip a beat before he answers. “And I’ll remind you that you’re not in charge here.”
Aren’t I?
He must see the thought pass through my head, because his expression darkens. Unfolding his arms, he steps toward me.
I don’t move as he approaches. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
He stops a foot away, so close I can smell him. So close I can see that he hasn’t shaved, and that his eyes are bloodshot, and that he’s exhausted.
In a husky voice, he says, “No, you’re not.”
We stand like that for a moment, just looking at each other, until he grasps my shoulder and turns me to face him. His eyes take a road trip down my figure, lingering on my painted toenails, sweeping up my legs, snagging on the hem of his dress shirt where it meets my bare thighs.
He moistens his lips.
My heart skips another beat. Then another.
“You’re wearing my shirt.”
It’s a statement, not a question, so I decide it doesn’t require an answer.
After a crackling pause, he lifts a hand and takes the hem between two fingers. He rubs the material thoughtfully, a muscle sliding in his jaw.
Somebody turned up the temperature again. My hands are sweaty, so are my armpits, and the flush creeping over my cheeks makes them burn.
His voice an octave lower, he says, “What do you have on beneath?”
Breathe. Stay cool. He’s just trying to intimidate you. “Your briefs.”
“You’re wearing my underwear?”
His gaze flashes up to mine. I never knew blue eyes could burn so hotly, but they do.
It’s my turn to moisten my lips. He watches the movement of my tongue with the sharp gaze of a predator.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have any other clothes.”
I was going for a tone of cool disinterest, but miss badly. I sound like I just ran a four-minute mile.
Declan’s hand tightens around my shoulder. The pulse in the side of his neck throbs.
Holy shit, it’s sweltering in here. I need to get out of this closet before I erupt into flames.
“I’ll let you go when I’m ready,” he murmurs.
My held breath comes out in a rush. “You don’t get to start reading my mind. That isn’t a thing that’s going to happen, so forget it. Don’t even try.”
“Can’t help it. You’ve got a face like an open book.”
Unnerved by how throaty his voice is, how sweaty I am, and how my traitorous ovaries have decided to stage a coup on my entire nervous system, I shake my head. “No, I don’t. I’m as cool as a cucumber. I’m an ice cube. I’m a cat.”
“A cat?”
“You know. Aloof. Unreadable.”
Maintaining eye contact with me, he slides his hand down my arm until it reaches my wrist. He encircles it with his giant paw, pressing his thumb against my pulse point.
After a moment, he says softly, “For such an aloof little cat, you’ve got quite the frantic heartbeat.”
“It runs in my family.” Stop panting! Why the hell are you panting? You sound like a Labrador!
Declan’s thumb moves slowly back and forth over my throbbing, tattletale vein. His gaze drops to my mouth.
“Would you like to know what runs in my family, little cat?”
There’s a voice between my legs screaming Boy, would I! but with a valiant effort, I ignore it.
When I don’t answer, Declan leans close to my ear and murmurs, “That’s what I thought.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Aye, lass, you did. Just not in words.”
I want to scream. I want to punch him in the throat. I want to stomp on his toe and slap his arrogant face and slash every stupid black suit in his closet to shreds.