She jerked open his duffle bag and started to rummage through the contents. She pulled out a Ziploc bag filled with several green packets. She peered through the plastic. Wrigley’s chewing gum, spearmint flavored. She tossed the bag of gum onto the couch, reached into the duffle and dug out a book. Stephen King’s Christine. She threw that on the couch as well. What did he have in this bag that made it weigh so much?
Suddenly the wide expanse of his bare chest was in front of her. She tried not to notice or care, but with one thing and another, she hadn’t had enough time to give that bare chest the kind of close, leisurely attention she really wanted to. She kept her head lowered as her gaze wandered over the broad expanse of his muscled pectorals. His suntanned skin was a warn inviting brown, his darker flat nipples surrounded with the crisp hair that sprinkled the rest of his chest and arrowed down that long, ripped torso to disappear into the top of his zipped but still unfastened jeans. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes. She knew how warm his body was, and she was beginning to crave it like she craved the vivid warmth of a fire.
Rune rubbed her shoulders. He said soothingly, “Don’t worry, your horrible caftans will be here soon.”
“I am not worried, I am grumpy,” she announced. “Quit calling my caftans horrible.”
“I call them as I see them, baby,” he said. “Just as you did with the hairy man with spectacles.”
“If I never saw that T-shirt again, it would be too soon,” she told him.
“I see you understand exactly how I feel about those caftans.”
She glared at him. Was that amusement in his face? She dug into the duffle and pulled out a Glock. Ah, there began to be some explanation for the duffle bag’s weight. He must have half a dozen guns tossed in there, along with a couple of grenades, an assortment of cannonballs, and maybe a rocket launcher or two. She tossed the Glock onto the couch. She knew he had to have clothes stuffed somewhere in that duffle. She had to get to them sooner or later. She pulled out a pair of knives, rolled her eyes and tossed them after the Glock. “There’s got to be something in here I can put on, at least temporarily.”
“You can have anything you find in that bag that you take a fancy to,” he told her. “Including the hairy bespectacled T-shirt. But I only brought a few changes of clothing with me, and those are pretty much shot.”
“Figures,” she said in disgust. She dropped the duffle bag.
Rune said, “I was going to call the concierge and order some new things for myself. Why don’t you take a nice hot shower while I order some clothes for you that you might actually enjoy for a change?”
She raised her eyebrows. Standing under a hot cascade of water and washing her tangled, sandy hair sounded like bliss, but she had the suspicion he was managing her for reasons of his own. He had some kind of agenda. Her mouth pursed. “Do you want me out of the room?”
He said immediately, “Only so that I can order the kind of clothes for you that I would like without it turning into an argument.”
She regarded him warily. “You won’t order anything hairy or bespectacled?”
He burst out laughing, cupped her cheeks and kissed her, savoring the feel of her lips moving in response to his. At first she had kissed him awkwardly, as if she was unfamiliar with using her mouth in a gesture of affection, but she was a quick study and now she leaned into him and kissed him back with such sultry sensuous promise, he nearly dragged her back down to the floor to take her again. He only just barely managed to pull back.
He said huskily, “I promise. Nothing hairy or bespectacled.”
She had to admit, she was beginning to be intrigued by what he might buy for her. It would no doubt be horrible, like those clunky steel-toed boots he wore.
Surrender to the experience and change, hmm? She bit back a smile. Well, why the hell not? What difference did it make if she tried on new clothes? The thought of buying her clothes seemed to bring him a great deal of pleasure, and she found she enjoyed bringing him pleasure. Besides, who would care, if she died two weeks from now?
“All right,” she said. “You may order me something, if you like. If I don’t care for it, I can always wear my own clothes.”
“Of course,” he said. “What size do you wear?” He ran his hands down her sides to explore her narrow waist. “I’m guessing a size eight. Your shoe size?”
Then she did smile. “Six and a half, narrow. I don’t need to hear how you got so accurate at guessing women’s sizes. I can guess.”
“None of them meant a thing to me, darling,” he told her, his husky voice turning even deeper.
Hunger pulsed again, along with the urge to bite him. She managed to articulate, “I’m going to take that shower.”