The doctor nodded and left the room.
Trainor stood with his hands still at the belt of his bathrobe, his gaze growing more intimate and intense as it rested on her. “You’re a brave woman, Chloe Russell.”
“Not brave. Poor.”
Surprise joined the heat in his eyes. “How should I interpret that?”
“I need the paycheck. You’re paying me four times my usual hourly rate now. I’d be a fool to turn it down.” It was a perfect excuse, and only partially a lie. Chloe had spent the night drifting between waking and sleeping fantasies that involved Nathan Trainor and herself in various states of arousal and undress.
“Hazardous-duty pay.” He dropped his hands to his sides, and the fire in his eyes went out as though she’d thrown a bucket of water on it. Now he looked more like the invalid he was. The shadows under his eyes were lighter but noticeable, and his skin still appeared too tight around his jawline. “Time to get something useful accomplished. Wait here. I’m not working in my pajamas.”
Chloe was torn between relief and disappointment as Trainor walked across his bedroom to a panel in the wall that swung inward at his touch.
She took two steps forward to catch a glimpse of a walk-in closet the size of her living room, its walls hung with various articles of clothing positioned at precise intervals so that none touched another. The shelving was a different wood from the guest room’s but equally exotic in its grain. Trainor was untying his robe when he caught her eye. The wicked gleam came back into his gaze as he shrugged out of the navy silk. “Feel free to watch.”
Chloe stood her ground. “I just wanted to see what a CEO’s closet looks like.”
With a sudden movement, he crossed his arms and yanked his T-shirt up over his head. As he balled it up and tossed it out of her sight, she found her gaze riveted by the movement of muscles under taut skin. Her fingers twitched with the desire to trace the sculpted planes of his abdomen. It was a crime to conceal all that male beauty under a business suit.
He turned his head toward her, and she dragged her gaze up past the dusting of hair on his chest to meet his heavy-lidded eyes. He’d caught her looking at more than his closet. She brazened it out. “How do you have time to stay in such good shape?”
“I exercise at night.” His voice was deep and seductive. He moved his hands to the waistband of his pajama pants.
Chloe’s curiosity had its limits. She scurried backward far enough to have no possible view of the interior of Trainor’s closet. She thought she heard a satisfied chuckle, but it was so low it might have been her imagination.
Deciding to make it clear she wasn’t looking, she walked farther away to examine two paintings hanging on the same wall. Painted in bold colors and strokes, they looked as though they were of the same landscape but interpreted by different artists. Intrigued, she leaned in to read the signatures and gasped. One was signed “P Gauguin,” and the other signature read simply “Vincent.” She knew enough about art to recognize that meant Vincent van Gogh.
Having a Van Gogh was mind-boggling enough, but having a matching Gauguin must make the two paintings nearly priceless as a pair. She stared at the two masterpieces. If this was what Trainor kept in his bedroom, she needed to look more closely at the art in his living room.
“I bought those when I took Trainor Electronics public. They were my first significant purchases of art. I should donate them to a museum, but when I see them I remember ringing the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange. Heady stuff for a computer nerd.”
Chloe jumped as Trainor’s voice came from directly beside her. The thick carpeting had muffled his footsteps. “It’s amazing to see them side by side,” she said.
She sneaked a glance sideways. He stood with his hands in the pockets of a pair of pressed khaki trousers, his eyes fixed on the artwork. His messy bedhead had been tamed into tidy waves that touched the collar of a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt, open at the neck. Letting her gaze slide down to his feet, she felt a sense of loss at seeing them encased in shiny burgundy loafers. He was back in his version of a uniform.
“Like a high school essay,” he said. “Compare and contrast. Which one do you like better?”
“I don’t know enough about art to choose,” Chloe said, dragging her attention back to the paintings.
“What? No opinion from the strong-minded Ms. Russell?” There was a teasing note in his voice that made her insides go soft.
“Sometimes beauty should be appreciated, not judged,” Chloe said. “Besides, the two pictures belong together. Choose one and you lose all that extra resonance.”
He ran his index finger along the carved gilt frame of the Gauguin as his expression turned serious. “You make a good point. I’ll strongly suggest that whoever acquires them next hangs these together permanently.”
“And I guess they’ll listen to you.”