She closed her laptop and set it on the nightstand. “Are all Navy SEALS as big as you are? And you’re, what? Six-two? Six-three?” Now, where had that question come from? She couldn’t seem to hold on to a coherent thought for more than ten seconds.
Michael stared at her, puzzled. What the hell was going on inside that mind of hers? For a minute she had spaced out, and now she wanted to talk about the Navy SEALS?
“Get dressed,” he repeated, ignoring her question.
If he wasn’t going to respond, she would do the same. “I read that the training is intense. It is, isn’t it?”
He stood over her, his arms folded across his chest, studying her, trying to figure out how to get her moving. “I know you’re tired and you’ve had a bad experience today . . . ,” he began.
“A bad experience? Killing a man was a bad experience?” She started to laugh, then stopped, fearing she sounded hysterical. Wouldn’t that be the icing on her sucky cake.
Michael decided to reason with her, and he would be diplomatic. He moved her legs out of his way, taking time to notice how smooth and golden her skin was, and sat on the bed, facing her.
“I’m not going to leave you here alone.”
“Why not?”
“You’re kind of a mess.” So much for diplomacy.
Isabel folded her arms and looked at him indignantly. “That’s a mean thing to say.”
“Put your hands out.”
She did as he demanded before she thought better of it. They were still shaking up a storm. If she had a pair of bongo drums, she could really go to town. “It’s just the aftermath of . . . today,” she said, not wanting to put words to the horrible incident. “Besides, I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday . . . or was it the day before yesterday? Then I threw up this morning because I foolishly got trashed last night.”
“You got what?”
“Trashed,” she repeated. “You know, sloshed, soaked, hammered . . . I had way too much to drink.
I should probably order room service. Once I eat, my hands will stop shaking.”
“If you don’t go with me, I’m staying here in this room with you.” He waited for a horrified reaction. He didn’t get one.
“Okay.” She nonchalantly picked up the room service menu.
“Hell.”
“I think I could eat a sandwich. What about you? Are you hungry?” Switching subjects abruptly, she asked, “What did you and Samuel talk about? You both looked so intense.”
“Stop trying to redirect me.”
“Caught on, did you?”
Michael noticed a dimple appeared on her cheek when she smiled. The woman was damn near irresistible. “Okay, have it your way. We’ll stay here.”
Ever so slowly he reached across her to get to the hotel phone on the other side of the bed. The back of his hand brushed against her breasts. She didn’t think the intimacy was deliberate until he looked at her and she saw the laughter in his eyes. He was having fun, trying to rattle her. No way was she going to let him know how much his touch affected her.
“There’s another phone on the desk across the room,” she pointed out.
He was sitting so close to her she could feel the heat radiating from his body, and if she reached out, she could run her fingertips down the side of his face and feel the day’s growth of whiskers that made him look a little more dangerous than sexy.
So this was what being aroused felt like. Since she’d started dating, she had never had this kind of physical reaction to any man. She’d read about it, heard about it from her girlfriends, but she’d never experienced it. She had thought there was something wrong with her, perhaps something missing in her DNA.
Until Michael.
The discovery didn’t make her happy. In her mind there was a huge difference between being attracted to someone and being aroused by someone. She had been attracted to Noah Clayborne before he married Michael’s sister Jordan, but she hadn’t been aroused by him.
Okay, so now she knew how it felt. She also knew she didn’t like it. And the fact that it was Michael made it all the more alarming. Her hormones finally decided to kick in, but with Michael?
She couldn’t catch a break. Isabel was a person who needed control, and Michael was snatching that away from her.
Trying to clear her head, she asked, “Who are you calling?”
“Bell desk.”
She listened as he requested that someone get his duffel bag out of his car and bring it up to Isabel’s room. Then he handed her the phone so she could order from room service.
“I’m sure there are rooms available, or you could take the other room Kate reserved.”
“Oh no. You want to stay here. I’m staying with you.”
She was sure he was bluffing. She ordered club sandwiches for both of them, a beer for him and a Diet Coke for her, along with large bottles of water. He added a double cheeseburger to the order before she hung up.
She had a plan. She would be patient, even if it killed her. He would eat with her, then realize his bluff wasn’t working, and he would leave. She just had to stay strong and not fold before he did.
Michael’s cell phone rang. He saw who was calling but waited until he was across the room before he answered. His voice was so low she couldn’t hear whom he was talking to or what he was saying. Probably one of a dozen women he was currently seeing, she guessed. His bag was delivered, but he left it in the alcove near the door, which she believed was an indicator that he was indeed bluffing and had no intention of staying with her.
The food arrived twenty minutes later. Isabel ate half of her sandwich. Michael ate every bit of his and the rest of hers. She went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and got back into bed. Doing her best to ignore him, she pulled up her emails on her laptop but found it impossible to focus on any of them. She wondered how she was ever going to calm down enough to go to sleep. The events of the
day popped up like slides clicking through her mind . . . the man throwing himself into her arms, clawing at her, then falling, taking her with him, next—gunshots, the maniac shooting at her, watching the bullet strike him between his eyes. He seemed to fall back in slow motion. All the images appeared, one after the other, and then the slides started all over again. God help her, she couldn’t get them to stop.
Her stomach felt queasy again. She took several deep breaths and that helped, but she didn’t know what she could do about her hands. They were once again shaking almost violently. She pictured herself trying to put on lipstick and smiled. It would be all over her face.
She knew she had to stop thinking about . . . What had Michael called it? Oh yes. Her bad experience. What she needed was a distraction.
Michael unwittingly provided it. He held the door open while the dining cart was being removed, then locked the door, picked up his duffel, and went into the bathroom. No big deal, right? Until she heard the shower running. She had to admit that did freak her out. So maybe he wasn’t bluffing.