next door for dinner. They sat at a back table and ate salmon cakes and steak pie that tasted suspiciously like lamb but was still quite tasty, mounds of whipped potatoes, and biscuits with sweet butter. She didn’t touch the side dish of mushy peas.
It was cold and rainy when they walked out of the restaurant and headed to a nearby hotel. Isabel didn’t realize how tired she was until they checked into the Gleann Inn for the night. It was a small hotel the owner advertised as cozy. It wasn’t. The manager assured them that their room had a brand-new king-size bed. It didn’t. The size was somewhere between a queen and a double. There were square tables with lamps on either side of the bed, a saggy upholstered chair in the corner, and a small round table, which was all the tiny room could hold. The bathroom had been newly remodeled and was almost as large as the bedroom. Isabel showered first, then put on her blue pajama shorts and camisole. She walked back into the bedroom with the tube of body lotion her sister Kate had given her. Isabel loved its scent of camellias because it reminded her of her mother’s flower garden.
Michael barely glanced her way. He had removed the floral coverlet—which matched the floral drapes and floral tablecloth—and now was on the phone having an intense conversation. How was she going to sleep in the same bed with him and not touch him? Ignoring him was impossible in such a tiny room, but she would give it her best try. She sat on the bed, propped a pillow against the headboard, and took her time rubbing the lotion into her arms and legs.
He was on the phone a long time. With his back to her he was speaking so quietly she couldn’t make out the conversation, but she heard him utter agreement several times. Once he finished, he put the phone on his charger and turned to her. “Just as a precaution, I don’t want you to turn your phone on. You can use mine to make calls.”
“But I . . .”
“I don’t want anyone tracking you.”
“Can they do that?”
“We aren’t taking any chances.”
She agreed with a nod. “Who were you talking to?”
“Nick,” he answered. He picked up his shaving kit and headed to the bathroom. “I’ll fill you in after I shower. And Isabel . . .”
“Yes?”
“Put some damn clothes on.”
She looked down at herself. Her clothes hadn’t disappeared.
Closing her eyes, she folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head back to rest on the headboard, trying to clear her mind of everything but happy thoughts. That proved impossible because Michael kept getting in the way. She could hear the shower running and naturally pictured him naked with warm water cascading down his muscular shoulders and arms. She wondered what he would do if she stepped into the shower with him. Probably let her seduce him again. She tried to erase the image from her mind, but it was impossible. Thankfully, the shower ended.
She had the discipline of a nymphomaniac. She told herself to think about tomorrow and what she wanted to accomplish. She came up with a few ideas, but then Michael walked out of the bathroom,
and every thought in her head vanished. He was wearing a white towel around his waist and nothing else. She could barely catch her breath.
“Put some damn clothes on,” she demanded.
His reaction wasn’t what she expected. He laughed.
How could she be coherent with him looking that good? This wasn’t fair. And it didn’t get any easier when he dropped the towel, pulled out a pair of boxer briefs, and put them on. Was that supposed to squelch her lust? She took a long deep breath and slowly let it out before she could talk again.
“Are we both sleeping in this bed?” she asked.
“Yes, we are.”
“It’s a small bed.”
“Yes, it is.”
“We could ask if they would bring up a cot,” she said. Her voice sounded as though she had laryngitis.
“No.”
She wasn’t sure why he was being so stubborn. In an effort to get along, she decided to acquiesce, knowing it was going to be a long, tense, sleepless night for her. “Okay, then. We’ll share the same bed.”
“Damn right.”
“You’re in a mood, aren’t you?”
He didn’t answer her. Changing the subject seemed the prudent course of action because she didn’t want to get into an argument. “I’m glad we had the chance to talk to some people today, but we didn’t really find out very much about Glen MacKenna. I think we should head west tomorrow, like you said. I’m ready. I’ve had time to calm down. I’m still angry, but I think that’s a good thing because it will keep me on edge.”
Michael walked over with the paper bag from the store. She couldn’t stop staring at his chest. All muscle, she knew from kissing and touching him. And the heat radiating from him . . . the way the dark hair tapered at his navel . . .
He had to move her legs out of the way so he could sit down next to her. “I know you want to take some time to get information about Glen MacKenna, so okay, we’ll do that. We’ll just have to be careful.” He gestured toward her arm. “Okay, let’s get those stitches out.”
She shook herself out of her stupor. “What did you say?”
“I said it’s time to take out your stitches.”
Michael dabbed alcohol on her arm and gently clipped and removed the stitches. She grimaced a couple of times.
“It stings.”
“I like that you don’t hide what you’re feeling.”
“Why would I? I don’t need to be tough with you.”
“No, you don’t,” he agreed. “Okay, all finished. The surgeon did a good job. Remember what he called you?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. Greek goddess, right?” He laughed then. “The look on your face . . . You didn’t like it.”
“No, I didn’t,” she admitted.
Michael was sitting so close to her his leg rubbed against hers. It was odd, she thought. As sexy as Xavier was, she hadn’t reacted to him the way she reacted to Michael. Even his scent aroused her.
Who knew a whiff of soap could be so seductive?
He looked into her eyes, and she suddenly felt as though he could read her thoughts. Thank God he couldn’t because then he would know how sex-crazed she became when she was near him.
“It seemed like it all happened such a long time ago. Shooting that man, getting stitches, performing with Xavier.” And you, she silently added. You happened, too. “It has all blended together.”
“You’re handling it with grace.”
He was wrong, but she didn’t tell him so. Inside she was constantly struggling to keep it together.
He put the supplies away, grabbed a white T-shirt from his duffel bag, and put it on.
Isabel fluffed the pillow, pulled the sheets back, and lay as close to the edge of the bed as possible so that Michael would have a little room.
“Are you tired tonight?” she asked.
“Yes, I am.”
Maybe that was why he was acting as though sleeping with her wasn’t going to be a problem. He was exhausted from the long flight from Boston and the long day he’d spent with her. He probably hadn’t had any sleep in thirty-six hours.