"It's perfect." His voice is gruff. Was that a compliment?
"Flattery? From you?" I nudge his arm.
"Truth." His eyes meet mine. Searing straight through me.
The masseuse arrives before I can beg Mack to kiss me. Not that I’d ever beg… okay, fine, maybe a little. But the knock on the suite door saves me from finding out.
Mack opens it, body blocking most of the view like he’s expecting an ambush instead of a spa appointment. “You Matteo?”
The man nods—tall, dark-haired, early thirties, built like he spends more time lifting clients than dumbbells. He’s wearing black scrubs that hug his shoulders and carries a folding table under one arm, a leather case of oils in the other. “Yes, sir. House call for Ms. Lyric. One-hour deep tissue, correct?”
Mack gives him a once-over that could strip paint. “Yeah. Set up in the bedroom. I’ll be right outside the door.”
Matteo’s smile is polite, professional. “Of course. Privacy is priority.”
I catch the way Mack’s jaw ticks as Matteo steps past him into the suite. Interesting.
I step into the bathroom, slipping into the fluffy white towel the hotel provided. I step into the bedroom and climb onto the table face-down, cheek resting on my folded arms, and let the towel fall away to drape loosely over my hips. Standard protocol. Nothing scandalous.
Mack positions himself just inside the doorway—close enough to hear everything, far enough to pretend he’s giving me space. His arms are crossed, eyes fixed on the far wall like the abstract painting there is suddenly fascinating.
Matteo warms oil between his palms. “Ready, Ms. Lyric?”
“Indigo,” I correct softly. “And yes. Please.”
His hands land on my shoulders—warm, strong, competent. He starts at the base of my neck, thumbs digging into the knots that have lived there since the break-in, since the note, since the necklace in my dressing room. I exhale long and slow, letting the pressure melt some of the terror I’ve been carrying like a second skin. I won’t admit out loud how scared I am. Not to Etta, not to the cops, definitely not to Mack.
But God, it feels good to be touched without fear.
I crack one eye open. Mack is still staring at that painting, but his posture has changed—shoulders rigid, fists clenched at his sides.Every time Matteo’s hands glide down my spine, Mack’s gaze flicks over. Quick. Guilty. Hungry.
I can’t resist.
“Jealous?” I murmur, voice muffled against my arms.
“Of what?” His growl is low enough that Matteo probably doesn’t catch it.
“His hands on me.”
Mack shifts his weight. “Professional.”
“Liar,” I taunt, smiling into the table.
Matteo works lower, kneading the small of my back with slow, deliberate circles. The oil smells like cedar and something faintly citrusy. My muscles loosen, but the tension in the room ratchets higher.
Mack makes a sound—barely audible, but I hear it. Something between a grunt and a curse.
Matteo’s hands pause for half a second. “Everything okay, Indigo?”
“Perfect,” I purr. “Keep going.”
But before he can continue, Mack’s stepping closer.
“We’re done here,” he says.
I push myself to sitting, towel slipping just enough to bare the curve of my hip and the side of one breast before I catch it. I don’t bother fixing it fully. Let him look.
Mack’s gaze snaps to me like a magnet.
