“I’ll keep you safe, sweetheart. On my life, I’ll keep you safe.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sloane
The past three hours were exactly what I needed. Even if I spent the first thirty minutes constantly checking the treatment room doors. Marina chided me more than once, but she doesn’t know Dimitri. He was quiet all day yesterday, and that makes me nervous.
After our body scrubs and mud baths—ew, but Marina insisted—Jacob comes to escort her back to her room.
“Be careful,” I say, giving her a tight hug.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m going up to the room, then to the makeup and hair station on the second floor to help any of the models who want a professional look for tonight. That’s it. And Mr. British Shadow will be there the whole time.”
“I know. But I worry. I can’t help it.” Shit. Once Marina leaves tomorrow, she’ll be unprotected, and my heart starts racing until Griff pushes through the door to the spa’s reception area. He spent the morning rubbing his left shoulder, and I convinced him to join me for a massage.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he mutters in my ear when we embrace. “I amnotgetting naked.”
He’s so worried about not being able to protect me, he insisted on knowing the names of the two therapists who would be working on us so his people could run a thorough background check.
Griff refuses to use the locker rooms to change into a robe, but accompanies me into the couple’s massage room, locks the door, and kisses me. “I’m still not sure this is a good idea. It’s hard for me to protect you without my prosthetic—or a weapon—but I did fantasize about doing this with you that first night.”
“Oh, now the truth comes out!” Laughing, I strip him of his t-shirt and run my hands over his muscled chest. “You took every precaution. It’s fifty minutes. Telling the staff you were worried about the press forcing their way in here was brilliant.”
I shed my wrap, and Griff makes an appreciative, low growl as his gaze roves over my body. “Before the party, I want you, Sloane. If you’re not too sore.”
The blush starts at my belly and spreads all the way to my neck and cheeks in seconds. “I’m not.”
“Good.” The glint in his eyes dims. “I can’t wear my glasses for this. I won’t hear the masseuse if they ask me anything.”
“Just keep your eyes on me. I can repeat anything. Or try to sign, if it’s a simple question.” Cupping his cheek, I smile. “It’ll be okay.”
“You should be able to relax,” he protests.
“I’ll relax. Staring at you for the next hour? Totally not a hardship.” Winking, I get under the sheet. “Ready whenever you are.”
Griff unlocks the door to find the two massage therapists—a man and a woman—waiting outside in the hall. As soon as they enter, he clears his throat. “The front desk assured me we could keep the door locked. The press have been hounding Ms. Sanders this whole weekend.”
“Of course, Mr. Griffin,” the man says. “I am Francois and this is Orna. What would you both like out of this session?”
Griff sinks onto the table next to mine and rubs his left shoulder. “I wear a prosthetic. Stay away from everything below my left deltoid. If my arm swells, I can be in a world of hurt. Back, neck, and shoulders are all fair game. I’m also mostly deaf, but I read lips. If you need to talk to me during the session, Ms. Sanders will either repeat whatever you say or she’ll sign.”
“Very well. Lie on your stomach.”
After Orna goes over my preferences, Griff and I face one another, and after the first ten minutes or so, I think he starts to relax. The change in his face is so breathtaking. Enough so, I want to draw him again. To memorize this moment. I’m still terrified about what will happen tomorrow, the next day, the next week, but at least for one afternoon, everything is as perfect as it can be.
* * *
Griff
The massage was so amazing, I dread having to put my prosthetic back on. My shoulders and neck haven’t been this loose and pain free in months. But I can’t protect Sloane with only one arm.
I have at least another two hours before I have to don the monstrosity, and Marina ordered a spread of fresh fruit, nuts, and sparkling cider so we relax on the couch, Sloane leaning against my chest. Until my watch and phone vibrate in the distinctive pattern I created for Austin.
Propping my tablet up on the table, I answer the call. “You’re on speaker. Sloane’s with me.”
“Good. I’m conferencing Ripper in.”
“Ripper?” Sloane asks.
