He passed her the tray of food.
“Thank you,” she said, backing into the room.
“No matter what ju want, dial three-five, and Alvaro”??—he thumped his chest??—“make it, jes?”
Brighton smiled. “Okay. Thank you.” She doubted Stone would appreciate his chef being commandeered.
A voice boomed near the foyer??—not loud, just … strong. Stone. Afraid he’d be angry again, she stepped back and nodded to Alvaro. “Thank you.” Letting the door close behind her, she aimed the tray toward the table.
“What was that?”
His deep voice snapped her around. The glass of water tumbled off the tray and clattered to the floor. “Augh!” Thank goodness it wasn’t actually made of glass, but her leg was wet now. She hurriedly set the tray down and rushed to grab a towel from the bathroom.
How had Stone gotten into her room so fast? What, had he run to intercept?
“What were you doing talking to Alvaro?”
On her knees???—likely a position of abject humility he preferred from her?—she glowered up at him. “I was thanking him for my lunch.”
“It’s two!”
“Look.” She couldn’t hide her sarcasm. “I know you always have your plan and schedule to keep, but I … I …” Brighton wilted. She had no fight, so she resumed blotting the water from the carpet.
“I told you to stay in your room!”
She stamped to her feet??—and the towel wobbled off her head, wet hair tumbling down her back and face. She shoved it back. “I did! It’s not my fault the chef delivers the food to see who you enjoy yelling at!”
Stone drew up, his hands fisted. That blue gaze blazed at her, then skidded to the floor. His jaw muscle jounced violently as he turned to the door, all but ripped it off the hinges, left, and slammed it behind him.
Pulling in a jagged breath, Brighton felt adrenaline crash through her system, leaving her shaky. She wilted onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t do this. She could not stay here and have that happen every time he saw her. She wasn’t sure what was worse—his hatred or the fact that she still wanted to find the sweet spot they’d had in Rockville.
If only Stone would hear her out, know that they’d given her no choice …
It wouldn’t matter. She’d ruined his life, and he would never look at her as he had that last night when passion had been high and that stupid phone call thwarted what she’d wanted most?—Stone’s love.
Enough. She would not survive a week like this.
One way or another, she had to get out of here. Brighton eyed the door?—no, too obvious. The glass door to the patio … That might work. Stalking to the doors, she plotted her escape. Hilary, another of Ladomer’s girls, had taught her all she’d need to do to escape. But Brighton didn’t have survival skills that would see her across a mountain. And that’s what stood in her way?—a beautiful, forbidding mountain.
But the route Cord had brought her hadn’t been mountainous. So she’d have to find that route. Brighton reached for the phone, determining to get answers now, so she could be gone at the first opportunity.
It’d been two days, and Stone couldn’t shake the memory of how she’d yelled at him. Or that scaredy-cat look in her eyes that hit him sideways, as if she were some wounded creature …
Bullspit. He’d been the victim, words he’d never voice to anyone else. She’d worked her wiles and gotten him into a compromising situation … then destroyed him.
You let it happen. Too enamored with the beautiful young woman paying attention to him. His conscience always had been louder than his mouth, keeping him in check.
Except that it hadn’t. Not with Tizzy.
He groaned at the nickname. It’d been a slip of the tongue during one of their more passionate moments. Afterward, she’d admitted Lizzy wasn’t her name. It’d taken her a while longer to offer up her real identity. He couldn’t believe her real name was the same as his mom’s favorite specialty shop, the one from which he’d bought many a birthday and Christmas gift.
Mom … She’d had Brighton in her apartment. Laughing, eating, talking …
His gut roiled. What had Brighton told them about him, about them? Mom was disappointed enough in him without all the sordid details.
For cryin’ out loud! Why was he still thinking about her?
Jerking back to his desk and the work waiting, he ran a hand over his beard. The darn thing was irritating him now. Just like the occupant in 107.
