I know Mace isn’t his real name. It’s Damian Delossa. But my father always called him Mace. I don’t think I even want to know why. I know what a medieval mace is. I don’t know how the barbaric device is still used in modern-day war, but I suspect there’s a correlation.
I’m surprised when Mace leads me past several doors and into the room at the end of the hall. It’s obviously the master bedroom. We move straight through it to the attached bathroom. It’s luxurious. Mace clearly makes a good living.
But why didn’t he direct me to a guest bathroom?
I tremble when he releases me. I prefer him to be touching me. Something is terribly off with me since I’ve never touched him before this morning, except in passing. Suddenly, I need the contact like a drug addict.
“Hang on a sec.” He leaves the room, but he’s back thirty seconds later, holding a folded white T-shirt. He sets it on the counter. “Something to wear. Sorry, I don’t have anything that will fit you. We can borrow some clothes from Blade’s or Cannon’s girlfriends, or perhaps order a few things to tide you over. I bet I can get something delivered this afternoon.”
“Thank you. I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
He steps closer and cups my face. His expression is odd. I think he’s almost grinning. “Sweetheart, if you want to wander around in my apartment wearing nothing but my T-shirts for days, I’m okay with that. But I suspect your legs will get cold.”
I shudder at the thought of wearing his shirt with nothing under it. He’s teasing me. Isn’t he?
After a wink, he reaches into the shower to turn on the water. “You’re also stuck with masculine scented shampoo, conditioner, and body soap for now. Towels are on the shelf. Do you need anything else?”
“No. Thank you,” I whisper. What I really want to say is, yes, stay with me. Get in the shower with me. Hold me. Wash me…
He grips the back of my neck one more time and then leaves me alone in the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a soft snick.
Chapter Three
Autumn
* * *
My brain is mush as I strip out of my clothes. I don’t know where to put them, so I opt to drop them into his hamper. The floor is heated. Of course it is. But I’m shivering anyway, and I barely manage to stop doing so even after standing under the water for a few minutes.
I need time to rewind. Maybe I could go back to yesterday, cancel the job interview I had in the afternoon, and go out to dinner with my father instead. Then he wouldn’t have been at home for someone to poison him.
How did it happen? Did someone come to the house and inject him? Did something come in the mail? Maybe he ate something that was tainted, but why wouldn’t I have eaten it?
What if I was supposed to be murdered, too?
I tug the band out of my hair, wash and condition it, and then quickly run the soap over my body. All of this happens without me having to think much. It’s just a routine.
When I’m done, I grab one of the towels, finding that it, too, is heated. The damn rack it was sitting on is electric. The room is warmer now from the steam, and I’m not as chilled as I pull Mace’s shirt over my head. After quickly locating a comb, I work through the tangles in my hair before exiting the bathroom.
I can hear Mace talking somewhere. I assume he’s on the phone. I pad out of the bedroom to follow his voice, eventually finding him in an office that’s almost as elaborate as the one he has upstairs at Black Blade Protection.
He’s standing behind his desk, running a hand through his hair. When he spots me, he quietly tells the person he will call them back and hangs up. Mace drops his phone on the desk and takes quick strides to get to me.
It seems as though he forces himself to stop a foot shy of me, or maybe I’m making that up. He’s breathing heavily when he reaches out to lift a lock of my wet hair. “You must be exhausted. I think I have a hairdryer. I don’t want you to sleep with wet hair. Come.” He slides his hand into mine and hauls me back to his bathroom.
How many times has he held my hand now? It’s so intimate. I’m confused by his attention. The next thing I know, I’m sitting on a leather stool in his bathroom, and he’s holding the hairdryer above me.
He’s going to dry my hair?
My heart races as I flatten my palms over the cotton of his soft shirt on my thighs. With my feet tucked under the chair, I watch our reflection in the mirror. Mace grabs a brush, turns on the dryer, and starts playing with my hair like he’s a professional stylist.
It’s unreal. This can’t be happening. When has Mace ever handled a woman’s hair? I know his background. Or I thought I did. It doesn’t include cosmetology school.
I’m mesmerized. Also, he’s changed clothes. While we were in the office, he was wearing dress pants, an expensive pressed shirt, and a tie. Now he’s in jeans and a T-shirt, neither of which is ordinary. The man has money. He looks put together no matter what he’s wearing.
I close my eyes so that I can go into my head and memorize this moment. I’m tired and distraught, yet my heart races for a man I’ve had a crush on for four years.
I’m a grown adult. I was an adult when I met Mace. But he’s older, more mature, and worldly. He’s seen and done things I can’t even begin to imagine. He would never see me through the lens I see him. I need to rein in my fantasies before he finds out how he affects me. I would be mortified if he knew. Surely, he just thinks of me as his friend’s kid.
