Page 9 of Saved By the Billionaire

She held her towel more tightly, like a barrier.

“That’s kind.”

“It’s necessary.” He hesitated a moment, consternation flickering on his features. “Will you call out if you need help?”

Hardly likely, but she nodded anyway, because she sensed it was the only answer he’d accept. “Yep.”

“Kate?” A sharp rejoinder.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes. I’ll call for you if I need help. But I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to manage…”

It took longer than she wanted to admit, but eventually she was dressed in the softest pair of yoga pants and a sweater that she suspected was cashmere, moving gingerly back into the bed. She fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

He’d checked on her hourly overnight. It was probably overkill, but he’d be damned if he was going to let anything happen to her on his watch. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t dream of invading the privacy of a house guest by entering their room while they slept, but this was no ordinary situation. Kate had been hit, hard, and her condition could worsen at any time.

He wasn’t taking any chances; that wasn’t how he operated. Not after Grace.

He’d left that to chance.

He’d focused on his life, his business. He’d focused on his success, on the way it felt to know he was making it, just like he’d sworn. Meanwhile, he’d lost Grace. And with her, he’d lost a part of himself, too. The last remaining part that had believed in hope and goodness, that had thought everything actually could turn out okay. The part of him that had been willing to let some parts of life play out.

Now? He was all about control. Rules.

Which was why he had every intention of moving Kate somewhere else in the morning. Not to a hospital, but perhaps a hotel. Somewhere with paid staff to tend to her. He’d still make sure she was okay, but after tonight, she wouldn’t require his personal intervention. Would she?

It was the best Kate had slept in as long as she could remember. And it wasn’t just the million-thread-count sheets or the plush pillows and down doona. It wasn’t even the perfectly decorated room that was immaculately clean and ordered, nor the view over the city that greeted her when she blinked open her eyes. Central Park was down below, trees turning rust coloured and losing their leaves, the city showing all the hallmarks of a Fall season in full flight.

It was a feeling, that had wrapped around her all night, of exquisite safety. Of being wrapped up in something special. Of feeling cossetted and protected. Valued in a way she’d never known.

Not uncommon when you’d been bounced from foster home to foster home, but still. This was next level.

She stretched instinctively and cried out, her ankle immediately complaining, and her head throbbing. She pushed back the deliciously luxurious doona as Roman strode in, wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and a loose grey shirt that somehow only emphasised his strength and also lent him an air of danger.

“Kate.” The way he said her name was both a statement and a question, and it sent a shockwave of awareness through her. She gestured to her ankle and grimaced, trying to focus on the situation rather than the man, and how he made her feel. But in the light of morning, with the shock of last night having faded finally, it was so much more overwhelming.

“It’s worse.” That was almost an accusation. As though she could do anything to stop the swelling and bruising. “You’re going to need an x-ray.”

“No.” Her response was immediate and so was his. Irritation flickered in his face.

“Tell me why.”

Another statement, rather than a question.

It wasn’t something she wanted to admit. To anyone, out of self-preservation, but to Roman because it made her feel like a failure. Like he might see her differently. Might judge her.

And yet, there was something about the way he stared at her, and the vestiges of the safe haven he’d created, that had her glancing down at the bed and saying, quietly, “I overstayed my visa. I’m here illegally.”

The only reaction was the soft rustle of clothing as he shifted and crossed his arms. She glanced up at him and felt the questioning scrutiny like a physical touch.

“Why?”

“That’s…complicated.”

“And you don’t want to talk about it,” he surmised.

“It’s complicated,” she repeated.

“Come and tell me about it.”