Page 61

Finally, when he was satisfied, when every scenario had been addressed and covered three times over, Paulo dismissed Mick and climbed the stairs.

At the landing, he paused. Madelaine’s door loomed in front of him, a temptation and a reminder at the same time. He thought of her there, in his bed, her soft body pressed against his, her breath catching as she clung to him.

Heat surged through him, raw and hungry, then twisted into anger.

At her, for being so damn stubborn. At himself, for mishandling her. He should have told her the plan from the beginning. He should have been honest with her, given her the choice to stand with him instead of forcing her into a role she hadn’t asked for. Using her against her will.

Yes. That would have been smarter. Cleaner.

But regret didn’t change the past.

Did he regret bringing her here?

Hell no.

Was he going to let her go when her father was dealt with?

Also no.

Chapter 39

Paulo turned and headed to his bedroom. Stomped to it, actually.

He was furious. Furious at himself for being an idiot. Furious at her for being so adorable and sexy and infuriating all at once. Furious that he no longer knew if it was safe to eat brownies in his own house because she might have baked them. Furious that every damn paperclip he owned was now linked together like a kindergarten art project, and he didn’t even use paperclips that often! Furious that his files were in chaos and he couldn’t find a thing.

He got ready for bed, already knowing sleep would evade him, and that pissed him off too. He hadn’t slept worth a damn last night after drinking too much, and tonight should have been different. Tonight, he should’ve been exhausted. Instead, his brain wouldn’t shut down because all he could think about was that Madelaine wasn’t in his bed, in his arms, where she belonged.

Scowling, he stomped over to the bed, tempted to get a glass of scotch to take the edge off. But no. He’d drunk too much last night, and his stomach still hadn’t forgiven him.

So, fine. He’d go to bed sober. And think of all the ways he was going to torment Madelaine, sexually, of course, once he’d convinced her to forgive him. He’d apologize. He’d get down on his knees if he had to. Hell, he’d buy flowers, maybe even fly in more chocolates from Switzerland. He had connections to the best chocolatier. He’d shower her with gifts, then charm her into understanding why he’d acted like such an ass.

Begging wasn’t his style, but for her? He’d beg. He needed her. He needed…!

“What the hell?”

He snarled when his legs refused to slide beneath the sheets. Something was blocking him.

Yanking at the bedding, he realized the sheet had been folded in half. Short-sheeted.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, jerking the covers down with sharp tugs.

Fine. He’d deal with it. But when he reached for his bedside lamp, nothing happened.

He jabbed at the switch again. Still nothing.

“Oh, for…!” He flicked on the overhead light, flooding the room in harsh brightness and investigated the lamp. The bulb was gone.

“She stole the light bulb?” Paulo rubbed a hand over his face.

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled, fighting for calm. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d apologize. Tomorrow he’d speak so sweetly, so convincingly, she wouldn’t know what hit her.

For now, bed.

He crawled under the mussed covers and stared up at the ceiling, trying to think of gentle words, of phrases that would melt her stubbornness. He shifted, rolling over, clutching a pillow like it was her. But Madelaine never used a pillow. She’d used him as a pillow, curled against him, and pretending otherwise just felt wrong.

Something else felt wrong too. The bed was…off. Uneven.

Suspicion flared. He jumped out of bed, yanked the covers aside, and crouched to check.