Chapter 17
One Dance
Gemma
BARS OF LIGHT steal in through the broken blinds.
It’s hot.
Oppressively hot.
With a nauseated sigh, I glance at the giant red digits on the clock beside me. They read “6:14 a.m.”
Sitting up in bed, I throw the thin covers back and bring my palms to my temples, pressing them against the vibrant ache. I haven’t drank that much in a very long time. The need to keep my wits about me is top priority when I am in Enrique’s world.
Out of bed, I look down at myself and realize I’m in my bra and panties. I don’t remember undressing. In fact, I absolutely know I didn’t. Caleb must have done it. How dare he think he has the right to strip me down.
Yanking my door open, I march out into the suite. His bedroom door is closed but a line of cheap fluorescent lighting underscores the second bathroom in the suite.
The idea of snooping in his room while he’s in the shower isn’t one of my best, but I want to know who this man really is and my plan for discovery last night didn’t exactly pan out.
On tiptoes, I slowly open his door and step inside. The room is void of anything personal. His bag must be somewhere. Dispelling any feelings of being nauseated, I get down on my hands and knees and peer under the bed for his duffle.
Nothing.
The closet is open and I rise on the balls of my feet to move the extra blankets aside. When one falls, I shove it into the corner of the small square and look up.
Nothing.
His bag must be with him.
Without warning, the shower cuts off and I’m forced to scurry out of his room. I’m a quarter way across the suite, a quarter way to my room, when the door swings open. I whirl around and through the levy of steam, a trim, muscular body comes into view.
I freeze right where I am and attempt to glare at him, but I can’t make my mouth turn down. The problem is there’s a towel knotted at his lean waist and I can’t help but eat him alive with my eyes.
I can’t help but notice the way moisture seems to glisten all over his firm upper body. The way his abs cling to his tan flesh. The way the terrycloth merely skates across his hips. The way his hair falls in that damp, sexy way. The way he moves with power and strength.
Simply put, the sight of him makes me a little dizzy, and I swear I can feel the wetness dripping between my thighs.
He’s . . . beautiful.
A God.
An Adonis.
Hercules.
And I’m in my freaking underwear.
I cross my arms over my midriff in a hopeless attempt to shield my skimpy lingerie. Then again, it’s not like he hasn’t already seen the black lace.
“Gemma.” He leans against the door as if amused.
The movement stretches his torso, causing his towel to slip a little, scattering my emotions in a way I shouldn’t allow.
“Caleb,” I respond, trying to remain calm and cool. Typically I’m on my A game when I get caught sneaking around, but today I’m anything but.
His eyes scour me and either he’s removing my bra and panties and I’m standing here naked before him, or he’s reading my mind and knows I was snooping in his space. Either selection isn’t optimal. “How do you feel?” he asks, not letting his cards show. This man has no tell.
“Like death,” I answer honestly, “I was just getting a glass of water.”
“In my room?” He raises a brow.
I glance over my shoulder. “I got a little disoriented.”
He nods and points to the kitchen, clearly in front of me, not behind me. “It’s that way.”
The strong woman I’ve created over the past four years feels weak under his gaze and finding the fortitude to fight back is almost impossible. For some reason, all I want to do is fall into his arms and tell him all of my secrets, not go toe-to-toe over every little thing we do.
But I can’t do that.
So, instead, I summon my inner bitchiness, and retort, “I’m aware. I just wanted to make sure that after you undressed me last night, you didn’t take anything with you that belongs to me.”
His square, hard jaw ticks as if he’s suppressing a laugh. “You mean like the something white you bought for Enrique, because clearly you’re not wearing it now?”
The shame.
The pain.
The agony of my life.
I feel it like it’s my own skin, and I swear the rusted wires around my heart squeeze harder at his torturous words.
In this moment I hate him for saying that.
Hate him for seeing me for what I am—a possession.
Hate him for not seeing past that.
Hate him for not remembering me.
And most of all I hate him because he’s just another hard, heartless bastard in my life.
Something I don’t need.
Rage pounds through me and I’m finally able to glare at him. “Never undress me again.” The words feel wrong on my tongue, especially since I want him to stomp across the room like a caveman and rip my underwear off right now.
He takes a moment to examine me. There’s a cocky smirk plastered on his handsome face as those emerald green eyes sparkle with a kind of hardened mirth that isn’t learned.
I want to know why, but like me, he’ll never tell his secrets.
Dragging his tongue across his lower lip as if he wants to taste me, he says, “If that’s what you want, it isn’t a problem. Just know the next time you pass out before I even get you home, I’m leaving your ass in the car.”
Fighting past the memory of being in his arms, I stomp across the room, muttering under my breath, “There won’t be a next time, and why is it so hot in here?”
“The air must not be working,” he mutters. “I’ll call the front desk.”
“I’d appreciate it,” I bite out, slamming my door shut. Inside, I lean against the marred wood and stare at my bed. Fragments of last night come back to me in pieces. Him lying beside me, holding me, and me telling him I know he has a secret, and he’s still here.
My body is humming with a beat I don’t understand. I’m so confused. I want him to ignore me, but I hate when he does. I want him to stop looking at me the way he is, yet when his eyes aren’t on me, I don’t like it one bit.
I shouldn’t be feeling anything toward him. I belong to Enrique and I want, no need, for it to stay that way. Flirting with Caleb Holt, or worse, can cost me everything.
He’s dangerous.
And yet, he makes me feel alive, and more than anything, I need that feeling right now.
I can’t push him away.
The tiny motor of an electric razor starts up, and I know what I have to do to keep him with me—make peace.
Finding a tank dress in my suitcase, I pull it over my head. After fixing the straps, I not only find myself peeking out the door, but stepping back into the suite and then knocking on the bathroom door, which he just so happened to have left slightly ajar. “Caleb, can I come in?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
Pushing the door open, I remain in the entrance on neutral ground. Steam rises off his shoulders and the wall of pure muscle causes arousal to shoot through me.
This is the feeling I’m seeking. The adrenaline. The high. The thrill. The one that reminds me I’m flesh and bones, and not a lifeless object. “After I shower, I’d like to get some breakfast,” I tell him over the whirl of the razor.
Switching the razor off, he turns toward me. I do my best to ignore the tiny droplets of water clinging to his rock-hard abs and the prominent veins in his arms that are sexy as hell. With mirth glittering in his eyes and the sexual tension rolling off him in waves, he says, “Are you asking me or telling me?”
Both determined to stand our ground, we hold each other’s stare. I can’t help it, though when my eyes drift down, down, down. I have to remind myself to keep my mouth closed and not allow it to hang open in the O I know it is forming when it lands on a certain something more than evident through his towel.
Forcing my gaze back up, I meet his once again, and for a moment I forget we don’t really know each other. That watching him shave isn’t really appropriate, that the tingling between my thighs should not be there. “Suggesting,” I concede.
Caleb’s lips twitch and then a low huff of laughter escapes his throat as he shakes his head. “That works for me,” he murmurs, his tone actually soft for once.
Feeling triumphant, I struggle not to smile. Enrique set this up. I’m not doing anything wrong by looking at what he put in front of me. With that in mind, I spin around and walk back to my room.
Meeting in the middle wasn’t so hard . . . but he was.