Eventually I make my way back to the jet’s bedroom to strip off the bed sheet. When I find my duffel bag on the mattress, I wonder if the flight attendant put it there or…

No, I highly doubt Owen would’ve been so considerate.

At any rate, I put on some dry clothes. Then I return to the front of the jet where Owen is focusing on his tablet yet again.

He looks up as I take a seat across the way from him. I’m already plugged into my music, and I’ve pumped it up as loud as possible. I hope he hears it even through the earbuds.

I hope it’s annoying the ever-loving heck out of him.

After we land, the limo ride to his mansion is just as strained, except for the fact that he actually asks me if I’m feeling well. I’m pretty sure that’s the Owen Gregory way of wondering if I’m in the mood to get fucked again, or maybe he truly is concerned.

Doubtful.

I tell him I’m pretty tired after today, and he accepts that. Since I haven’t signed my new contract yet, I have no obligation to do anything with him.

When we arrive at his mansion, it’s late. Nat isn’t around to greet us, and that’s a relief. It means I can go straight to my room.

After I close the door, I wait to see if there’s a knock, but it never comes. I crawl into bed as soon as I can, pulling the covers around me and wondering if there’ll ever be another time between Owen and me like our wonderful romp in the shower.

Early the next morning, after yet another rough sleep, I contact Nat on the intercom. It’s no use trying to get more shuteye, so I might as well start my day.

She brings a breakfast of fluffy waffles, bright fruit salad, and freshly squeezed orange juice on a silver tray that’s decorated with a rose in a vase. I’m still in bed wearing a lacy shift from the walk-in closet, and I lean back against the pillows that are bunched behind me.

“Thank you, Nat,” I say as she positions the tray and its stand over my lap. “I meant to be ready in time this morning to have breakfast downstairs with you, but I’m slow to get out of bed.”

I don’t ask if Owen has already gone into work. I really don’t care.

“No apologies necessary,” Nat cheerily says. She has a leather binder tucked underneath her arm, and she efficiently opens it, then takes out a clipped bunch of creamy papers. “You have a bit of reading to do during your meal anyway. This is your new contract with Dr. Gregory.”

So he hasn’t gone back on his offer. I’m still his unfeeling sex toy for the month.

Nat busies herself by straightening the light fixture, intercom, and clock on my nightstand, then takes out her ever-present cloth from her serviceable dress to dust off the surfaces. Afterward, she moves on to another piece of furniture. Meanwhile I read the contract over.

Well, look at that—there’s a reference about my having to agree to keep all of my personal affairs to myself and to refrain from speaking about anything of a personal nature to, or in front of, Owen.

Anger spreads over my skin.

“Any questions, Miss Hope?” Nat asks, turning to me and neatly tucking the cloth back into her pocket. I can tell she’s eager to bring the regular maid in here to arrange my bed, keeping everything in tip-top shape for the ogre.

“No, no questions.” I flash her an unconcerned smile. “Everything seems in order except for one item of business.”

“What would that be?”

“I’d like you to call me Juliet.”

She smiles. “Can I tell you how happy I was when Dr. Gregory informed me that you’d be returning for a month? Welcome back, Juliet.”

There’s a twinkle in her eye, but I’m not feeling it. Not after the tiff I had with Owen last night.

But I sign the contract anyhow since I need the money, even if I’m well on my way to hating the man.

* * *

After breakfast and a leisurely bath, I spend my day getting more acquainted with my ostentatious surroundings. Nat also brings me a new laptop computer and tells me that Owen has granted me the use of it.

Isn’t he just a peach for giving me this little treat? It’s as if he’s expecting sex or something when he gets home.

He’ll get it, all right, but I’ll be keeping an emotional wall up between him and me the entire time. And being the freshly initiated addict that I am, I’m sure I’ll enjoy every bit of his attentions, even as I’m despising him.

As the hours go by, I use the computer to gather information about contractors who can repair the damage to my family’s house as well as whom I should contact at the bank about acquiring loans, now that I’m getting some cash to my name.

When Owen comes home from work much earlier than he did the other night, I’ve just finished eating a dinner of seared scallops, parmesan risotto, and asparagus. Now I’m outside on the tiled patio, sitting at a stainless steel-and-glass table, surrounded by lamp heaters, foliage, and the falling dusk. Custom ironwork lights give me enough illumination so that I can see the computer screen clearly.

I feel Owen’s presence before he actually comes outside—all I have to do is look up to see him behind the French doors. His hands are folded behind his back as he watches me through the glass panes.

My heart jumps, but I force myself to coolly look away as if I haven’t seen him at all. Even so, the sight of him in his expensive suit and his dark-eyed, passionate gaze stays burned in my mind. I shiver as I hear the doors opening then shutting.

He saunters over to me, and my blood jerks through my veins. Still, I ignore him. Then I feel his fingertips brush over my arm, which is exposed by the Oscar de la Renta sleeveless silk-blend dress I’ve chosen to wear on this mild night. The fabric is gray, just like my mood.

“Did you stay busy?” he asks.

“Very.”

He waits, and I almost think he’s expecting me to tell him more.

I keep navigating around the computer screen with the touchpad, not looking at him. “I would elaborate, but I know how much that would offend you.”

“It’s been a long day. Don’t test me with an attitude.”

I grit my jaw, and he must get turned on by my sass because his voice lowers to that irresistible velvet tone that never fails to sway me.

“Red,” he says, whisking a finger under my chin.

My skin tingles as he tilts my face up to him then bends down to draw me into one of his hot kisses. But I turn my face away before he can capture my lips with his.

He doesn’t move as I lean away from him and cross my arms over my chest. It doesn’t quite push down the hurt and anger that I still feel, but it’s better than the alternative—letting myself loose to show him just how bitterly disappointed I am that he can’t act like a human being.

“Do you not remember last night on the jet?” I ask.

“I do.”

“Do you not know what that contract said when I read it this morning?”

“I certainly remember, and I know you still signed it easily enough.”

I exhale, then shake my head.

He begins to stalk away, then turns back around to me. “Your bad behavior isn’t in the spirit of the deal we made.”

“’Spirit of the deal.’ Would that include having you fuck me against my will?”

“Jesus,” he whispers. “Of course I’d never do that.”

I never thought I’d see Owen Gregory look staggered, but there he is, utterly taken aback.

The sound of the trees rustling around us takes the place of any more words we might say. I’ve gone too far, and I don’t feel good about it. I was angry. I felt marginalized, insulted, wounded.

I face him in the chair, cocking my head when I see how confused he is. This towering man who lives behind such neat, tidy, defensive walls. More than anything, I hate to see him like this, and my heart thuds with a sad, empty beat.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just that I’m not one of those robots your company makes to wash away the harmful bacteria you’re always fighting against. I’ve got human emotions, not artificial intelligence, and I can’t constantly have sex on command—especially not after the way you treated me.”

He frowns. “I treat you very well.”

A laugh cuts out of me, and he seems even more puzzled. He really doesn’t understand, does he?

I have no idea how to communicate with him. He seems to be half robot himself, half beast. Is there any humanity in there? What even happened to him to make him this way?

It seems as if tension has grown between us during these past few minutes. It sprouts like weeds from the cracks in the expensive patio tile, winding through the air, blocking whatever understanding we ever did have between us.

His own jaw is stiff, as if I make his blood boil, and I sense that he’s about to walk away from me for good.

Don’t, I think. Because in spite of how he constantly stings me, all I want to do is rush out of this chair and throw myself at him, having him catch me before I fall apart.

But I still sit there as he stares at me, his gaze more fathomless than ever.

Just as it feels as if the air is about to split apart, his broad shoulders lose a little bit of their heft, and he says, “What is it you want from me then?”

I don’t know what to say.

He continues in a gruff tone. “I’m paying you top dollar specifically because I realize that all of my rules and regulations and requirements are a lot to ask of any woman. But you agreed to work with them, so you should either accept all of that or cancel the contract and go home.”

I rise from the chair. “I don’t want to cancel that contract,” I say. “I really don’t.”

For the first time, I see an emerging warmth in his gaze—not sexual heat, not guarded coolness. I think something has just changed between us.

But what?

Far be it from the good doctor to relent too much though, because his shoulders stiffen again. “Fine.” He gestures with his hand. “Then we should have a change of pace, get out of here, go out, do something…”

Is he actually searching for a word?

He finally comes out with it. “Fun.”

Do something fun. With Dr. Icicles. I’m not sure he actually knows what fun means, but I’ll take what I’m getting from him.

Even if I have no idea what he has in store.