In angry silence they entered the suite, and Anton stood with his back to the wall, eyes narrowed. as again she checked and secured the room.
‘Have you ordered Room Service for the morning?’ It was Lydia who broke the silence with a brisk question which Anton clearly had no intention of answering. ‘I need to know, Anton, because if there’s going to be someone coming in with breakfast then I’m going to have to tidy away my stuff and unlock the door…’ For a beat of a second she paused. ‘It will have to look as if we’re sleeping together—but don’t worry, I’ll be fully clothed!’
‘I have coffee and papers delivered to the room at five-thirty,’ came the surly response. ‘I can cancel if you prefer.’
‘No need,’ Lydia breathed. ‘Don’t change your routine on my account.’
‘Maybe I should ring down now for some ice packs and plaster of Paris. We could spend the night making a few limb splints for me, just in case I step out of line again!’
‘You’re being ridiculous, Anton,’ Lydia retorted. ‘I was doing my job.’
‘I know…’A ghost of a smile twitched on his angry mouth. ‘That really hurt, you know.’
‘It’s supposed to,’ Lydia answered, but her own mouth was curving into a smile as her anger dimmed, a tiny giggle escaping as she replayed the scene in her mind. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’ll survive.’ Anton shrugged. ‘I’m not sure if it’s my thumb or my ego that’s bruised.’
‘Probably both.’ Lydia grinned. ‘I’ll go and make myself comfortable and hopefully I won’t disturb you—just pretend I’m not here. Carry on as you would normally.’
‘Suppose I want a shower?’ His voice was almost defensive. ‘Suppose I want to ring for ice cream and watch the late night movie…?’
‘Then do it,’ Lydia replied, rather more nonchalantly than she felt. ‘Anton, I’ve slept all afternoon, I’m not even remotely tired, so if you want the lights blazing all night that’s fine. If you want Room Service dropping by, go for it—just carry on as you usually would and just forget that I’m here.’
‘Forget?’ A tiny mocking laugh met Lydia’s ears and she watched as he peeled off his jacket and sat on the massive bed, kicked off his shoes and then wrestled with his tie, loosening it enough to slip it over his head and toss it on to the floor—undoubtedly sure that someone would pick it up in the morning, that someone would untangle whatever mess he’d created.
The analogy was as welcome as the relief that flooded Lydia—he was her problem, but only for now.
This impossible, beautiful, incredibly spoilt man was only in her life for a very short while, and she mustn’t forget that for a moment.
‘Forget I’m here, Anton,’ Lydia affirmed, and, dragging a chair to beside the bed and swivelling the night light behind it, grabbing the magazines that were thoughtfully arranged on the coffee table, she set up her small corner for the next few hours. ‘Just carry on as normal—I’m here to protect you, that’s all. You certainly don’t have to entertain me.’
‘Fine,’ Anton clipped, peeling off several thousand dollars’ worth of suit and dropping it to the floor.
Lydia forced herself to concentrate on her magazine—trying to read about creating the perfect eyebrow shape as Anton wandered around the room, pacing like a restless animal. He was dressed only in a pair of boxers and his white shirt now, and he had the attention span of a two-year-old—flicking on the television, lifting up the phone and then changing his mind and replacing the receiver, even rummaging through his toiletry bag and producing his razor.
‘You don’t mind?’
Glancing up, Lydia rolled her eyes as he held up the offending article. ‘Be my guest.’
As he began shaving, Lydia stole a tiny glimpse—and immediately wished she hadn’t. The white shirt had been replaced by a white T-shirt now, emphasising his broad chest. Dark, olive-skinned legs were accentuated by the navy silk boxers, and somehow Anton Santini made the simple act of shaving look impossibly sexy—dark hair flopping over his forehead, the skin around his eyes creasing in concentration, a very pink tongue poking out of his full, sensual mouth.
But even that wasn’t enough to calm his restless mood. Drying his face on a fluffy white hand towel, he headed to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out at the night city skyline. He watched the moon drifting past the Rialto Towers, his fingers drumming on the window ledge, while Lydia sneaked a peek from behind the safety of her magazine, looking at his haughty profile, noting the tension in his shoulders, the grim set of his jaw. She decided to reiterate what she had said.
‘I know it’s uncomfortable for you having me here, but you really don’t have to—’
‘I’m not uncomfortable,’ Anton broke in.
‘You were pacing before,’ Lydia pointed out. ‘You haven’t even lain down.’
‘So?’ He shrugged, still staring out of the window, his fingers still drumming their silent tune on the ledge, tension etched in his every feature. ‘This is how I am.’ He gave another tight shrug. ‘I don’t sleep much—is that a problem for you?’
‘Of course not,’ Lydia replied, returning her attention back to the magazine—but Anton prolonged the conversation.
‘I want a coffee.’
‘Sorry?’ Lydia blinked at him—no wonder the guy had trouble sleeping!
‘I want a cup of coffee.’
‘You don’t expect me to make it for you, do you?’
‘Of course not,’ Anton snapped, clearly irritated by her response. ‘But if I ring Room Service, then you have to put the gun away, move your chair, make it look as if…’
‘That’s no problem at all,’ Lydia said assuredly. ‘Anton, you can ring Room Service every hour, on the hour, for all I care—believe me, moving a chair a few times doesn’t faze me at all. In fact, compared to what I usually have to do—’
‘I’ll make it myself,’ Anton interrupted, and Lydia returned to her magazine, assuming, as one would, that making a coffee was no big deal.
Unless it was Anton making coffee!
From the noise coming from the tiny kitchen area Lydia could have been forgiven for thinking he was attempting to whip up a five-course meal! Just how hard was it to flick a switch on a kettle and peel open a sachet of coffee?
‘You pull the plunger out first, Anton!’ Lydia snapped, watching in disbelief as he went to pour the filter coffee straight in.
‘What difference does it make?’ Anton bristled.
‘None.’ Lydia shrugged. ‘If you don’t mind picking the grinds out of your teeth all night.’
She certainly hadn’t wanted to interfere—if he was so mollycoddled he didn’t even know how to make a pot of filter coffee it was certainly time he learnt—but his restlessness was irritating Lydia now. The sooner he had his blessed drink, the sooner he would get into bed, and the sooner Lydia would find out how to turn her pale eyebrows into something that would rival Audrey Hepburn’s.
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Bringing over his pot of coffee and a cup, and placing them on the bedside table, Anton stretched out on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. Even though Lydia wasn’t looking at him, she could feel him staring at her. ‘You’re thinking that I don’t even know how to make a cup of coffee.’ There was a smile behind his heavily accented words, but Lydia refused to reciprocate, just stared at the blurring words before her and attempted a vague answer.
‘I wasn’t.’ Lydia shrugged.
‘Yes, you were.’
‘Believe it or not, Anton—’ still Lydia didn’t look at him ‘—I wasn’t thinking about you in the least. I was actually trying to read.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be on guard.’
‘I am.’ Lydia whistled through her teeth, giving him a taste of his words from earlier. ‘I can read and listen at the same time!’
‘Well, just in case you were wondering,’ Anton carried on, to his most unresponsive audience, ‘I actually make a very good cup of coffee. But no
rmally I make it on the stove…’ The tiniest of smiles flickered on her lips and Anton picked up on it in a second. ‘What is so funny?’
‘I suppose you chop your own wood too?’
‘Sorry?’
‘To heat the stove?’
‘You are being sarcastic, no?’
‘Yes, I’m being sarcastic.’ Giving in, Lydia put the magazine down and finally looked at him. ‘It’s nearly two a.m., Anton.’
‘So?’
‘You flew across the world last night—you were in the swimming pool at six.’ At least he had the grace to blush, Lydia noted. ‘And the maid’s coming in at five-thirty. You really don’t sleep much, do you?’
‘Hardly at all.’ Anton grimaced, taking a hefty belt of his treacle-coloured drink.
‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ Lydia asked. ‘I mean, I’d be a nervous wreck if I had to chair an important meeting tomorrow and had barely slept a wink.’
‘I’m used to it,’ Anton said, as he simultaneously stretched and yawned.
‘Maybe if you cut down on the caffeine, it would help…’ Lydia paused for a moment as his stretching movement offered her a rather delicious view of a very flat, very toned stomach.
‘Maybe,’ Anton said. ‘But then again, an armed detective by my side and the knowledge that someone wants me dead isn’t exactly conducive to a restful night.’
‘Touché,’ Lydia smiled.
‘Actually…’He yawned again, his eyes squinting as he attempted to focus on her, and Lydia realised just how tired he must be. Even if it had been in the utmost luxury, the man had crossed from the other side of the world less than twenty-four hours ago, had been briefed by detectives, then sat in a meeting for hours, and managed to make it to a restaurant for dinner when most people would have been asleep by now. Somehow he wore it well, but his voice was a touch slower now, his accent a shade heavier as he spoke. ‘If I were at home now I would have been asleep hours ago. It’s not you, or the guns or the threats that bother me—it’s the hotel.’
‘But it’s gorgeous,’ Lydia admonished. ‘You’re thinking about buying it!’
‘No doubt I will.’ Anton groaned. ‘And I’ll be the one to sign off on the glossy advertising that calls it a home from home for the busy executive. But how can it be home when that tiny little bottle of shampoo is always full…?’
Lydia found herself smiling at his sleepy logic.
‘How can it be home when every time you walk in it’s as if you have been erased—clothes hung up, the newspaper you were reading neatly folded…I’m tired of hotels.’
‘I suppose after a while the novelty would wear off,’ Lydia agreed, her fingers twirling her red curls, long legs stretched out. So relaxed was their conversation that she barely noticed when her robe fell open a touch. She was completely engrossed in this intriguing man.
‘Can you answer me something honestly?’ Anton asked, pulling back the duvet and slipping inside, his eyes almost closed now.
Lydia’s guard dropped another couple of notches. Not against the danger outside—her senses were still on high alert for any intruder that might approach—but the man before her now didn’t pose any danger. Jet lagged, exhausted, after an age of fighting, the only thing on Anton’s weary mind was sleep.
‘It depends what you want to know,’ Lydia answered easily, but the smile on her lips faded, her throat constricting when he voiced his question, and her mind whirred for an appropriate response.
‘When we kissed this morning, when you were in my arms, was it merely another day in the office for you?’
It was an age before she answered—weighing up her answer, truth versus a lie—but somehow with his eyes half closed, with that delicious, vicious mouth relaxed now, it was so much easier to be honest, so much easier to answer his question.
‘No.’ Her throat felt like sandpaper, her honesty startling her, but it was countered with relief at finally being able to admit the truth. ‘It was nothing like a normal day in the office.’
‘Good,’ Anton answered softly, a small, lazy smile on his face, and Lydia wondered if he was recalling it now, was going to sleep with that scorching encounter on his mind.
‘Can you answer me something, Anton?’
‘Hmm?’ He was almost asleep now.
‘Was it just another day in the office for you?’ She watched a lazy frown form about his closed eyes. ‘I mean, I know you’ve had lots of…’ Her voice trailed off. She didn’t actually want to go there, Lydia realised. Didn’t want to think about the women he treated so casually, didn’t want to be associated with that formidable list of conquests. But Anton spoke anyway, his voice thick with sleep.
‘I like company.’ Anton yawned. ‘And I hate sleeping alone, hate having time to think about…’
‘About?’ Lydia pushed, intrigued.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Anton shrugged.
‘Have you ever been in love?’ Lydia asked—and, yes, it was personal, but so was what they’d shared that morning. ‘I mean, do any of those relationships mean anything to you?
‘One did.’ His navy eyes snapped open and Lydia stared into them, her breath held in her throat as she awaited his response. She knew, just knew, that her gentle line of questioning combined with his sheer exhaustion was allowing him to open up—knew she was going to get the answer to the question she had versed a couple of hours before.
‘Or I thought it did, I guess. Even I get things wrong sometimes. You should have been a psychologist, Lydia, not a detective—you were right downstairs: something did happen twelve months ago. But it has nothing to do with this, nothing to do with the phone calls I have been getting…’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I just am.’
‘Who was she?’ Lydia asked, nervous of pushing too hard but needing to know more. And it wasn’t all down to the fact she was a detective—she needed to hear for herself the name of the woman who had moved this man so. A rush of jealousy washed over her as she heard the pensive note to his voice.
‘Her name was Cara…’
‘Was?’ Lydia whispered, picking up on the past tense, berating herself for her envious feelings as she registered his pain. ‘Did she die?’
‘No.’ He gave a tiny shake of his head and Lydia assumed that was it, that the conversation was over and already he’d revealed more than he’d intended, but Anton hadn’t finished yet. ‘Sometimes, though, I wish that she had.’
It wasn’t the viciousness of his words that shocked Lydia, but the certainty behind them.
And she’d have loved to hear more, willed him to go on—but, exhausted, he had fallen asleep mid-sentence. Those astute navy eyes had finally closed on a world that would have left any other mere mortal asleep hours ago.
Lydia tried so hard to focus on the snippets of information she had gleaned, tried so hard to concentrate on the job instead of the man, but over and over her gaze drifted to where he lay, watching that haughty, sculptured face, gentle now in sleep. And finally, when the moon had long since gone, when the deep silent hush before dawn hummed around the room, Lydia slipped out of her seat, ready to face the moment she had simultaneously been awaiting and dreading.
Moving the coffee table to its original place, she pushed the chair back against the wall, placed her gun carefully under the pillow and unlocked the door. Dressed in nothing more than shorts and a small crop top, she slipped in bed beside him, shivering on the cool cotton sheets and awaiting the maid’s entry, bracing herself for intrusion, for danger…
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN SLEEP he reached out for her.
Heavy forearms dragged her rigid body to the soft warmth of his side of the bed. For a moment she fought it, but her shivering and exhausted body gave in. She relaxed a touch as his knees pressed into the back of hers, as she felt the dust of his thigh against her skin, the idle stroking of her ribs as he edged her closer, spooning his body into hers.
It could be any woman lying beside him, Lydia reminded herse
lf, and his response would be the same—men like Anton weren’t used to sleeping alone. Men like Anton were way too used to sharing their bed. His response to her was automatic.
A soft knocking on the door had Lydia’s heart pounding in her chest. To an onlooker she would have looked asleep, but the tumble of hair over her face concealed eyes that were wide open, taking in every detail of the shadowy room. One hand was underneath the pillow, its fingers curled around the gun, and her body was locked in a fight or flight response as the door creaked open. Her ears were on alert, not for a moment fooled by the reassuring sounds of cups being arranged and drinks being poured. She made sure that she could only hear one set of footsteps—that no one else was taking this opportunity to plant themselves in the room.
Anton slept on, seemingly unaware of the danger. Downstairs there were armed police, and undercover detectives, ready to watch his every move, and even if a potential attacker was unaware of the fact, it was unlikely that they would choose a visible high-profile arena to attempt an attack. It was here, behind closed doors, where an attack was more likely—and Lydia was acutely aware of that fact, knowing that whenever a staff member entered the hazard was heightened.
Stirring slightly, as if awakening from a deep sleep, Lydia repositioned herself, her hand still on the gun. She watched as the maid first opened the curtains, then headed back to the table, arranging the morning’s newspapers, moving the sugar bowl an inch or two before discreetly heading for the door.
‘Your coffee’s been poured, Mr Santini.’
Deep in sleep, unaware of the possible danger he had been in, Anton didn’t even stir, and Lydia’s attention remained solely focussed on the door until it closed behind the maid. Looking around the room, she ensured in her mind that everything was in order, that nothing was out of place. Only then did her hand move from the gun, only then did she finally relax.
‘We’re alive, then?’
Startled, Lydia turned her head to face him, auburn hair tumbling on the pillow, a frown marring her brow as Anton, wide awake, raised an eyebrow at her response.
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