Mia wasn’t a horse, but hell, it was worth a shot.
“Stop,” he said firmly, keeping his hand on hers and holding it down. “You’re with me. With Xavier. In my apartment.”
She stilled, blinking, her breath coming in short, hard pants.
“You had a bath and it looks like you fell asleep,” he went on in the same tone. “I’m only here to make sure you hadn’t drowned or anything, okay? But I can’t have you stabbing me. You don’t want to be had up on murder charges, right?”
She shook her head, the tension ebbing from her arm, her hair clinging to her neck and shoulders in sleek, black strands.
“That’s it. I’m not going to hurt you, remember? I’m here to help. Now, that water’s going to get cold, so how about you get out?”
“No. Not with you here.” She hunched over herself, trying to protect her nudity and he felt like even more of a tool for looking at her when she’d been asleep.
He should get out, he really should. Then again, she appeared exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes even more pronounced, as if someone had punched her in the face. God, when was the last time she’d had a decent sleep? Maybe she didn’t ever get any. Sleep made you vulnerable, and a homeless woman asleep and vulnerable on the streets of New York? Yeah, there were no good scenarios coming out of that. No wonder she’d woken up so quickly. It must be some kind of survival reflex.
“Can you get out by yourself?” He gave her a critical once-over, noting the fine tremor in her hands as she pressed them over her chest.
“Yes.” The word was defiant and he wasn’t at all sure she was telling him the truth.
“I don’t think so, sweet thing. Tell you what, I’ll stay in here in case you need help, but I promise I won’t look.”
When she didn’t protest, he knew she was probably on her last legs.
He let out a breath, fighting the urge to simply sweep her up into his arms and dry her off like a child, turning around and pointedly giving her his back instead.
“Don’t look” Her voice sounded so small, so thin.
“I won’t. I told you I wouldn’t.” He folded his arms, hearing the sound of water sloshing. “There are towels on the rack. Help yourself.”
No response.
He stared at the white tiles of the built-in shower opposite him. “Oh, and don’t even think about putting those clothes back on.”
Another silence. But this time he thought he caught the sound of fabric rustling.
Really? She was really going to ignore him? Put those filthy, cold, wet things on again? No, just no.
He turned around and sure enough, Mia, wrapped in one of his big, charcoal bath towels, was bent over the pathetic pile of clothes on the floor, a scrap of white cotton in her hand.
Cursing, he moved over to her and pulled the scrap out of her grip.
“Hey!” Her head came up, her white face twisted with anger. “Leave my clothes alone!” She made a grab for the rest of them, but he simply kicked them away and stood in front of her, blocking her.
She gave him a look of pure fury. “Get the fuck away from my clothes! I need them!”
“No,” he said flatly, giving her nothing but calm authority. Because underneath the anger, he could hear something desperate. Something afraid. “You’re not wearing them and that’s final.”
She was shivering even though it wasn’t cold in the bathroom, her arms wrapped around herself, holding the towel tightly to her body. “D-Don’t tell me w-what to do. You c-can’t do that.” Her chest heaved. “I w-want my clothes. Give them to m-me!”
He wanted to touch her, soothe her. Calm her the way he’d done with the horses, stroke his hand up and down her back and murmur reassuring things to her, letting the sound of his voice relax her. But he sensed that would only make it worse right now.
“No,” he repeated. “They’re wet and they’re filthy. I have something you can put on until you can get new—”
“I don’t want new ones. I w-want those ones.”
She made as if to go around him, but he stepped in front of her again. Okay, so he couldn’t pretend he understood, but if she was particularly attached to those rags, he wouldn’t get rid of them like he’d planned. “Look, all I’m saying is that you can’t wear them now. They need to be cleaned. I’ve got some laundry for Mrs. Thomas anyway, so I’ll put them in with mine, okay?”
She glanced away, her gaze darting all over the bathroom as if looking for an escape route, her breathing still short and fast.
She’s scared, asshole, and you’re not making it any better.
He didn’t like that. He was used to giving women pleasure, not making them want to flee the room.
Irritated with himself, he stepped away from her, turning and bending to pick up the pile of dirty rags.
“N-No,” she whispered. “Please don’t.”
He ignored her. “I’m going to put them in the laundry. Go sit in the living room and I’ll bring you something to wear.”
Leaving the bathroom, he didn’t look to see if she’d followed him, making his way to the laundry and dumping the clothes on top of the washing machine he never used himself—he left all of that shit to Mrs. Thomas. As he did so, a flash of blue caught his eye. He stared, then shifted aside some stiff orange wool and grinned at the soft cashmere of the blue beanie he’d bought her the week before.
The peculiar satisfaction he’d felt the moment he’d caught a glimpse of it underneath her hideous orange hat filled him again, and he found himself reaching and picking it up. It was soft in his hand, and some strange impulse had him lifting it up and inhaling. The scent wasn’t unpleasant in any way. It was soft, musky, tinged with a faint sweet smell that could have been from a flower or something else, he wasn’t sure.
You fucking idiot? What are you doing sniffing her hat?
He didn’t know. Maybe he was crazy. He certainly felt crazy the past two weeks, obsessed with a woman he’d seen in a homeless shelter, who, for some completely inexplicable reason, had grabbed hold of some part of him.
And not the usual part. Though, if he was honest with himself, he’d certainly felt that part when she’d been lying naked in the bath . . .
A threat of desire wound unexpectedly through him and pulled tight.
He caught his breath. Yeah, that wasn’t happening. Not even he was that much of a prick.
Curling his fingers around the beanie, he put it in the pocket of his suit pants then turned and left the laundry room, making a quick stop at his bedroom to grab the robe he never wore from the walk-in closet, before coming back to the living room.
He almost expected for her not to be there. For her to have vanished, left the building and run out into the snowy night dressed only in a towel. But she was standing in the middle of the room, her shoulders hunched, long dark hair dripping down her back and into that damn towel.
She looked small and bedraggled standing there in his living room, exhaustion stamped all over her sharp, delicate features. Yet again it struck him how fragile she was. How vulnerable. It seemed impossible that this little woman had lived by herself on the streets, without safety or shelter, and yet hadn’t been broken. Hadn’t been murdered or permanently injured. Hadn’t wasted away of some terrible disease or from starvation. Hadn’t frozen to death in the bitterly cold winters.
She’s strong.
Looking at the fragility of her now, it seemed a strange thing to think. But . . . she had to be. That slender, pale body of hers had to be made out of pure steel.
He held out the robe. “I’ll have to go through my closet and see if there’s anything that will fit you, but you can wear this in the meantime.”
Her gaze darted to the robe then came back to him again. She didn’t say anything, only gazed warily at him as she moved closer, snatching the robe from his fingers as if she was afraid he’d take it away at the last moment.
Wordlessly, he turned his back to her again, giving her a few seconds of privacy so she could put
on the robe. This time he didn’t look, not even into the windows to catch the reflection of her nakedness, because he was going to be a gentleman this time.
When he turned back, the towel was on the floor and she was wrapped in the plush, charcoal robe, the folds of it basically swamping her. “H-Here,” she said unsteadily and bent to grab the towel. But as she straightened up, she swayed, her face going even whiter than it was already.
Okay, this was ridiculous. He wasn’t going to stand there not helping her, and he didn’t give a shit how uncomfortable that made her.
Before she could topple over in front of him, Xavier stepped forward and slid an arm around her. She stiffened, but he paid that no attention, bending to slide his other arm behind her knees and sweep her up into his arms.
“No,” she said faintly, her body rigid.
“Yes,” he murmured, stooping to grab the towel as well.
She gave a cursory struggle but when he didn’t let her go, she went limp instead, her head relaxing back against his chest, her lashes coming down.
He turned toward a bedroom, carrying her down the hallway. She was so light in his arms, so insubstantial. The scent of the oil he’d put in her bathwater wrapped around him, a spicy, sandalwood smell one of his girlfriends had left there months ago and which he’d never gotten rid of. The bath oil’s perfume mixed with that light musky scent he’d inhaled on the beanie, her own natural smell. It was delicious.
Xavier tried not to let himself get distracted, because he knew himself. Give him a naked woman who smelled delicious and he didn’t hold back. Restraint was not in his nature. Yet, for some reason, with her, he was the very essence of restrained.
He couldn’t work out why. Fragile things tended to get broken when he was around, which was why he made sure he was never around them.
Yet he wasn’t going to examine that right now, not when she was shivering in his arms as if she was cold.
There were other bedrooms in the house, but they hadn’t been prepared for guests and the heating had been turned down in them, so he headed straight back to his own room. It was at least warm and the sheets were fresh.
Not bothering with the lights, he carried her over to his massive, wide bed, sitting down on the edge of it with her in his lap so he could pull back the goose down comforter. She didn’t make a sound, her body lying passive and still against him like a kitten being carried by its mother.
He almost laughed at that thought, because he sure as hell wasn’t her goddamn mother. And if a woman was limp, it was usually because she’d come too many times to move.
But not this woman. Here he was, turning down the bed and laying her on it, drying the tangles of her still dripping hair with the towel then covering her with the comforter and tucking it around her.
She made no sound and didn’t protest, her eyes firmly shut as if she couldn’t deal with anything more. And maybe she couldn’t. He wasn’t given to reflection, not about his own actions or about the actions of others, he simply did what he wanted and took the consequences, good or bad. But, thinking about it, he guessed this was all pretty overwhelming for her.
Swept off the streets and into a limo. And from there into a penthouse apartment hundreds of feet up into the air. Given rich food and a bath, then having your clothes taken from you . . .
Yeah, that must be pretty intense.
He sat there for a moment, thinking. Then he got up and went back into the living room, picking up her ragged backpack. Slinging it over his shoulder, he returned to the bedroom and set it down beside the bed, where she’d see it when she woke up.
He didn’t understand most of what she was going through right now, but he imagined she’d want her own things near her. He didn’t have many of those himself, not when everything he had was bought and paid for with his father’s money, a situation he was entirely happy with, because if it wasn’t his then he wasn’t responsible for it.
Except for his mother’s ranch. That, he wanted.
And her. She’s yours now.
Xavier stared at the woman in his bed. The shaking had stopped and she was breathing evenly, deeply asleep now. All snuggled up beneath the comforter like a little animal. Her hair had began to dry in thick silky curls against the white pillow case and he had a sudden intense desire to touch it, run his fingers through it, bury his face in it and inhale that sweet, musky scent again.
But he didn’t. Instead he went over to a chair in the corner of the room and sat in it.
She’d probably never had anyone watch over her while she slept.
Well, he would be the first.
* * *
Mia woke slowly, aware of nothing at first but the fact that she was blissfully warm. Then she realized that not only was she warm, she was also lying on something that was nothing at all like the cold, hard ground of her place behind the Dumpster.
It was soft and warm, just like the thing she was wrapped up in.
For a long moment, she didn’t move, not wanting to open her eyes because she was terribly afraid that this was a dream. That in a second she’d wake up and, instead of this warmth and softness, there would be bone-chilling cold and concrete beneath her, the stink of trash and oil in the air, and the roar of the city in her ears.
But then, if this was a dream, she needed to wake up and face reality, because the longer she lived in dreamland, the harder it was going to be to leave it.
She steeled herself and opened her eyes.
There was a huge window opposite her, not the rough brick of the building she normally slept against, and through the glass poured the dull white light of a snowy winter’s day.
She took a breath, for a second unable to grasp where she was and how she’d gotten here. Why she was warm, not freezing, and lying on softness instead of huddled against rough brick.
Then she remembered.
Xavier. He’d taken her from the streets and brought her back to his penthouse. Given her some food and then a bath and then . . .
A shiver worked its way the entire length of her body and she sat up sharply, her heart thundering in her chest.
She’d fallen asleep in the bath and he’d come in. He’d found her naked and vulnerable in the water.
Yeah, and he didn’t do anything to you, remember?
Mia let out a long breath and leaned back against the headboard of the biggest bed she’d ever seen, let alone been in. No, that’s right, he hadn’t touched her. He’d given her a towel and let her dry off, and then he’d given her a robe to wear.
Glancing down, she found she was still wrapped in said robe, the fabric a dark charcoal color and pretty much the softest thing—apart from the blue beanie—that she’d ever touched. Okay, fine, but she was also naked underneath it and she didn’t much like the idea of that.
Lifting her head, she glanced around the room, trying to spot where he’d left her clothes. She remembered him threatening to take them away and her being a frantic about that. She hadn’t been able to explain it at the time, too exhausted to be coherent, but she needed those clothes. They were hers and since she didn’t have very many things that were, she wanted to keep what she had. Also, if she didn’t have her clothes, she couldn’t leave, and having an escape route if things turned bad was important to her.
No, not “if,” “when.” Because things always turned bad eventually.
Didn’t look like her clothes were here, but then he’d told her he was going to get them cleaned, hadn’t he?
Then another thought struck her, sending a cold spike of panic straight through her gut. What about her backpack? Where was that?
She flung back the comforter, slipping out of the bed. But her feet had barely touched the floor when she spotted the backpack sitting right next to the bed. She was sure she’d left it in the living room, which must mean that he’d brought it into her.
Grabbing it, she hauled it into her lap and pulled it open, wanting to see that everything was still there. Intellectually she knew that a guy with as muc
h money as Xavier wouldn’t want to take anything from the ragged backpack of a homeless woman, but you could never tell what some people would do.
Some people were simply greedy and saw anyone as fair game.
She didn’t have much, but what was in there was important to her. It was dangerous to have things that were precious to her, especially when she had nowhere safe to keep them, but some things she simply hadn’t been able to bear to part with.
A second pair of panties that were old and faded and full of holes, but were, at least, clean. A ragged paperback science fiction novel that she’d found in the tiny shelter library and that Tony had said she could have—she read it a lot because it was about planets and spaceships and laser guns, and not about danger and poverty and being cold and hungry all the time. She also had a magazine she’d found on the subway, once glossy and smooth, now worn and crumpled. It had pictures of beautiful houses in it and she kept it for ideas about what she’d do with her own place once she had one. Then there was the faded photo of her mother that she’d taken with her when she’d left her grandmother’s place. And finally her most precious item of all, a delicate chain that looked like gold, but probably wasn’t, with a bluebird on it. She’d found it the night she’d been attacked, right after, when she’d stumbled into the little alley she’d eventually claimed for herself, just lying on the ground. It had obviously been a necklace, but the chain had broken so now it was merely a piece of chain with a bluebird charm.
It was the bluebird she liked. Because birds could fly away, she’d taken it as a sign that one day, she would too. She’d fly right off the streets and up into the sky.
Mia slowly put her things back into the backpack and looked around again.
The room was huge—like everything in this place—with two white walls, the rest a broad expanse of windows. The carpet on the floor here was just as thick as in the rest of the apartment, but it was white, rather than charcoal. The bed, too, was white, as were the sheets and the comforter.
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