“That’s just mean.” She took it, and the coffee.
“You got a full night’s sleep before it hit you,” he commented, and had her checking the time.
“Shit! I’ve got to get moving.”
He simply put a hand on her shoulder to hold her in place. “You’ll take a moment to tell me about it.”
“I need to wake up, grab a shower. I’ll tell you.”
“All right then, with breakfast.”
“Can it be waffles?”
He pressed curved lips to her forehead. “It can. Get your shower.”
Not as bad as he’d feared, he thought when he walked to the AutoChef to program breakfast. He’d checked on her during his early-morning conference calls, and she’d slept peacefully.
So it had hit sometime after he’d left his office and come back to the bedroom to find her muttering in her sleep, and the cat butting his head against her shoulder.
But not that bad. She hadn’t been shaking, and the request for waffles meant she didn’t feel ill.
He dealt with breakfast, and telling himself—perhaps with partial honesty—he’d save her time, laid a work outfit on the bed for her.
When she came out wearing a short, cream-colored robe, he sat with the cat curled in his lap while the morning stock data scrolled on the wall screen.
“This thing’s silk, right?”
“It is, yes.”
“Is it sexy?”
He gave her a studied look and sipped his coffee. “What’s in it is.”
“Come on. Is it like fuckwear?”
With a laugh, he sat back. “A loaded question if I ever heard one, but we’ll treat it seriously. In my view it’s subtly sexy.”
“Kind of classy, right?”
“As I see it, yes. It suits you.”
“Nobody’s going to accuse me of being classy.”
“You’re in a class by yourself.”
After a quick snort, she grabbed her PPC. “Look at this underwear.”
“What a fascinating start to the day.” He took the PPC, nodded at the image. “Yes, I remember this from your board.”
And if he hadn’t, he thought, the bloodstains on the bra would serve as a clue.
“Set that aside a minute. Is it fuckwear?”
“Ah, Christ.”
“I know, I know, but put that aside. Just judge the pieces on their own right now.”
“All right then. They’re provocative, certainly, and designed to enhance the body. Given the color, the touches of lace, I’d say subtle again, and yes, classy, even romantic. On an adult woman.”
She punched his shoulder. “Yes. On a kid, not subtle or classy because just wrong. But they still have that … Mavis would say vibe. I get that vibe. Or it hit me when I put on this robe. It’s not bang me against the bedpost.”
“Did that.”
“That wasn’t banging,” she corrected, taking the PPC back. “And maybe I’m putting too much into a couple scraps of silk, but I think they wanted more from her than banging. Banging’s easy. You don’t have to spend a couple grand on underwear for that. And this had to be like daily wear, right? Like you buy me stuff like this—and some of it’s straight fuckwear. I’m not stupid. But for work? I’m not going to wear anything like this on the job.”
Thinking, thinking, she set the PPC down again. “Anyway, I’m going to get dressed before waffles.”
Roarke pointed toward the bed. She looked at the clothes laid out, then looked back at him.
“Seriously?”
“A time-saving offer only.”
“Accepted,” she decided, and took his coffee, finished it off. “I’ve got too much jumbling through my brain to think about clothes anyway.”
“Let me see the ribs first.” When she rolled her eyes and opened the robe, he set Galahad aside and rose to give them another pass with the wand.
“Bruising’s nearly faded off.”
“They feel okay. Not bullshit,” she said quickly. “If somebody punches me in the ribs, I’m going to feel it, but otherwise they’re okay.”
“Don’t drop your guard. Swelling’s down,” he added as he passed the wand over her jaw. “Your eye’s bloomed a bit more, but it’s not swollen. I’d tell you to give the eye another pass this afternoon, but you won’t.”
“I will if I remember.”
He kissed it lightly. Just, she thought, as Dennis Mira had.
“You’ll do.”