She had a plan. She would be patient, even if it killed her. He would eat with her, then realize his bluff wasn’t working, and he would leave. She just had to stay strong and not fold before he did.
Michael’s cell phone rang. He saw who was calling but waited until he was across the room before he answered. His voice was so low she couldn’t hear whom he was talking to or what he was saying. Probably one of a dozen women he was currently seeing, she guessed. His bag was delivered, but he left it in the alcove near the door, which she believed was an indicator that he was indeed bluffing and had no intention of staying with her.
The food arrived twenty minutes later. Isabel ate half of her sandwich. Michael ate every bit of his and the rest of hers. She went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and got back into bed. Doing her best to ignore him, she pulled up her emails on her laptop but found it impossible to focus on any of them. She wondered how she was ever going to calm down enough to go to sleep. The events of the
day popped up like slides clicking through her mind . . . the man throwing himself into her arms, clawing at her, then falling, taking her with him, next—gunshots, the maniac shooting at her, watching the bullet strike him between his eyes. He seemed to fall back in slow motion. All the images appeared, one after the other, and then the slides started all over again. God help her, she couldn’t get them to stop.
Her stomach felt queasy again. She took several deep breaths and that helped, but she didn’t know what she could do about her hands. They were once again shaking almost violently. She pictured herself trying to put on lipstick and smiled. It would be all over her face.
She knew she had to stop thinking about . . . What had Michael called it? Oh yes. Her bad experience. What she needed was a distraction.
Michael unwittingly provided it. He held the door open while the dining cart was being removed, then locked the door, picked up his duffel, and went into the bathroom. No big deal, right? Until she heard the shower running. She had to admit that did freak her out. So maybe he wasn’t bluffing.
But then, neither was she. There was a cozy sitting area in front of the windows with a sofa, coffee table, and an overstuffed easy chair and ottoman. Michael was too tall for the sofa, but he could sleep in the chair and put his feet up on the ottoman. Problem solved.
Michael walked out of the bathroom, and her ability to concentrate went out the window. He wasn’t wearing much, just a pair of khaki shorts. He was built like a Greek god, perhaps Apollo, or maybe even Zeus. His chest and upper arms were all muscle, his stomach was flat, and his skin was bronzed.
Get hold of yourself, she inwardly scolded, looking down at the computer screen so he wouldn’t see her staring. How could she dislike a man so much and be attracted to him at the same time?
She glanced up again when he turned to reach for his navy T-shirt. She saw the three surgical scars on his back then, two near the center and one lower near the base of his spine. The scar tissue didn’t look all that old, and she was pretty sure she knew what the cause was.
“You were shot in the back.”
“Yes,” he answered, not turning around.
“Three times?”
“Yes.” His tone was curt, indicating he didn’t want to talk about it, which she completely ignored.
“Were you shot in the line of duty, or was it an ex-girlfriend? I’m betting on an ex-girlfriend.”
He didn’t respond, but even from behind she could tell he wasn’t frowning any longer.
She sighed with relief when he unfolded the T-shirt and put it on. What was wrong with her? Had she hit her head when she was helping the man on the ground? If only . . . She didn’t think she had, but it would be a great excuse for the indecent thoughts that were suddenly racing through her mind. She had a choice to make. Slide show that would undoubtedly give her nightmares, or erotic thoughts about sex with Michael that would make sleep impossible?
Although she was loath to admit it, Michael was right. She really was a mess. She was still shocked that she had cried. It had been years since she’d last had a good cry. Five, to be exact—when her mother died. Isabel prided herself on being able to keep it together, and she’d succeeded . . . until tonight. She had really wailed in the shower. She was certain Michael hadn’t heard her because he
would have said something if he had. Only a sensitive man would have pretended he hadn’t heard her crying, and Michael wasn’t the least bit sensitive. Still, it was mortifying, losing control like that.
“It’s late and I’ve been up since dawn,” Michael said. He stood at the foot of the bed. “Are you ready to go to sleep?”