Hard Rules (Dirty Money #1)(32)

I blink awake in the midst of a now familiar nightmare, jerking to a sitting position, my hand at my throat in the midst of panic and terror. Forcing air into my lungs, I become aware that I am in a bedroom and in bed alone, but it’s not mine. It’s Shane’s bed, and the autumn scent of him is everywhere around me, even on my hair and skin. A chill runs down my spine, reminding me that my nightmare is a product of the reality I’m forced to hide from, when I just want to face it and make it go away. That, and I’m naked. I grab the blanket, tugging it to my chin, the sound of rain splattering on glass calling my attention to a wide expanse of windows hugged by curtains to my left. The room is cozy, my memories are not.

“Stupid nightmare,” I murmur, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, noting the time as six thirty, which must mean Shane is already up and getting ready for work. Shaken by the idea that I hadn’t noticed he’d left the bed when I can’t afford to be that oblivious to my surroundings, but then last night comes back to me, and good lord, I’d fallen asleep with him still inside me. And now I’m here and he’s not and it’s the awkward morning after. Unless … he’s not even here. That would certainly wipe out the awkward part and I both hate and love that idea. Whatever the case, Shane isn’t here, and that means I need out of this bed and into my clothes.

Scanning the room, I take in the details I couldn’t see last night: an oversized dresser made of heavy gray wood sits directly in front of me with a flat-screen TV above it. A door I think leads to a closet is to my right. And to my left are the giant window and a chair where I am relieved to find my clothes. Of course, there appears to be nothing in view to cover myself so I’m going to have to run across the room naked, most likely at the exact moment Shane walks into the room. And the longer I sit here, the more that becomes a possibility.

Decision made, I throw the blanket aside, climb out of bed, and dash for the chair. I snatch my skirt, quickly stepping into it, tugging the zipper as I step into my high heels. Frustratingly, my bra is missing and then I give my blouse a woeful inspection that tells me I’ll be walking home with my breasts hanging out if I don’t steal one of Shane’s shirts. The one laying on the chair will work just fine, and I snatch it up to realize it’s my size, and reads FOUR SEASONS. Shane obviously hit the gift shop for me, proving he might be giving me a silent good-bye, but he did so with some gentlemanly class. And really, I’m glad to avoid the face-to-face meeting that would only make me wish for what I can’t have.

I tear off the tag and pull it over my head, more than ready to grab my purse, check the two phones I carry inside it for calls, and head home. One step toward the door, though, and I stop myself. There is no way around it. I have to pee so badly it is a physical ache. I rotate and head for a door I think is the bathroom. I pass through the doorway, I flip on the light, and shut the door. I take a step and once again, stop, my lips parting in stunned appreciation for the gorgeous, all-white bathroom, with an oversized oval tub framed by another giant window as the centerpiece.

Memories of a time when I lived like this stir in my mind, followed by a whirlwind of emotions I don’t have time to endure in Shane’s bathroom. Shoving them away, I hurry forward to do what I came in here to do. Once I’m done, I stop at the mirror and good lord, my hair is so puffed up it looks like squirrels played in it when I was sleeping. I hunt for a brush and find it in a drawer next to a razor, and waste no time taming the wild affair on my head. That’s when I notice the new, unopened toothbrush sitting beside a tube of toothpaste. Shane left this for me and since I stupidly fell asleep, I have no gauge on what this means. Probably it’s like the shirt—he’s being a gentleman. And he’ll probably have a car waiting for me, which I’m not going to take because that means the driver will have my address.

Whatever the case, I brush my teeth, toss the brush in the trash, and then face the door. Now, I’ll leave. He’s not here, so why am I nervous? I’m just going to grab my purse and head out the door. I reach for the knob. What if he is here? He’s not. He’s not here. I open the door and yelp as I find Shane standing in front me, already dressed to kill in a black suit, royal-blue tie, and starched white shirt.

“You’re really good at scaring me,” I accuse, balling my fist at my racing heart, elated that he’s still here when I should be welcoming a quick departure.

“Not my intent. I was going to knock and make sure you found the T-shirt.” His gaze lowers and lifts. And I see you did.” He drags me to him and gives me a fast, quick, but oh-so-drugging kiss, the taste of man and rich, strong coffee, exploding in my senses. “Minty fresh,” he says softly. “Looks like you found the toothbrush too. Unless you used my toothbrush.”

“No,” I say appalled. “I’d never do that. Has someone actually done that?”

“They never get the chance since I don’t invite women to my apartment.”

“What?” I ask, stunned yet again by this man, and by the fact that my hand has found its way to his chest, right where I want it.

“I never invite women to my apartment and damn sure don’t curse the phone call that got me out of bed with them.”

My heart is thundering, but so is his under my palm, and that crazy, addictive energy that charged the air around us last night is back. “What are we doing, Shane?”