The Renegade (The Moorehouse Legacy #3)(6)

“I’ll be right back,” she said to no one in particular.

Silence sucked the party sounds out of the room as every person at the table stopped eating and talking and just watched her go. As if she were heading into a lion’s den.

Why did he pick me? she wondered.

Unless he enjoyed torturing her.

As she walked upstairs, she was anxious even though she told herself to stop making such a big deal about it all. He was just a man. Just another human being.

She paused in front of his door.

No, he wasn’t, she thought. There was something about Alex that was different, and she’d recognized it the moment she’d first met him. He was raw and wild where other men were tame and bland.

No wonder he was drawn to the sea. It was probably the only thing on the planet big and mean enough to challenge him.

She thought about her husband. Reese had loved sailing, but he’d had a thriving business and a home life he’d enjoyed. Though he’d be gone a week at a time or sometimes even more, he’d always returned to her and been glad to be off the yacht. Alex had never stopped. She’d heard that he was on land maybe only four or five weeks a year. The rest of the time he was captaining boats, training crews, fighting the ocean and his competitors to win.

The past three months must have felt like a prison to him, she thought.

“I can’t eat if the food’s in the hall,” Alex said from inside the room.

Cass jumped. Taking a deep breath, she balanced the plate on one hand and opened the door. “How did you know I was—”

“The smell.”

She looked around the room to avoid meeting his eyes. “Where do you want this?”

“Here.” He made space on his bedside table by pushing pill bottles and an empty glass to the side.

“I—ah, I didn’t know what you liked. So I brought you a little bit of everything.” She put the plate and the napkin roll down. “Do you want me to get you some water?”

“Thanks.”

She picked up the glass and went for the bathroom. At the sink, she ran the water until it was cold under her fingertips and then filled the tumbler up. When she came back, she noticed he hadn’t touched the food.

She looked at him. His eyes were hooded as he watched her every movement.

“You should eat it while it’s hot.” She put the glass down.

“Probably.” He shifted his head, regarding her with disarming stillness. “So how well do you know that guy?”

“Who?”

“O’Banyon. Wasn’t that his name?”

Talk about out of left field, she thought.

“I, ah, I know him fairly well. He was Reese’s investment banker, but he’s also a dear friend of Gray’s. They went to school together.” She frowned. “Are you going to eat?”

“You sound like my sisters.” But he picked up the napkin, unwrapped the heavy silver and leaned to one side, considering what was on the plate.

He looked about as enthused as someone facing a traffic jam.

After dropping a couple of peas on the way to his mouth, and struggling to cut up the meat, he leaned back against the pillow. He wasn’t giving up, she thought. Just bored and uninterested.

“Here, let me help you.” She snatched the fork from his hand.

“I don’t need—”

Ignoring him, she sat down on the mattress and put the plate in her lap. With a low groan, he deliberately moved his body away. Even though it made him wince.

Trying to ignore his aversion, she made busy work cutting up the roast. Then she loaded the fork and faced off with him.

He glared at her, lips pressed tight.

“Open your mouth,” she said.

“I’m not a child.”

“Then prove it. Accept the help you need and eat.”

Oh, man, he was pissed off. His body was practically vibrating.

But he did what she asked. And as soon as the fork was clean, she piled it high again.

On the fourth trip to his mouth, she made a mistake. She watched his lips as they parted. Watched the bright white of his front teeth clamp down on the silver. Watched the fork emerge, empty. She saw his jaw working as he chewed, the hollows under his cheekbones undulating. Then his Adam’s apple slid up and down in his throat as he swallowed.

She became curiously aware of the width of his shoulders. Of the thick cords of muscle that ran up his neck. Of the way his hair curled over the collar of his shirt.

“Cassandra,” he snapped. As if he’d said her name more than once.

Startled, she looked at his face. His eyes were cold.

“I said, that’s enough. I’ll take it from here.”

He grabbed the fork and the plate.

Cass got off the bed. “I’ll be back for the dishes.”

“Don’t bother.”

“It’s no—”

“Besides, I’m sure you’ll be otherwise occupied at the end of the night.”

“What?”

“Does O’Banyon like to get babied? You cut up his meat for him, too? Mommy love ain’t a turn-on for me, but hey, every man’s different, right?”

It was hard to know whether his tone or his words were more insulting, she thought.

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off.