Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(54)

“Good morning.” His throaty voice startled her.

Her cheeks heated. She blinked away from admiring his flat belly, and then some. “I’m sorry. I was staring.”

“Yes. Men hate it when women ogle their muscles.” Conor rolled his eyes. “Do you want me to put my shirt back on?”

How could she answer that question? “It’s not necessary.”

The turquoise in his eyes brightened with roguishness. “Necessary isn’t a factor. What do you want?” He dropped his voice to a husky whisper.

Oh Lord. Warmth flushed her torso. She pushed the covers back. Was the heat on?

“If you took off your shirt, then we’d be even,” he teased.

“Doesn’t the dog need to be fed or walked or something?”

He rolled on his side to face her. “Kirra was fed and walked at seven.”

At the sound of her name, Kirra, lounging at the foot of the bed, raised her head and wagged the stump of her tail.

Touched by his thoughtfulness, she said, “Thank you. Did she eat?”

“Not much. I’ll give her until Monday to start eating, then it’s back to the vet.”

He was studying her face. Oh my God. Her face. She raised a hand to her jaw. The skin was puffy under her fingers. She could only imagine . . .

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “You look beautiful.”

“How do you always know what I’m thinking?”

“I have a sister, remember? That bruise looks like it hurts. I’ll get you some ice.” Muscles rippled as he sat up.

She tried not to stare, without success.

“Kirra and I bought breakfast while we were walking. Let me bring you food so you can take an aspirin.” He moved to the edge of the bed, stretched, and stood. Glancing back, he caught her staring again. “I’ll leave the shirt off.” He left the room grinning—and still half-naked, giving Louisa an eyeful of hard and powerful back that made parts of her sing through the soreness of her bruises.

She fell back on the pillows. He wasn’t the first man she’d seen without a shirt, but none had affected her this way. The hardness of his body concealed kindness that made her heart do a triple-espresso flutter. But she had to admit, though it felt superficial, she wouldn’t complain about the hot body attached to his generous soul.

If she wasn’t hurt . . .

What? She’d have him instead of her breakfast?

Why not? Clearly, he was interested. Neither of them was attached. Though she hadn’t had a relationship for some time, she enjoyed sex. Sex had never been her issue. It was the emotional expectation generated by physical intimacy that had always been her problem. Typically, she was one who preferred to keep sex and her relationships casual. But eventually, most men wanted to see a relationship progress. They wanted marriage and children and all the associated connections that Louisa was unable to make.

Something warned her that sex with Conor would be more intense than any she’d experienced in the past. Could she handle it? Or would he end up joining her short list of failures? Even worse, was she ready to risk hurting both of them?

On that depressing note, she pushed to a sitting position. Her limbs were achy and stiff. Pain throbbed through her jaw, but she felt better than she’d expected. Today was Saturday. No work. She could stay in bed all day . . .

Saturday.

Oh no.

“What’s wrong?” Conor walked back into the bedroom carrying two cups of coffee and a white bakery bag.

“The museum fund-raiser is tonight.” She pressed a bandaged palm to her forehead.

“I think they’ll expect you to cancel.” He set the coffee on her nightstand.

Louisa swung her legs over the side of the bed. “We have a lot riding on tonight.”

“Take it slow.” He took her hand as she got to her feet, his grip solid and steadying as the floor pitched beneath her feet like a cruise ship in high seas. His gaze assessed her, doubtful and worried. “Dizzy?”

“Not at all,” Louisa lied as she limped toward the bathroom, her equilibrium steadying. She switched on the light and looked in the mirror. Ugh. Her jaw was puffy, and a bruise extended from her chin nearly to her ear. She was lucky she hadn’t knocked out any teeth.

Her palms weren’t so bad, and her black-and-blue, scabbed-up knees could easily be covered with slacks. But her face . . . Major concealer work to be done there.

“Considering you took a swan dive into pavement last night, you look pretty good.” Conor leaned on the doorframe. “Why don’t you just call your boss and explain? I’m sure he’d understand.”

“The museum is largely dependent on donations.” She brushed her teeth. “This is the first big fund-raiser since I started. The opening of the new Celtic Warrior exhibit is the biggest event this autumn. I have to be there to talk about my qualifications and the new exhibit. Patrons want to see where their money is being spent.” Plus, she didn’t trust her boss. What would he say in her absence?

Conor shook his head. “So you still intend to go?”

“I don’t have a choice.” She shooed him out of the bathroom and closed the door to use the toilet. When she emerged, he was lounging on the bed drinking coffee, as relaxed as if he spent every morning in her bedroom. “I don’t want to lose this job.”