Page 77 of Seven Night Stopover

Gently, he released her. She remained where she was, too weak to move. Her shoulders and knees stung as blood flowed and muscles returned to their normal positions. He left her for a moment and returned with an uncapped bottle in his hand. Pouring a measure, he rubbed the lotion into her sore shoulders, elbows and knees. The scent of eucalyptus and lavender washed over her, and she sighed softly as lethargy blanketed her.

Then he scooped her up and sat on the bench, adjusted the spray of the shower so it rained a light mist over them and cradled her in his lap.

“Are you okay?” he murmured between kisses on her face and neck.

Her hand stole around his neck and emotion moved in her throat. “Yes. You made me feel… God, I can’t describe it.”

“You don’t need to.” He brushed her hair from her cheeks and tilted her face to his. “You’re mine now, Leia. I’m never letting you go. Whatever ghosts or demons I need to slay in order to keep you I will slay. If you need to slay them on your own, I’ll be right beside you. But know that from this moment on, you own me. And I fucking own you.”

28

Warren Snyder watched the YouTube clip with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Anyone who walked into his Palm Beach corner office would’ve been fooled into believing he was calm. On some level he was. From a very early age he’d trained himself to suppress his emotions unless he absolutely needed to show them. Most of the time he allowed enough to bleed through his voice to make a point.

But he was not calm. The overriding description he could conjure up was a sense of furious disquiet.

For five years he’d watched over her. Pieced her back together. Kept her from going over the edge.

Nurtured her.

Readied her.

His patience had been beyond exemplary, a fact for which he was quite proud. He liked to think Logan Michaels would’ve been proud, too, had he been alive.

But now…

Noah King.

The clip wound down to the last two minutes. Although the lead singer of the band commanded presence on the stage, itwas the man who stood next to the electric guitarist that held Warren’s attention. The man whose gaze was fixed squarely on the woman on the stool as he strummed the guitar, his intent as blatant as the floodlights bathing the stage in harsh light.

Warren switched his gaze to her, and his fingers pressed harder into each other. She glowed with health and vitality, and her grey eyes held very little of the shadows that had plagued her for so long.

Hewas responsible for that.

Everything she’d become she owed to him. She’d accepted that a long time ago. Had also accepted that the next step hovered just beyond the horizon.

He’d allowed her this one brush stroke on the canvas he’d carefully created. After all, he wasn’t a complete tyrant. The victory wouldn’t be sweet unless she came to him fully and of her own accord.

What he hadn’t calculated for was how broad a stroke she intended to wield. He watched the last thirty seconds of the rehearsal, watched her lose herself in the embrace that was taken in full view of the world.

He inhaled and opened his senses to allow his emotions to flood in. Just enough so he could acknowledge their presence, then free himself of it and get down to the business of strategizing the best way forward.

Anger. Ten seconds.

Disappointment. Twelve.

Jealousy. Seven seconds.

Arousal. Thirty… no, forty seconds.

He processed them all and lit the match to his emotional torch paper. He breathed through the fumes, hit thereplaybutton and watched the clip to the end with complete detachment.

Noah King was not his enemy. But he seemed intent on taking his prize; taking what belonged to him. It was unfortunate that he didn’t know that hell would burn itself out before Warren ever relinquished Leia Michaels to another man.

Calmly, he shut off the computer and picked up the phone.

29

“Wake up, sweetheart. Lunch is here.”

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