“Sir, with all due respect, you saw her back in Monte Carlo. She was pissed.”
“I saw a woman who looked like she’d just been kissed senseless in an elevator.”
“You’re not helping the problem at hand by playing matchmaker.” He’d need more of a miracle worker to untangle the mess he’d made of his life.
“I sincerely hope you and she had a long talk on the airplane about your work with me.”
Just what he needed right now, a damn lecture on all the ways he’d screwed up his marriage. “Thank you for your input, sir. I’ll take that under advisement.”
The colonel laughed darkly. “Still as stubborn as ever, Hughes. Leave the sleuthing to my end this time. Your job is to fly under the radar, keep you and your wife safe. Let me know if you need anything.”
The call disconnected, and Conrad set the phone aside.
Three fruitless hours of database searching later, he slammed the computer shut in frustration. He couldn’t figure out if the clues just weren’t there. Salvatore’s words echoed through his head, about his job being to protect Jayne. The old colonel was right. Conrad wouldn’t be any good to her dead on his feet.
Resigned to surrendering, at least for now, he left the panic room and sealed it up tight again. The sectional sofa looked about as inviting as a bed of nails, but it was the best place to keep an ear out for Jayne—other than sleeping next to her, which didn’t appear to be an option tonight.
And speaking of Jayne, he needed to check on her, to leave her door open a crack so he could hear her even in his sleep. He padded barefoot down the hall to her room and eased her door open.
Bad idea.
Looking at Jayne sleeping was torture. And apparently he was a masochist tonight because he stepped deeper into her room. Her legs were tangled in the sheets, long legs bared since her nightgown had hitched up. Her silky hair splashed over the pillow in a feathery blond curtain.
She slept curled on her side, with a pillow hugged to her chest just the way he remembered. If they’d still been together, he would have curled up behind her, their bodies a perfect fit. He still didn’t understand how something so incredibly good could fall apart like their marriage had.
Tired of torturing himself tonight, he pivoted away and walked back out to the living room. He yanked a blanket off the ladder rack against the wall and grabbed two throw pillows. Even if his mind resisted shutting down, his body demanded that he stretch out and rest. But still his brain churned with thoughts of Jayne and how damn close they’d been to making love again.
If Salvatore hadn’t been waiting for them in the penthouse, they would have ended up in bed. He could still hear her cries of pleasure from the elevator. He could feel the silken texture of her clamping around his fingers.
They may have had their problems communicating, but when it came to sex, they’d always been beyond compatible. And they’d had other things in common, too, damn it. They shared similar taste in books and politics. She enjoyed travel and appreciated the beauty of a sunset anywhere in the world.
And they both enjoyed the opera.
In fact, he’d planned to take her to the opera during their forty-eight hours of romance, back when he’d been enough of an idiot to think he could let her go again. He’d chartered a jet to fly them to Venice for a performance. He’d reserved a plush, private opera box where he could replay their La Bohème date.
He could still remember what she wore that night, a pale blue gown, feathery light. He’d been riding the rush of a recent mission, adrenaline making him ache all the more for his wife. The moment he’d seen her walk out of their bedroom wearing the dress, he’d known he wouldn’t rest until he found out what she had on underneath.
Before Act One was complete, he’d known....
* * *
Dreams of Conrad during that hazy realm of twilight sleep always tormented her the most. Fantasy and reality blended until she didn’t know whether to force herself awake or cling to sleep longer.
La Bohème echoed through her mind, the opening act, except that didn’t make sense because she was in Africa with Conrad. So why was the opera playing out on a barge on the river? Confusion threatened to pull her awake. Until the glide of Conrad’s hands over her breasts made her cling to the dream realm where she could sit with her husband on the porch and listen.
Savor.
His hands slid down her stomach to her leg. With skillful fingers he bunched her gauzy blue evening gown up, up, up her leg until his hand tunneled underneath. She felt his frown and realized she had jeans on underneath her formal dress?
Confusion churned in her brain as she stared down at her bare feet and well-worn denim. She kicked at the hem of her gown, frustrated, needing to free herself of the voluminous folds so she could wear her jeans.
And so she could feel Conrad’s touch.
The roar of frustration grew louder, and louder still until the porch disintegrated from the vibrations. She stood in the rubble, a herd of elephants kicking up dust on the horizon.
Her bare feet pedaled against the covers. She fought harder, frantic to wake herself up and outrun the beasts chasing through her head. Elephants thundered behind her, rumbling the ground along with an orchestra segueing into the closing act. Her chest hurt, and she gasped for air.
She tripped over the gnarled roots of a mango tree. Her hands slapped the ground, but it gave way, plunging her into the Mediterranean Sea outside Conrad’s casino. The farther she sank, the darker the waters became until she hit bottom.
Sealed in a panic room.
A window cleared along the top and she looked up, searching for a way out. Desperation squeezed the air from her lungs. Conrad stood on the balcony far, far above, watching her, drinking his Chivas. She couldn’t reach him, and he couldn’t hear her choked cries of warning to watch out for the thundering herd.
Wasn’t a guy always supposed to hear his mermaid call him?
Except she wasn’t the one in danger.
His balcony filled with thick, noxious smoke until Conrad disappeared...
Jayne sat up sharply.
Wide-awake, she blinked in the dark, unfamiliar room. Gauzy mosquito netting trailed from all four corners of the canopy. Just a dream, she reminded herself. Not real.
Well, the charging elephants weren’t real, but the panic room was very real, along with a looming threat.
Fear for Conrad still covered her like a thick blanket on a muggy day. She’d put him in danger just by being with him. A crummy way to pay him back for all the years he’d tried to keep her safe from a dangerous job. Now that she was past some of the worst feelings of betrayal, she could feel the inevitable admiration beneath it. He was a good man, and she—unknowingly—had been his Achilles’ heel.
That hurt her to think about. She had so many regrets about her marriage, and their future had never been more complicated. Her body burned for his touch.
With the pain of losing him still so fresh in her mind, she knew without question, she had to be with him tonight.
* * *
Conrad stared at the ceiling fan swirling around and around, the click so quiet he knew that couldn’t have woken him.
So what had?
The alarms were set. He’d cracked the door to Jayne’s room. No one would get in without him knowing, and Jayne wouldn’t so much as sneeze without him hearing.
Muffled cries? He’d absolutely heard those.
Hand on his 9mm, he raced down the hall, careful to keep his steps quiet so as not to alert an intruder. He pushed through the guest bedroom door.
And found Jayne standing a hand’s reach away in an otherwise empty room. She jumped back to avoid the swinging door. The sight of her hit him clean in the libido.
His hand fell away from his gun.
An icy-blue nightgown stopped just shy of her knees, lace trim teasing creamy flesh. The pale blue was so close to the color of the gown she’d worn to La Bohème that memorable night it almost knocked his feet out from under him. The silk clung to her curves the way his hands ached to do, the way he’d dreamed of doing every night since she’d walked out on him.
“Is something wrong? I heard you cry out in your sleep and I just needed to be sure you’re all right.” Good enough cover story for why he’d burst into the room.
“Just a nightmare. How cliché, huh?” She thrust her hands in her hair, pushing it back—and stretching the fabric of her nightgown across her breasts. “I cry out. You run to me in my bedroom, afraid something happened to me. I’m still rattled by my bad dream.”
He tore his eyes off the pebbly tightness of her nipples against silk. “God forbid we should ever be cliché.”
She stepped closer, padding slowly on bare feet, her eyes narrowed with a sensual intent he’d seen—and enjoyed—many times in the past.
“Although, Conrad, clichés become clichés because they worked well for a lot of other people. And if we follow the dream cliché to its conclusion, the next step would be for me to throw myself in your arms so we can make love.”