When the Lights Go Down. Amy Cousins Jo
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she raked the hair out of her eyes with one hand, using the other to push herself up. But her toes slid under the covers and he knew she was fighting a losing battle.
“I’m not sleepy.”
He gave her shoulder a gentle push, rolling her onto her back among the fluffy white pillows piled in front of the headboard. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he held up a placating hand.
“If you can stay awake for five whole minutes, then I promise...”
Smoothing back her hair, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, then brushed the tip of her nose with his lips, and the corner of her mouth.
The curve of her ear.
“I’ll ravage the pants off you,” he whispered. His words made her shiver.
She was determined. He’d give her that. She fought every millimeter, but as he stroked her hair, her lids fell inexorably shut. She curled up on her side, one hand tucked beneath the pillow. Even so, she muttered at him, “Not sleeping.”
“Of course not.”
“Pants off.”
“Absolutely.”
He stood up and stretched mightily. Considered the empty smoothness of the sheets in the guest bedroom at the end of the hall.
Oh, what the hell.
At least this way he’d have the memory of sleeping with her in his bed.
Stripping off his jeans and chucking them toward the door of the walk-in closet in the corner, he moved to the far side of the big bed and slid under the comforter. Leaving his T-shirt and boxers on would be his nod to propriety. She was curled up all the way across the mattress, her back to him.
That wouldn’t do at all.
But as soon as he wrapped an arm around her waist and tucked her against him, Nick realized his mistake. Her butt was snug against his crotch and she’d curled her hand around his, pressing his arm between her breasts.
He dropped his head on a pillow with a low groan and resigned himself to the wait for sleep to come.
Long before it did, his breath had slowed to match hers, almost imperceptible in the darkness next to him.
* * *
When she awoke, sunlight warm on her face and a tangle of sheets around her body, Maxie was alone in a strange bed.
She slid her hands across the luxuriously soft sheet beneath her, wrinkled now with the impression of two sleeping bodies. Not a strange bed, no. The enormous bed with its slate-colored down duvet, the sleek lines of the dark, low dresser and bedside table, the bare walls—all of it fit her picture of Nick Drake, captain of a financial empire.
That it did not remotely resemble the explosion of clothes, photographs and random souvenirs from past shows that distinguished her own bedroom shouldn’t bother her.
Should it?
Her midsection growled audibly. Introspection would have to wait. The last meal she’d consumed had been a Polish and some peanuts at the game the previous afternoon, not counting the various candy bars she and Grace had snagged from vending machines in the corridors of the hospital.
She ran her tongue over her teeth.
A toothbrush wouldn’t hurt, either.
When she emerged from the bathroom, she placed her feet carefully so as to make no noise in the silent apartment. She felt like a cat burglar and that was annoying, since she wasn’t sneaking anywhere.
She heard the clicking before she saw him and wasn’t surprised to find Nick hunched over the keyboard of a laptop computer on the coffee table, forearms resting on his knees as he leaned forward and typed with impressive speed.
His cheeks curved into a smile as she walked over to the large leather couch, so she knew he heard her, but he continued typing without looking up. He was dressed in yet another crisply tailored suit, ready for the day to begin. She ran her palms over her wrinkled jeans and felt half-dressed, and poorly at that, in comparison. He’d clearly been awake for some time already and she couldn’t say why this bothered her.
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