Five

      Rafael would have carried her into his penthouse if she’d allowed it. As it was he argued fiercely until she rolled her eyes and informed him that she was perfectly okay and that no one got carried around because of a black eye.

      The reminder of her black eye just infuriated Rafael all the more. She was a tiny woman and the idea that some street thug had manhandled her—a pregnant woman—made his jaw clench. Even though the doctor had assured him that all was well with her pregnancy.

      He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was in new territory for sure. Bryony was the first woman he’d ever brought up to his penthouse and it felt as though his territory had been invaded.

      “Would you like me to order in dinner?” he asked when he’d settled her on the couch. Surely it wasn’t a good idea for her to go out and it was late.

      “I’d like that, thanks,” she said as she leaned her head back against the sofa.

      He frowned when he saw the fatigue etched on her face. “You must be tired.”

      Her lips twisted ruefully and she nodded. “It’s been an eventful couple of days.”

      Guilt crept up his nape until he was compelled to rub the back of his neck. He hadn’t made things easier for her. She’d traveled a long way and then … Then things had gone all to hell.

      He stood, irritated with himself. Why should he feel guilty about anything? He couldn’t remember. God knew he’d tried. He went to bed frustrated every single night, hoping when he woke the next morning that everything would be restored and he could stop wondering about the holes. Stop wondering if he’d done something ridiculous like seduce and fall in love with a woman in the space of a few weeks.

      It sounded so incredible that he couldn’t wrap his head around it.

      No, he shouldn’t feel guilty. None of this had been his fault.

      Except for the fact that he’d upset her and caused her to flee his office and she’d wound up being mugged as a result.

      He studied her from across the room as he picked up the phone to call in their food order. She already looked as if she was asleep and he battled with whether to even bother waking her for dinner.

      His gaze drifted to her belly and he swiftly decided against allowing her to sleep through the meal. It had likely been hours since she’d eaten anything.

      He returned to her a moment later and settled on the chair next to the couch where she lay sprawled. “Would you like something to drink while we wait for the food?”

      She stirred and regarded him lazily through half-lidded eyes. “Do you have juice? I feel a little light-headed.”

      He bolted to his feet. “Why didn’t you say anything before now?”

      She shrugged. “Quite frankly all I wanted was a comfortable place to sit and relax. Having all those people around me was making me crazy.”

      He strode to the kitchen and rummaged in the fridge for orange juice. After checking the date on the carton, he poured a glass and went back into the living room.

      This time he sat on the couch next to her and handed her the glass. She drank thirstily until half the contents were gone and then handed him back the glass.

      “Thanks. That should do the trick.”

      “Is this something that happens regularly or is it just the excitement of the day?” he asked suspiciously.

      “I’m borderline hypoglycemic. My blood sugar gets too low every once in a while. Pregnancy sort of messes with that and I have to be careful to eat regularly or I risk passing out.”

      Rafael swore under his breath. “What if you were to pass out when you were alone?”

      “Well, the point is to make sure I don’t pass out.”

      He scowled and then checked his watch. Only five minutes had passed since he’d placed the order.

      “I’ll be fine, Rafe,” she said softly. “My grandmother is a diabetic. I’m well acquainted with how to handle low or elevated blood sugar.”

      The shortened version of his name, only used by his closest friends, slipped from her lips as if she’d used it a thousand times before. Coming from her, it sounded … right. As if he’d heard it before or maybe even encouraged her to use it.

      He put a hand to his nape and looked away. Why couldn’t he remember? If he had truly been involved with this woman, and if, like she’d said, they’d formed some romantic attachment—he couldn’t quite bring himself to say love—then why would he shove her as far from his memory as he could?

      She kicked off her shoes and then curled her feet underneath her on the couch before grabbing one of the cushions to snuggle into. It occurred to him that if they were a real couple he would have sat beside her and … cuddled. Or maybe offered her a foot rub. Weren’t pregnant women supposed to have swollen ankles or something?

      Which further proved to him that the idea of him falling in love and spending four weeks wrapped up in one woman was just … ludicrous. He dated. He even had relationships, but they were on his terms, which meant that his female companions didn’t come to his penthouse. If they had sleepovers, it was done in one of his hotels. He certainly didn’t engage in cuddling or cutesy things that a man would do for the woman he loved.

      But then she glanced up and their eyes met. There was something in her gaze that peeled back his skin and squeezed his chest in a manner he wasn’t familiar with. She looked … tired and vulnerable. She looked as if she needed … comfort.

      Hell.

      “Rafe, he got away with my purse,” she said quietly.

      He nodded. The police had come to the hospital to take her statement but it was doubtful they’d find her attacker.

      “I didn’t think … I mean everything happened so fast, and then at the hospital …” She lifted her hand in a helpless gesture that only made his desire to comfort her stronger.

      “What is worrying you, Bryony?”

      “I need to cancel my credit cards. My bankcard. God, he’s probably already emptied all my accounts. My driver’s license was in it. How am I supposed to get back home? I can’t fly without identification.”

      The more she spoke, the more agitated she became. He slid onto the couch beside her and awkwardly put his arms around her.

      “There’s no need to panic. Do you have the telephone numbers you need?”

      She shook her head and then laid it on his shoulder, her hair brushing across his nose.

      “I can look them up on the internet if you have a computer.”

      He snorted. “Do I have a computer … I’m never without an internet connection of any kind.”

      She lifted her head and stared into his eyes. “You were when you were on the island.”

      His brow crinkled. “That’s impossible. I wouldn’t have just dropped off the map like that. I have a business to run.”

      “Oh, you kept in touch,” she said. “But you often made your