Page 27 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

‘Frankly, I don’t think so,’ he shot back, interrupting her. ‘You’re entitled to some alone time.’

‘That’s not your call to make...’ she began, annoyed the statement had made her anger soften.

He doesn’t care about you, Issy. He’s just throwing his weight around.

But before she could say more, he rolled up his sleeves—to reveal tanned forearms, covered in a supremely masculine dusting of dark hair that matched the hair peeking out from his open collar.

Isabelle blinked, her indignation momentarily derailed by the realisation she had never seen this much of him before. Him or any man for that matter.

‘Stop changing the subject. You still haven’t given me a straight answer,’ he announced. ‘Are we hooking up tonight or not?’

This time it was a lot easier to find a reply. ‘You actually expect me to sleep with you now? After you were so rude to my staff and—’

‘I guess that’s a no, then,’ he interrupted her tirade. Then he strode across the room and grabbed his jacket. ‘Where am I sleeping? I need to crash.’

Temper sparked and tore at her self-control—its force as unfamiliar as the hot rock still pulsing between her thighs.

‘The main guest bedroom is through there.’ She threw out an arm to point. ‘I believe your luggage is already there. We share a bathroom, so I would appreciate it if you could be prompt,’ she added, wondering how on earth she was going to get out of her dress.

‘I’m gonna need a while in the bathroom,’ he said. ‘Soyoube prompt. And let me know when you’re done.’ He slung the jacket over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning, for ten fun-filled days in Colorado. Not.’

He strolled out without another word.

She stared at the space he had vacated. Furious with herself now as well as him. Why had she behaved like such a ninny all day? Good grief, she’d even considered taking him up on his insulting offer. The last thing she needed was to allow him to demolish what was left of her self-control—simply because he had an itch he wanted to scratch.

She was still fuming when it occurred to her she had a far greater problem than her fake husband’s temper tantrum as she began trying to dismantle the elaborate chignon. Within minutes it had become a tangled mass that would put a bird’s nest to shame.

She wrestled with it, becoming increasingly frustrated and frantic—and only making the mess worse—when three sharp raps made her jump.

‘Time’s up, Your Majesty,’ came the low voice through the door to his bedroom.

‘I’m not finished,’ she said with as much authority as she could muster, while feeling flustered and upset. This was his fault. He’d dismissed her maid and now he was trying to bully her out of her bathroom time.

‘Tough. You’ve been in there over thirty minutes. It’s my turn now.’

What?How could she possibly have been in here half an hour? Surely, he was exaggerating.

But as she stared at her hair in the mirror, the blonde bird’s nest starting to list to one side, she was forced to admit defeat. She hadn’t been able to locate any pins for a while and her scalp was starting to ache. But how was she going to sleep with it like this? Because she needed her sleep, to deal with this infuriating man in the morning.

‘But I haven’t even bathed yet,’ she said, miserable now. Why had she let Elsa leave? When she needed her? It would be humiliating to call her back.

And how had he brought her so low, after only one night?

‘Why not?’ he asked through the door, the tone of arrogant superiority almost as unjust as the snap of self-righteousness and impatience. ‘What the hell have you been doing in there?’

Temper rose up to choke her, obliterating the misery until all she could see was her ruined hair through a red mist of fury.

She marched to the door, flicked the lock, and swung it open.

‘You arrogant bastard,’ she declared, not caring any more about the use of profanity. ‘This!’ She threw her hand up to indicate the mess on her head. ‘This is what I’ve been doing.’

But then the red mist cleared, and shock followed, as she realised he was leaning against the door frame practically naked.

Where were his trousers, and his shoes?

And why did his bare chest, visible through his unbuttoned dress shirt, have to look so magnificent? Was that a tattoo on his left pectoral muscle? Whose name was that scrawled across his heart under a dusting of chest hair? Her gaze trailed down, tracking the tantalising line of hair bisecting ripped abdominal muscles, and hip flexors that made her mouth water, only to land on a pair of stretchy black boxer briefs. The waistband hung low on his lean waist, the legs stretched tight over roped thigh muscles while leaving virtually nothing to the imagination at his crotch.

She swallowed heavily, before she choked. If she had thought that thick ridge was impressive before, it was making her abdomen turn into a lava flow now. Was he erect? Or just extremely well endowed?

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