Page 39 of Dangerous Passion

Drake folded his hand around hers. “You’re tired,” he said. “You need rest after what you went through today. You need to sleep.” In a lithe movement, he was standing and helping her to stand, too. He put a light hand to her back.

His hands were so amazing. Huge and hard and like heaters. The warmth of the hand at her back came through the silk of the gi as if it were a heat pad.

One hand holding hers, the other at her back. For a moment, it was as if she were in his embrace. Grace was utterly shocked that she was tempted to keep going, simply turn into him, feel those incredibly strong arms fold around her. The temptation was so strong that she had to freeze for a moment not to give into it.

He misunderstood and dropped his hands to his side, stepping back sharply.

How crazy. She felt … bereft. Already missing his hands on her, the heat of them soaking into her, the feeling of being surrounded by his immense strength.

“Come,” he said. “You must be exhausted.” He turned and motioned towards the door. They walked silently down the immense corridor until he stopped outside the bedroom door, opening it and gesturing for her to enter. “I never have guests so I am afraid there is just the one bed. I’ll sleep on a couch.”

Grace stiffened. “You most certainly willnotsleep on a couch in your own home. If anyone sleeps on a couch, it will be me. I’d like to remind you that you’ve been shot, in case you’ve forgotten.”

A wintry smile. “No, I haven’t forgotten. But it is unthinkablethat you sleep on a couch. I absolutely cannot permit it. You’ll find a pair of pajamas on the bed and?—“

“Drake.” Grace stepped a little closer, looking up into his eyes. Dark-ringed, weary eyes. “Don’t even think of it. I am not about to make a wounded man sleep on a couch and that’s final.” She pointed at the bed, large enough to plant corn on. “If you insist, that bed is big enough for both of us with a football team in the middle.”

He sagged a little in relief, caught himself. His deep brown eyes turned almost liquid. “You—you trust me? I swear you’ll be safe, I swear on my honor.”

She believed him, utterly and completely. He’d done nothing but protect her since that horrible moment outside the gallery, when he’d been willing to disarm himself for her.

She looked at him, at the immense strength and power of him. They were in his home which was essentially a fortress, surrounded by his men, who were obviously trained bodyguards and armed to boot. He had shown himself capable of violence. Violence so expert it was almost surgical in its precision. And yet Grace felt absolutely no fear. She felt shock and sadness and exhaustion, but no fear.

She wasn’t stupid. A single woman living in the city learned fast how to read situations. She’d bought all the books, had taken self defense courses—not that anything she could do could withstand the power of this man if she was wrong.

But her instincts were sound. She trusted them.

“I think that if you meant me any harm, Drake, I’d be hurt by now,” she said softly.

“Oh God. Never.” Swallowing heavily, he picked her hand up and brought it to his lips. “I can’t bear the thought of you hurt or frightened. Today was a nightmare for me. Please,don’t fear me or anyone who works for me. You’re as safe as I can possibly make you. So put on those pajamas and have yourself a good night’s rest.”

Midnight blue pajamas, brand new and of a heavy silk by the feel of them, lay at the foot of the bed. In the bathroom, Grace changed, turning up the sleeves and pants cuffs a couple of times. She switched off the bathroom light and, feeling shy, walked back into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

She walked towards the bed and then simply stopped, the artist in her rising up and crowding out the scared, exhausted, stressed woman.

The deep green curtains had closed, shutting out the diamond-bright skyline. All the lights had been turned off, the only light a warm glow coming from the dying embers of the fire.

One side of the bed had been turned down, the smooth sheets unbearably inviting. True to his word, Drake lay on the other side of the bed, so close to the edge he would fall off if he turned in his sleep. There would be at least six feet between them. To reassure her further, he hadn’t gotten between the sheets, but rather was lying on top of the emerald green comforter, covered by a rich, thick fur blanket, looking like something out of a Russian novel.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

He didn’t look like a character in a novel, he looked like alegend. A warrior out of time. Tamerlane, perhaps, or Alexander, resting in his tent after conquering the known world.

He’d taken his shirt off. Massive naked shoulders rose above the soft fur blanket. The dying embers painted his face a dusky olive, highlighting the broad, high cheekbones and square jawline, leaving his eyes in shadow. The light threwhis muscles in relief—the strong cords of the neck, the deep indentation between the pectorals, the bulge of his biceps.

A magnificent wounded warrior.

That’s exactly the way she would paint him. The wounded warrior finally finding his rest in a tent, the glint of his bronze armor barely visible in the gloom, a soldier standing guard outside. The warrior’s blood-flecked helmet, with a proud pennant and nosepiece, looking like a metal skull, on the table. A man who had commanded an army that day, been blooded, and would command it the next to victory.

Grace rarely had an entire painting come to her at once. Usually, the pieces of it, the order and balance, the shapes and the colors, came to her gradually. But this Portrait of a Warrior came to her complete in one single vision and she knew she wouldn’t rest until her vision had become reality.

Drake’s dark eyes tracked her as she made her way to the huge bed. She slipped between the sheets quietly. The bed was as comfortable as it looked, the sheets and silk comforter a delight to the touch. A faint scent of lavender rose from the bed.

She turned in bed to find him still watching her, face drawn with exhaustion and pain. She was exhausted herself, muscles sore, the scrapes still stinging.

A log fell with a hiss in the quiet of the night. She could feel herself drifting into the welcome arms of sleep.

“Good night, Drake,” she said quietly.

---