Page 35 of Reckless Desire

Fuck.

How did I get home? Well, at least I made it home. I open my eyes and the room registers.

No. No. No. This is not my home and it’s not Dan’s, which brings me a fleeting sense of relief. Briefly. Where the hell am I? This isn’t London’s guest room, either.

I’m wearing a large black T-shirt. It’s a male shirt. Oh my God. I whip my head to my side and it screams in protest. At least there is no man in bed beside me.

The contents of my stomach call for attention. I feel around the side table and turn on the lamp.

Whoever kidnapped me left a glass of water and aspirin for me, but I don’t think I can take them. The violent swirl in my stomach propels me out of bed.

Two doors.

One is ajar.

I dash toward it and thank God I reach the toilet before I retch. Fuck. I swear like a sailor while I splash water over my face. It accomplishes little, mostly just worsening the state of yesterday’s makeup.

After I return to sit on the bed, I take the aspirin. Drinking feels good. In my mouth. My stomach, however, protests again.

The room breathes with understated luxury. As my brain decides to make its reappearance, I start piecing together the events of last night.

London ordered us three drinks each.

Hunter showed up.

London kissed his friend Ash.

Hunter said he was glad I never called.

I went to get drinks.

His scorching touch on my skin.

I hugged him? He carried me?

No. No. No.

I hurry to open the other door, my head throbbing, my heart hammering, my dignity in flames. My bare feet step from the plush carpet onto the wooden floor of a foyer or a hallway. A huge vase on a round table reigns in the middle. Everything is bright white, with a few light brown accents.

I hear a door click and my eyes lock with Hunter’s. My dignity floats to my feet in ashes.

“Good morning.” He smiles a smile that should be banned for safety reasons, because now my underwear is aflame as well. “London’s assistant got this for you to wear.”

I comb my brain for words. Several are coming to mind, but the only sentence they seem to form iswhat the fuck. So I go with that.

“What the fuck…” It’s half question, half an open-ended statement.

Hunter ambles toward me and hands me the clothes bag.

“Did I sleep here?” I frown. More at myself than him because thank you very much, dear brain, for stating the obvious.

“Clearly.” The amused expression on his face should piss me off, but I have other worries right now.

“Why?”

“You were in no state to go home. It was too late for me to take you back to Brooklyn and London was otherwise engaged, so she suggested you stay here and she’d organize clean clothes for you. Apparently she has the keys to your place.”

Too much information. Too many sentences, but I try to grasp the gist of the situation. “Where are we?”

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