Page 43 of Wicked Lies

He handed her a water bottle off the bedside table. “Here, drink this.”

The cool water soothed her dry throat as she eased against the pillows.

“I got a thing about small spaces,” he admitted. “Elevators, cramped, tight places.”

“Claustrophobia?”

“And I’m not a big fan of the dark either.”

“You— afraid of the dark?”

“Yeah, but that’s our secret.” He kissed his way down her neck and the cleft of her breasts. “You taste so fuckin’ good.”

He checked the bedside clock. “It’s only eight o’clock. Much too early to get up.”

She cuddled into his firm, protective embrace.

“When your brain gets a chance to relax, the nightmares will go away. You’re with me now. No more worries.”

His words made sense, and she prayed he was right. Her mind was so overloaded and stressed, it needed some time to heal. “Hold me tighter,” she whispered against his chest.

14

Later that morning, the buzzing of Nick’s cell phone woke Cheryl. He answered it, and after a few short words, swiped away the call.

“Samson’s doing better.” Nick tossed the phone on the bed. “I’m going into the kitchen to get us something to eat.”

She checked her phone and was shocked to see it was eleven a.m. Normally, her sleep was fitful and restless, but falling asleep in Nick’s protective arms calmed her inner fears. Cheryl threw back the downy soft sheet, amazed at how he kept them so white and fresh. Maybe he replaced them monthly. She chuckled at the extravagance, but what he obviously spent on linens most people made in a week.

Her bare feet sank into the plush, dove-gray carpet, and the cool air conditioning kissed her bare skin. Her clothes were in a crumpled heap where he’d discarded them the night before. The bright sunlight streaking through the windows reflected against the light and dark shades of gray, mixed with accents of lilac.

She marveled at the smoked glass cabinet dominating the opposite wall. It stood just above her waist, and she assumed it was a media center. The tinted glass made it impossible to see in, so she moved closer and pushed one of the buttons on the side. The cabinet hummed, and the largest flat-screen TV she’d ever seen emerged from within and then roared to life.

“Oh, shit.” She punched at the buttons, and the TV shut off and descended back into the cabinet. She sighed with relief then headed to the bathroom, making a mental note not to push any more unknown buttons.

Spying the fluffy white robe, she removed it from the hook. It hung to her mid-calf, and even after cinching the tie and rolling up the sleeves a few times, it still swallowed her up. She flipped the collar up and inhaled the scent of his spicy, woodsy cologne and soap—Nick.

Aside from a few bottles of cologne and some decorative pieces, also in lilac and gray, there was no clutter or mess on the granite countertops. The glass-enclosed shower had no water spots and appeared unused. His neatness intimidated Cheryl since she leaned more toward messy. Okay, she was a slob. Her bedroom and bathroom usually had clothes thrown all over, makeup and hair products fighting each other for counter space, and a few wet towels thrown on the floor for good measure.

A light switched on when she peeked in Nick’s closet, and she gawked at the racks and racks of suits, dress shirts, casual shirts, pants, and jeans. After a few hesitant steps into what could pass as a small men’s boutique, she ran her hand over the cherry wood shelves holding rows of shoes. She touched the cuffs of cashmere jackets and fine linen shirts and fantasized about having a female version of this closet.

Peeking out from under the clothes, she spied a black and white striped cat. “Hey, pretty girl.” She bent, let the cat sniff her hand, then scooped her up and examined her scars.

Leaving the closet, she was drawn to the bookcase in the corner where the windows met. Cheryl jostled the cat to her left side and lifted a book off the shelf. She ran her hand over the smooth leather binding, then cracked the book and sniffed.

“I thought I was the only one who sniffed books.”

She snapped the book shut, and her cheeks warmed at being caught in the act.

He moved to her side and caressed the cat’s fur. “I see you met Killer.”

“Killer?” She laughed.

“She had a rough start, so I thought the name would give her confidence.” He smiled. “She usually spits at the women I bring home.”

A cat with very good taste. This might just work.

“You like to read?” he asked.

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