Page 44 of Wicked Lies

“I love to read. Are these limited editions?”

“My decorator insisted it’s the way to go.”

“Do you have a favorite?” She stroked Killer’s head then let the cat jump out of her arms.

He leaned over her to retrieve a book from a higher shelf, and she admired the thin line of fine hairs disappearing into his low-slung sweatpants.

“Julius Caesar.”

“Makes sense.” She fanned through the book then closed it. “This leather binding is in such good shape.”

“When I can’t sleep at night, I read.” He replaced the book, then wrapped his arm around her waist. “But I had no trouble sleeping last night.”

“Me neither.” A heat crept up her spine along with a hi-def image of him hovering over her, muscles bulging, just begging to be nipped.

He pulled her against his bare chest and smiled. “A beautiful, sexy woman who my cat likes and loves to read. I think I hit the jackpot.”

Who was this gorgeous man who said all the right words, rescued animals, read the classics, and had knife fights on the docks?

“I want you to know I would never intentionally lie to you. It’s just that Frank had me all—”

Nick put his finger to her lips. “Shush.” Then he motioned toward the bed.

Cheryl spotted a large tray with a carafe of coffee, a pitcher of cream, plates of fruit, pastries, and bagels, a tub of what appeared to be gourmet cream cheese and a platter of smoked salmon.

Her stomach growled, and she smiled to cover her embarrassment. “I guess I’m more hungry than I thought.”

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I put out everything.” Nick hit her with a sheepish smile, like he was unsure of himself, which didn’t gel with the swaggering tough guy he usually projected.

“I like it all, but you didn’t have to—”

“Sit and eat.”

A warm, contented sensation swelled in her chest as she gathered the folds of her robe, tucked her legs under, and sat on the bed. She plucked some grapes from their vine, relaxing for the first time in days. She tracked him with her eyes loving how his biceps flexed when he poured their coffee into heavy ceramic mugs. His sleep-mussed hair fell in ebony swirls over his forehead—in a very sexy way.

She reached for four sugar packets, and he laughed. “A little coffee with your sugar?”

“Do you always have this much breakfast food?” She found it hard to believe a bachelor with his perfect physique ate like this every morning. Unless feeding the women he slept with was his norm.

He tilted his head. “The answer is no. Very few women have seen this penthouse.”

Cheryl’s mind drifted to the redhead she saw the first night in his office, then to Angela who managed the dancers. Neither woman seemed shy or the type to be toldno.

“Not exactly what I meant, but how do you just happen to have all this food today?”

“After you fell asleep before, I called my housekeeper, and she stocked the refrigerator.”

“Housekeeper, huh? Does she wear a little French maid uniform?”

“Not quite. She’s a Polish woman in her sixties who wears orthopedic shoes. She comes in every day, straightens up, and makes sure my fridge is full.”

“I see.”

“I kinda have a thing for neatness.” Again the rueful smile.

“I noticed. You could perform surgery in that bathroom.”

“Samson rags on me, gives me shit about being a clean freak, but he’s just as bad.”

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