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But another part, a treacherous corner of my consciousness I rarely acknowledged, found itself utterly transfixed. The gentlerise and fall of her ribcage, visible beneath what appeared to be a vintage blue dress that had twisted artfully around her form. The vulnerable curve of her shoulder, exposed where the fabric had slipped.
Even in sleep, she possessed a warmth that seemed to radiate through the typically cool air of my chambers.
As I stood frozen in the doorway, studying this beautiful disruption to my perfectly ordered world, fury and fascination warred for dominance.
How dare she violate my most private sanctuary? Yet how could something so lovely inspire anything but wonder?
My eyes traced the delicate arch of her neck, the way moonlight caught in her hair, the soft parting of her lips as she breathed.
A scent I couldn't identify drifted toward me—vanilla and something warmer, something that made my head spin with possibilities I had no business contemplating.
I should wake her immediately. Demand explanation. Assert control over this unprecedented chaos.
Instead, I found myself taking another silent step forward, drawn by forces I couldn't name or understand.
"Excuse me." The words emerged sharp enough to cut crystal, each syllable precisely enunciated.
She stirred but didn't wake, making a soft sound that went straight to parts of me I'd thought permanently under control. Her breathing remained deep and even, occasionally hitching in a way that suggested dreams.
I found myself noting the flutter of her lashes against her cheeks, the way her lips curved slightly as if smiling at some private joke.
"I said, excuse me." Louder this time, I turned on the bed side light, with the full glacial authority that had intimidated senior barristers and corporate executives across three continents.
This time her eyes flew open—the most startling green I'd ever seen, like new leaves kissed by spring rain.
For an eternal moment, we simply stared at each other across the moonlit space, her obvious confusion warring with my cold fury.
"Oh my God," she breathed, and I caught the unmistakable cadence of American South—not the harsh twang I'd expected, but something softer, more musical. Then she bolted upright with such force the movement sent her tumbling off the far side of the bed in a cascade of fabric and limbs.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph on a pogo stick," came her muffled voice from the floor. "I'm so sorry. I was just—I mean, I didn't mean to—this is so embarrassing I could just crawl under this beautiful rug and die right here."
She emerged from behind the bed like Venus from the waves, hair magnificently mussed and cheeks flushed pink as summer roses. Her dress had twisted during the fall, and I caught a glimpse of script tattooed along her inner wrist before she tugged the fabric back into place with flustered movements.
"Who," I said with lethal precision, each word carved from ice, "are you?"
"I'm Lili. Anderton. I'm Daphne's friend? From university?" She twisted her hands together in a gesture so nervous it was almost endearing. "I got lost, and I was just so tired, and I didn't realize—I mean, obviously this isn't my room, and I'm really, truly, deeply sorry."
"You were sleeping. In my bed." The words emerged more harshly than intended, but the sight of her—disheveled and defensive and utterly lovely—was doing things to my equilibrium that years of legal training hadn't prepared me for.
Her green eyes flashed with something that might have been irritation. "Look, I said I was sorry. It's not like I planned this." That accent became more pronounced as her embarrassment transformed into defensive fire. "Trust me, if I'd known this was someone's room, I would've kept wandering until I found the kitchen or collapsed in a hallway."
"Someone's room?" I stepped closer, noting how her chin lifted defiantly despite the bright flush staining her cheeks. "This ismyroom.Myprivate quarters.Mybed. And you've been sleeping in it like some sort of American Goldilocks who stumbled into the wrong fairy tale."
"Well, excuse me for not realizing I'd stumbled into the big bad wolf's den," she shot back, then immediately looked horrified at her own audacity. "I mean—sorry. That was rude. I just—you're very angry, and very tall, and very... intense."
"I amnotangry." The lie came through gritted teeth. "I am merely profoundly disconcerted to find my private sanctuary invaded by a stranger."
Something electric crackled in the space between us, charged and dangerous.
She stood there, disheveled and defiant, and I found my anger warring with something far more treacherous.
The way she held herself—shoulders back despite obvious embarrassment, chin raised in challenge—spoke of inner steel beneath the soft exterior.
Her dress had shifted again, revealing the elegant line of her collarbone, and I forced my gaze back to her face. Those remarkable eyes held mine with surprising directness, as if she were measuring me.
"You're very British," she said suddenly, the observation escaping without permission. "Like, very, very British. All proper and... intimidating."
"Astute observation, Miss Anderton." I moved closer, drawn by invisible threads I didn't understand. "And you are very American, very clearly out of your depth, and currently inhabiting my most private space."