Page 118 of Carnal Urges

He exhales a short, derisive burst of air through his nose. “Then she signed up for the wrong relationship. He’s got as many targets on his back as I do.”

“He could have one less.”

“You have no idea what you’re asking.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking, and the answer is a simple yes or no.”

“Then the answer is no.”

It’s cold, hard, and leaves me breathless.

Examining my expression with icy eyes, he says, “We’re enemies. We’re killers. Where did you think that story would end?”

In heartbreak, obviously, for everyone involved.

I roll over, away from him, curling into a ball against the pain.

THIRTY-ONE

SLOANE

After a moment, Declan rises from the bed. He returns soon with a blanket that he drapes over me, tucking it around my body. He leans over and kisses my temple, then goes into the master closet. When he emerges, he’s dressed in jeans, a leather jacket, and combat boots, all of them black.

He leaves the room without a word, turning off the lights and closing the door quietly behind him.

I say drily to the empty room, “So much for the after-sex cuddling.”

I suffer through a moment of self-loathing for craving after-sex cuddling—a first—then throw off the blanket and get out of bed.

This house doesn’t have the automatic lights like the other place did, but I have enough from the glowing moon to navigate the room. I find the light switch on the wall in the master closet and flick it on.

Looking around, I laugh out loud.

I’ve never seen a closet with French doors before, but this onehas a set that leads to a Juliet balcony outside. A gold-and-crystal chandelier glitters overhead. One entire wall is lined all the way to the ceiling with lighted shelves displaying shoes and handbags.

Mine, presumably.

Another wall has drawer after gold-knobbed drawer beneath hanging racks of long-sleeved shirts, dresses, slacks, and coats. The third wall is filled with Declan’s black suits and white dress shirts. A giant square dresser sits in the middle of it all, topped in cream marble with a display of white orchid plants in moss-filled glass.

This closet is as big as a retail clothing shop in a mall.

I go hunting through drawers until I find a lovely selection of La Perla lingerie in silk-lined dividers. I pause, staring at an exquisite pair of violet silk-and-tulle Brazilian-cut panties.

The price tag is still attached. The panties, one of maybe fifty pairs in the drawer, cost $240.

No wonder Declan made fun of my savings account.

I rip off the price tag, find a matching violet bra, and try them on in front of the full-length mirror.

Turning slowly back and forth as I admire my reflection, I realize I’ll never be able to wear my three-pack-for-thirty-bucks cotton Hanes again.

I hunt through more drawers. I find a lifetime supply of lululemons, along with jeans, sweaters, T-shirts, and everything else. I dress in a pair of $1,300 Dolce & Gabbana jeans and a black cashmere sweater so soft, it almost makes me cry, trying all the while to stay angry at Declan.

When I pull open one of the top drawers in the big center island, I stop short, sucking in a breath.

Apparently, his shopping spree also included a stop at Tiffany’s.

I close the drawer, wait for the blinding sparkle of diamonds to fade from my vision, then leave the closet and its temptations behind. I head out barefoot to the kitchen.