Page 25 of Carnal Urges

Oh, look, you found your sense of humor. Was your missing charm with it?

His answer comes zinging back so fast, I’m not sure how he managed to type it.

Please don’t interrupt me while I’m ignoring you.

That makes me laugh out loud.

Good one, geezer. How old are you, anyway?

Around other people—forty-two. Around you—it feels like forty-two hundred.

He’s older than he looks. Smiling at the phone, I murmur, “Ouch. Savage.”

I debate sending something back, but decide to let him have the last word. Maybe it will improve his disposition the next time I see him.

Probably not, but I’ll give it a shot.

In the cabinet under the sinks in his enormous bathroom, I find aspirin, Neosporin, hydrogen peroxide, and bandages. I down two of the aspirin with a gulp of water from the sink, then take a shower. After locking the bathroom door first, of course.

When I’m finished with the shower, I towel dry my hair, put on Declan’s briefs and dress shirt again, and sit on the toilet to attend to the soles of my feet. I disinfect them with the peroxide, dab on the antibacterial cream, and stick a bandage on a few of the worst cuts.

Then, with nothing left to do and no television to watch, I decide to try to get more sleep.

I’ve already rummaged through all his drawers. He keeps nothing personal in his personal space, which I find very interesting. No photos, no books, no jewelry, no notes. Not a single item in his bedroom could identify him as the occupant. Only his clothes, hanging meticulously in his closet and folded with such anal precision in the drawers, could identify the space as belonging to a male. All else is neutral.

Empty.

He could vanish without a trace at any moment, and no one would ever know he’d been here.

Which, perhaps, is the point.

But it makes me curious. About him and his life, about what would drive a man to be so absent in his own home. Maybe he’s got a bunch of family photos in the living room, but somehow, I doubt it.

Somehow, I doubt he has a family.

Other than the mafia, that is. Besides his brothers-in-arms, Declan seems very much like a lone wolf.

I don’t have much to go on, but I’ve always been intuitive about people. And if my intuition is right, the man keeping me under his roof has more than the normal number of secrets a man in his position would have.

I suspect his proverbial closet doesn’t just have skeletons. It has entire graveyards.

Pulling down a corner of the black silk duvet, I crawl under the sheets and snuggle down, getting comfy. After I’m motionless for a few minutes, the automatic lights dim. I drift off to sleep to the sound of my rumbling stomach.

Sometime later, I wake to the sound of breathing beside me.

Without even opening my eyes, I know it’s Declan. The peppermint-spice scent is a dead giveaway, as is the heat he’sgenerating. The man’s body temperature is set at permanent full blast.

After a moment, he says in a voice thick with fatigue, “The guest rooms are full. So is the sofa. And I can’t sleep sitting up in a chair.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest you should.”

We’re quiet for a while, until he says, “You didn’t eat your food.”

“I didn’t want to get diabetes.”

A rustle on the pillow next to mine makes me open my eyes. He’s lying on his back, but has turned his head and is looking at me.

He’s taken off his suit jacket and shoes, but otherwise is fully clothed. His jaw is dark with scruff. His blue eyes are heavy lidded. He is very, very handsome.