Page 18

R owena got out of the shower and quickly dried off, feeling a million times better now that she was clean and warm.

She figured they should probably dump all her dirty clothes, so she gathered them inside out into a tight ball and put them in the sink.

Then she slipped into the thick robe that hung on the back of the door.

She patted her hair dry with the towel and untangled it with her fingers.

The lack of a brush would be a problem, but maybe Montana would have a comb in his bag.

She needed her new clothes. Hopefully, he’d remembered something to sleep in, although she could always use a T-shirt.

She peeked through the bathroom door and saw the room was empty. Two glasses of champagne sat on the sideboard. She picked up the full one and took a big swallow, enjoying the bubbles on her tongue and the illusion of normality.

Flashes of Bjorn Anders’ dead body formed inside her mind, and she forced them away.

Blew out a long, slow breath to try to calm her heartbeat.

It was easier not to think about what had happened that morning.

Thinking about it brought back all her fears and made acid churn in her stomach along with the champagne .

She lifted the phone handset and put it to her ear to check if it was working, but there was only silence. Perhaps it was a good thing to be cut off. Lack of power must make it harder for the police to track them, assuming they were being followed.

Maybe Montana was being paranoid, but after what she’d seen in Bjorn’s office, she’d rather be paranoid than blasé and end up like the other man.

And though she understood she’d broken the law and should have reported what she’d found, knowing what they now suspected about the plane crash, she didn’t regret her decision to run, nor her decision to trust Kurt Montana.

She picked up the bags to see what supplies he’d bought and discovered a plethora of items inside. She pulled out a red silky negligee, and her eyes bugged.

Whoa.

Not what she’d expected.

It was transparent in so many places it was barely worth bothering with.

She realized there were matching knickers and a frilly, half-cup underwire bra for the set.

Who wore a bra to bed? Not someone interested in sleeping—that was for sure.

Was he expecting her to wear that tonight…?

For appearance’s sake?

She swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure she could do it. She wasn’t sure why he’d want her to after all his talk of being old enough to be her father. She definitely found him attractive, but he treated her like she was strictly off limits. Then he bought her underwear designed to set the bed on fire…

It didn’t make sense.

She dug deeper, relieved to find there were other things inside the bag, including flannel pajamas and a sports bra and knickers that covered more than her crotch.

It might be awesome to be the sort of woman who was confident enough to strut around in sexy lingerie without a second thought. To have the confidence to seduce a man ?

She paused.

What must that feel like?

Did she want to seduce a man?

Maybe.

She wasn’t sure.

Did the man want to be seduced?

She side-eyed the negligee. Before seeing that, she’d have said definitely no, but no one bought something like that for a cozy night in front of the fire—unless it involved a bearskin rug and some open flames.

She fanned her cheeks.

It was a stupid time to be thinking about that kind of thing under the circumstances, but she was curious to see what all the fuss was about. Before it was too late…

Her mother had died at twenty-two, her aunt and uncle in their early fifties, so maybe she shouldn’t dawdle too long. Looking back, she should have just shagged someone in college and gotten it over with.

What exactly was she waiting for? It wasn’t a ring or roses. She didn’t care about jewelry and had a whole garden of flowers. It was the spark. The connection. The burn of attraction. The zing.

Most of all it was the trust involved. The absolute, unquestionable trust of allowing another person that close—physically and mentally.

Except for watching certain scenes in Outlander more than a hundred times, and reading ten thousand romance novels, she was horribly inexperienced. Not because of so-called “morals” or the concept of “saving herself.” It was simply not having met the right guy yet.

Was Kurt Montana the right guy?

She’d certainly felt a spark when he’d aided her with her tire last night.

She’d felt it again today when he’d helped her get out of Harare.

But he didn’t seem to feel the same way at all, and as they were on the run from unknown danger, she wasn’t ready to expose herself to ridicule by donning the silky nightclothes without at least a little more evidence the guy might be even vaguely interested.

She took another gulp of champagne. Then paced. They had more important things to worry about. It felt surreal, this cloak and dagger stuff. Perhaps they were both being a little crazy, but Kurt Montana had been exceptionally lucky to miss that flight today.

Assuming he was telling the truth about the air crash… But what possible reason would he have to lie?

If he was after what she knew, then she’d already told him everything back at Halfway House when she showed him the photographs. He could have dumped her there or driven her back to Harare and given her over to the local police.

She yawned widely. It was early, but it had been a hell of a day. She suspected they’d eat and then get an early night so they could be ready to go first thing tomorrow morning.

The chances of Kurt Montana doing a one-eighty and suddenly deciding he wanted to give the mattress a workout with her was slim to none, and she was surprised how disappointed that made her feel.

Ignoring the sexual awareness that had suddenly sprouted out of nowhere and made her skin tingle in all sorts of places, she went into the bathroom and donned the red flannel PJs.

They fit perfectly and covered everything like she was a Victorian dowager.

Disgruntled, she frowned at herself in the mirror and wondered what other people saw. What Kurt Montana saw.

An attractive enough female with unusual green eyes and all her own teeth.

She huffed out a laugh. She sounded like her old pony.

As her hair tended to frizz, she braided it and tied the end and tried not to shiver as the damp rope swung down her back.

She didn’t have a toothbrush, but there were some mini mouthwash bottles in the bathroom, so she took a slug and swished it around her mouth before spitting it out.

If she could just determine who her father was, if she had family, perhaps then she could figure out what she wanted out of life.

Be it sexy undies and the courage to offer herself to a handsome American hunk, or the safe solitary fantasies where maybe no one ever got too close and it didn’t hurt too badly when people left.

Because people always left.

Impatient with herself, she took her dirty clothes out of the sink and folded them neatly and slid them into a spare plastic bag to dispose of in the morning.

She needed to take it one day at a time. To get home and figure out what on earth had happened. And if she had sex with the handsome American hunk along the way? Excellent.

It really wasn’t a big deal.

The door opened abruptly, and she whipped around. She heaved out a sigh when she saw Montana pushing a room service cart inside.

He sent her a warning look even as his eyes swept her body. “Sorry, babe. It took longer than I expected.”

Presumably the person who’d delivered the cart was in the hall. Did he need a tip? She didn’t have any cash left.

“I missed you.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “ Babe .”

He gave her the side-eye as he pushed the cart all the way inside and took a ten dollar bill out of his wallet then went back into the hallway. “Thank you, sir. We’ll put the cart out here when we’re done.”

He closed and locked the door and turned back to face her. His dark eyes swept from her bare feet up to her damp hair. Heat rose in her cheeks at his perusal.

Was he disappointed she’d chosen these pajamas and not the negligee?

Then his expression blanked, and he moved past her to the curtains and pulled them closed against prying eyes.

She should have thought of that.

She sat on the bed, but he didn’t look at her.

He went to his rucksack and pulled out a couple of items and a wash bag. “Dig into the food before it gets cold. I’m happy with either dish, but I want to clean up first. Don’t answer the door.”

With that he headed into the bathroom, and she sat there feeling like a bit of a fool.

He didn’t care what she wore, for God’s sake.

This wasn’t the time or place to try to deal with feelings of attraction, or even with her own issues about still being a virgin.

All that mattered was getting out of the country and not ending up the same way as Bjorn Anders.

Then—if she could find someone even half as handsome and gruffly charming as Kurt Montana back in Shropshire—she’d go on a shagging spree.

Her stomach growled.

Annoyed with herself, she topped off champagne for them both and pulled the silver dome cover off one plate.

Linguini. The other, a meat pie with a golden crust and a mountain of chips.

She stole a chip and then went for the linguini.

She sat cross-legged on one of the armchairs and began to eat.

The shower turned on, and she twirled her fork in the creamy pasta sauce and popped it into her mouth while she tried not to imagine the pair of them having steamy shower sex.

She took a large gulp of champagne, but it went down the wrong way. She began to choke and cough. Over and over. But whatever was lodged in her throat didn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

Panicked, she stood, and carefully, telling herself not to freak out, put her plate back on the tray and tried to draw in oxygen.

Failed.

Crap.

She thumped herself in the sternum and achieved nothing.

She staggered to the bathroom and rammed the base of her fist against the door in a quick tattoo.

She desperately tried to inhale but something was blocking her trachea, making her aspirate.

Her pulse pounded. She’d never felt more scared in her life.

Not even this morning when she’d found Bjorn dead and feared she’d been in the same building as a vicious killer .

“I’ll be right out.”

Panic gripped tight, and her lungs constricted. No air. No air .

She banged again, harder, chest bellowing uselessly as she leaned against the door. She was going to die unless she could get oxygen. Three minutes was all it would take for everything they’d done today not to matter. For her life to cease. For her existence to end.

She did not want to die.

Her vision started to blur.

She shook the doorknob. Discovered it wasn’t locked. She stumbled inside and saw Kurt’s shocked expression as he stood there naked in the shower.

She grabbed her throat, wheezing, eyes running with tears.

“Oh, shit.”

He thankfully seemed to understand what was wrong and stepped out of the shower and spun her around so she faced the sink.

He put one arm across her chest and then started striking her back to try to dislodge the obstruction.

He hit her five times with the flat of his hand, but she still couldn’t breathe.

Oh God. She didn’t want to die. Not now.

Not yet. She had so many things she still wanted to do.

See the pyramids. See polar bears in the wild.

Make mad passionate love. Finish that Romantasy trilogy she adored.

He grabbed her from behind, his wet body soaking her pajamas. She felt her blood slowing, energy waning, pulse thumping more slowly in her ears. Her desperate gaze met his in the mirror.

“You’re not going to die today, Row.” He braced his gripped fists against her diaphragm and jerked her body violently toward him. “I. Won’t. Let. You.”

It took four thrusts before whatever it was dislodged, and she was finally able to release the pressure in her lungs and suck in life-giving oxygen.

She braced herself on the vanity, coughing violently. Her eyes streamed. Her body felt like every muscle had been beaten. Her chest hurt. Her back hurt. Her throat burned.

But she was alive.

She didn’t think she’d ever take it for granted again.

She started to tremble. Caught his concerned gaze again in the steamed-up mirror.

She’d have been gone if he hadn’t been there. If he hadn’t known what to do.

Just like her mother. Just like her aunt and uncle. Just like Bjorn bloody Anders.

They were even now.

He didn’t owe her a damned thing.

If anything, she owed him.

She spun around and threw herself against his chest.