Page 25

REN

Tipscomb-on-Thames, England

R en awoke with a sharp inhale and sat up abruptly.

An action he immediately regretted as a wave of nausea hit him and was quickly eclipsed by the sharp pain in his shoulder.

The bathrobe that was inexplicably covering his body slid to his waist. He dropped his head—more because his neck couldn’t hold it up than for any desire to see his torn shirt and bruised body.

Running his finger over the bandage on his right pectoral, Ren let the events of the previous evening piece together in his foggy brain.

His mind wasn’t the only body part waking up as Ren recalled the night. He fisted his erection through the thick robe just as the clearing of a throat had him looking up. Standing at the corner of the bed, a chambermaid stared down at him with the eyes of an owl.

She said in a soft Irish accent, “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t know anyone was in here. Lady Kittridge checked out.”

Ren scrambled to his feet, fighting dizziness, keeping the robe crumpled over his hips.

“Did she now?”

“Aye, sir.” She ran her eyes down his body, then looked away. “Should I come back later?”

“Give me five minutes.”

When the door clicked shut, Ren dove into an ice-cold shower.

He was dressed and out the door in under two minutes.

When it came to Sofria Kirk or Sabrina Kittridge or whatever her name was, Ren didn’t know which way was up, but one thing was certain.

The man he had spotted earlier breaking into her room posed a threat.

And nobody was going to threaten that woman but him.

Ren checked the time. Several strands of dark hair dangled from the crown of his watch. The image of him fisting thick hair flashed in his mind. Slowly, he wrapped the strands around the winding mechanism, insisting it wasn’t some sort of fucked up keepsake.

He may not know this woman’s identity, but at least he had her DNA.