He’d expected her to be restless, most people were the first night in a strange place. He hadn’t expected her to be up pacing the floor quite this much. She had at least done as he’d asked and left the door at the top of the stairs open. He appreciated that. But it didn’t answer the question of why she was still awake at nearly 2:00 a.m.
Maybe that was her normal schedule. Maybe she was always up until the wee hours. If so, she’d probably laughed to herself when he’d told her to go to bed before eleven o’clock.
Or maybe she was still missing her phone. Maybe she really was an addict.
Maybe she’s missing something else... Someone else.
And that was enough maybes. He got up out of the chair, an old not-too-comfortable recliner he’d pulled up close to the door of the downstairs bedroom—close so he could hear, and not-too-comfortable so he wouldn’t sleep too soundly to wake up at the slightest noise—and stepped out into the dark hallway. He slid the Dan Wesson TCP he’d had on the small table beside the chair into the clip-on holster on his belt. The maker of the tactical compact pistol was a subsidiary of a Kansas City company, and he liked to keep his business local when he could. Besides, even though the 1911 model handgun had its detractors, he liked the idea of the care that went into making only a thousand or so a year.
He grimaced inwardly at the feeble trick of thinking about his everyday carry weapon in an effort not to think about what had been on his mind. Which pretty well exemplified the merry-go-round his brain seemed to be on. He made himself focus. There hadn’t been anything in the file Eric had given them about a current boyfriend. A brief mention of an ex, a professor at some upscale northeast school, including the information that the breakup had apparently been mutual when the man had relocated to take a position at an even more upscale European school.
He remembered his first reaction upon reading that had been steeped in those assumptions he was trying to shake. Of course she’d dated someone like that. He’d studied the photograph of the man more out of curiosity than anything. He looked younger than he was—nearly two decades older than Ashley—with curly hair and big-rimmed glasses. He had that look Ty had always associated with the type, almost soft features and that air of superiority that seemed inbred. Assumptions again.
His second reaction—which should have been the first—was to check that they’d confirmed the man was where he said he was, and had been in the nearly a year since the split. Not that things couldn’t easily be arranged from halfway around the globe, but there were no signs. There had been a few contacts between them at first, but that had faded away after about three months. And the thorough report indicated the man was now semi-attached to some distant connection to a royal family from somewhere.
But his reaction now, upon remembering that file, was different. Now he found it somehow significant that she’d chosen to stay here rather than follow the guy. He wondered if it was a sign of her love for her home or not enough love for the man.
His second thought, as he stood there listening to her moving around, was to wonder how on earth she’d managed to stay, if the Elite report was accurate—and they were almost never wrong—unattached for nearly a year. She was smart, beautiful, rich and... He fought against letting the word sound even in his mind, but it was already there. Again. Passionate.
He had about as much luck as he’d had the first time it had popped, utterly unwelcome, into his head stopping himself from wondering if that passion for her causes spilled over into her personal life.
Into her sex life. Because, surely, she had one.
He heard the creak of the third step. The one that had never been fixed, because he’d insisted it remain as noisy as possible. The family knew to avoid it if they wanted stealth, but for his purposes, it served as a makeshift alarm. His father had grumbled, but then he’d never liked the idea of using the place as a safe house, anyway. His mother had told Ty to ignore him, that the real problem was still that Ty had chosen not to go into the family business. Fitzpatrick Colton had been stunned that none of his children had made the choice he’d assumed they all would. And, of course, it never occurred to him that the reason why was his own lack of interest in them in any other way.
He dragged his mind off that well-worn path. He waited, not wanting to startle her while she was negotiating the stairs in the dark. But when she took the last step, he spoke.
“Need something, Ms. Hart?”
He heard her smothered gasp, saw her shadow spin around toward him.
“God, you startled me!”
“Why I waited until you were off the steps,” he pointed out.
“Oh.” He heard her take a deep breath, as if to regain what he’d startled out of her. “Thank you. I think.”
He reached for the switch beside his door and flipped it. Light flooded the hallway. She squinted at the sudden flare. And then her eyes widened again, and she was staring at him so stunned that he looked at himself, wondering if he’d inadvertently grabbed a guest’s left-behind T-shirt with a rude graphic without realizing it, something that might offend her. But it was, as he’d thought, his old University of Kansas shirt with the bright blue Jayhawk character on it. It was a bit small after years of washing, but there was nothing on it to make her stare like that.
Maybe it’s too flyover for her. If it were Yale or Harvard, she’d be smiling, not gaping at me.
He, on the other hand, was having to fight gaping at her. He was sure the rather simple knit pajamas she had on weren’t intended to be sexy, but on her long almost lanky, yet entirely female shape, they were. The soft cloth flowed over her, especially the soft curves of her breasts, in a way that made his fingers itch oddly.
“Did you need something?” he repeated, his voice rather harsh because he was fighting an inner battle he was quite rusty at.
“I... No,” she said, dragging her gaze away from his shirt. “I just...couldn’t sleep.”
“Strange place.”
“No, it’s not that, I’m used to that, I just... I couldn’t...”
“Couldn’t find the off switch?” he suggested.
Her mouth shifted into a small smile. “Exactly that,” she said, although something in her voice suggested to him that she meant it in a different way than he was thinking.
“I’ve always wondered if you turn off that switch, who turns it back on again?”
The smile widened. Damn, he liked that smile. “I’ve always assumed it’s on a timer, and will come back on in the morning in time to start thinking about whatever it is again.”
“Sort of an automated Scarlett O’Hara approach?”
The smile became a laugh. An appreciative laugh that warmed him far more than it should have. “I wouldn’t have thought that was on your reading list.”
“More that it was my grandmother’s movie. She was born on the day it came out, so it was a big deal to her. She and my mom watch it on her birthday every year.”
“That’s a lovely tradition.”
“Better than Oz. I can only handle so much ‘If I Only Had a Brain.’” He got the laugh again. And the same burst of warmth. He put on his best glum face. “Easy for you to laugh. You didn’t have your uncle whistling that at you as a kid, any time he thought you were doing something dumb.”
“Actually, that sounds like a rather sweet way of guiding you.”
He couldn’t hang on to the glum, and his own smile broke through. “It was, in retrospect. At least he cared.” He winced inwardly. He hadn’t meant to let that out. So he quickly asked, “What do you usually do when this happens?” He wondered if she relied on medication, smoked pot or what.
“What I was about to do. Find a book to read until I can fall asleep.”
Well, that was about as benign as it gets. “I thought you had one.”
“I did, but it was too engrossing.”
“So you need something boring?”
“No, because then I’ll just sit there, thinking how boring this is and not get any closer to sleeping. It’s better if it’s something that hooks me just enough so I fall asleep almost without realizing it. Best is something I’m familiar with but still like enough to get into, just enough to turn the rest of the brain off.” She grimaced. “Sorry, more than you asked. I’m tired. And frustrated.”
Quickly deciding that thinking about her and frustration was something best to avoid, Ty shoved off from the doorjamb and walked into the great room and over to the bookshelves. He bent down, grabbed a hardcover volume and held it out to her. She immediately recognized the colorful dust jacket of the first book in the wizard series they’d talked about, and the grin she gave him was like a punch to the gut. And all he could think was that it was a good thing he’d kept his jeans on instead of pulling on the pajama bottoms that were much more comfortable, but much less able to hide what was currently happening south of his beltline.
“Perfect,” she said as she reached out and took the book from him. He fought the urge to hang on to it—to make her ask or pull, anything to draw out the moment. He wanted more than anything to slide his hand forward just enough to brush her fingers with his, but fought down that very unprofessional urge, too.
Book in hand, she headed for the couch. She turned on the light at the end closest to the fireplace and sat. And he blurted out, “You’re not going back to bed to read?”
She shook her head without looking at him, already seated and opening the cover of the tale. “If I do that, my brain knows what I’m trying to do and fights back.” There was such a rueful note in her voice the corners of his mouth twitched. But at the same time, he smothered a sigh, because now there would be no sleep at all for him.
As if he could have anyway, after the sight of her in those pajamas that weren’t in the least sexy.
Not in the least.