I pull a face. “And you thought these were my style.”

He shifts in the doorway, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “That was Nichols.”

“What did you pick out?” I ask, dropping the underwear back into the drawer.

“The jeans, those,” he says with a wave of his hand at the dresses, “and the swimsuit.”

“What about this?” I ask, fingering the thick cotton of the nightgown.

“Nichols.”

I hold his gaze. “I sleep nude.” It’s a lie, but I’m going for the reaction.

To my disappointment, he stays totally cool. “That’s your prerogative.” He scratches the top of his head and backs out of the closet. “I know there are things we didn’t think of, so if you make a list, we’ll be sure you get it. You know where the kitchen is. It will be fully stocked for you. And I’ll sleep downstairs, in case you need anything.”

Whoa! “You’re staying here with me?”

He nods slowly, his eyes lifting to mine again. “Someone needs to be here with you at all times . . . for your protection.”

A thrill skitters through me, but I keep my voice flat. “You.”

It’s not a question, but he nods anyway.

“Why you?”

He shrugs. “It just made sense. I’m not from around here, so I needed a place to stay anyway.”

“Where is your room?”

He looks at me a long second, then turns. “I’ll show you.”

I follow him to the staircase behind the elevator, and he leads me down one flight to a large room with a pool table on the far side. There’s a fully stocked bar with a black granite top along the back wall, and two large sofas positioned in a wide V, both facing a giant fireplace with a huge screen TV above it in the middle of another wall of windows. From this floor, we’re not high enough to see over the hedges to the bay, but the view is of the deck and the yard beyond. It’s like a park.

“Access to the pool is through those doors,” he says, gesturing to the French doors to the deck. “It’s heated. The perimeter is secured, so you’re welcome to use it anytime you want.” He crosses the room to a door behind the pool table. “This is the panic room. If there’s ever a breach of security, I need you to get in here and lock the door until help comes.” He steps in and I follow. “This door is bullet resistant and it dead-bolts with a pull of this lever,” he says, indicating a small red handle just inside the door.

“You think I’ll need this?”

“No. But it’s here in case you do.”

We step back into the poolroom and he leads me to a short hallway next to the bar. “My room is here,” he says, pushing open a door.

I step through into a room smaller than my digs upstairs but at least twice as big as my room at home. There’s a bathroom off to the side, and in the middle a queen-sized bed with a blue duvet and lots of pillows. He has the same view out the windows as the room next door.

I spy a pile of pocket change and a bottle of aftershave on the old wooden dresser under the mirror, and a pair of jeans crumpled at the bottom of the open closet, where clothes hang on the rod.

“How long have you been here?”

“I moved in when you were in the hospital. We needed to get the place secured before we brought you up.”

I stroll deeper into the room and peer out the window onto the large redwood deck. “Seems comfortable. Is this anything like where you live?”

He barks out a laugh. “Yes. My place is the Playboy mansion.”

I turn back to him, leaning against the windowsill. “This is the Playboy mansion?”

There’s irritation on his face that he can’t totally cover. “On the rare occasions I’m home, I live in a one bedroom apartment in Santa Monica—which now that my ex has moved out I can no longer afford. So, no. It’s nothing like this.”

“So what you said about her? That was real?”

He nods.

“What’s her name?”

His hand goes to the door frame and there’s a second where he just looks at me without answering. “Vanessa.”

“Did she really leave you because of this?” I say, flicking a hand at the room. “Because of your job?”

“She wanted more than I could give,” he answers through a tight jaw.

I open my mouth to ask if this job is really worth it, but before I can get the words out, he’s out the door. “Come on. I’ll get you some dinner.”

We climb the stairs and he moves to the kitchen. When he said he’d get me some dinner, I was picturing takeout, so I’m surprised when he opens the fridge and pulls out a bag of zucchini, red and green bell peppers, and an onion.

“What are you making?” I ask.

“Veggie frittata.” His eyes lift to mine. “If that’s okay?”

I shrug and it hurts. “Never had it before.” I open my mouth to ask if he wants help before I remember I’m trying to hate him, but as he moves around the kitchen, it becomes clear he knows his way around. As much as I hate to admit it, it makes him even sexier. Which means I have to focus even harder to remember to be mad.

He starts slicing veggies and spreading them all in the bottom of a cast iron skillet. “You want something to drink? I didn’t know what you like, so there’s a variety in here,” he says, opening the fridge.

I step up next to him as he grabs a carton of eggs and find at least five different kinds of soda, two kinds of beer, a bottle of white wine, and bottles of water.

I pull a beer out. “Is there an opener?”

“Me.” He takes the bottle from my hand and the muscles in his forearm ripple as he twists off the cap. He hands it back with a smirk just as someone clears his throat in the living room.

I jump, dropping my beer, as Blake spins toward the living room, the gun from his holster appearing in his hand as if by magic.

Chapter Eighteen

I SPIN AND  find a wide-eyed Cooper standing at the elevator, his hands in the air, with what I’m beginning to realize is his regular expression, a frown. “Just wanted to tell you we’re all clear. The perimeter’s secure and the wire is hot. Jenkins and I are heading back.”

“Son of a bitch,” Blake mutters under his breath. I turn back and find him hopping on one foot as he reholsters his gun. He bends down to scoop up the beer bottle, which apparently didn’t smash to smithereens on the granite-tile floor only because it hit his foot first. His expression is dubious as he straightens up, holding the fizzing bottle over the sink.

I’m still frozen in place, shaking with the adrenaline rush.

“Everything under control in here?” Cooper asks, splitting a glance between us.

Blake nods, cutting him a look.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He steps into the elevator and the door slides shut.

I turn to Blake, finally finding my voice. “Can anyone just walk in here?”

He grabs a dish towel from the counter and drops it onto the puddle, swishing it around with his foot. “You need the opener to get into the garage, then a code and key for the elevator. Only Cooper and I have the openers, a code, and the key. So, no.”

“Do I get a code and the key?”

He looks up at me. “No.”

I frown at him. “So I’m trapped here.”

“Yep,” he says, going back to mopping up the mess.

My frown turns into a glare, and I’m tempted to pull the bottle out of the sink and pour the rest of its contents over his head.

He looks up, notices my expression, and his perfect lips pull into a smug smile. “Joking. You only need a code and key to get into the house. Just push the button to get out,” he says with a nudge of his chin toward the elevator.

I consider walking over there and doing just that, but where would I go? Instead, I lean my backside against the counter as Blake scoops the sopping towel up and drops it into the sink. “What does he mean, ‘the wire is hot’?”

He turns on the water to rinse it out. “The guy who lived here was serious about his security. You’ve seen the panic room, and there’s also an alarmed electric fence that runs through the hedges along the entire perimeter.”

I just look at him.

“That’s why this was the perfect place to bring you,” he continues when I don’t say anything. “No one’s going to get to you without doing serious bodily damage—and my knowing about it.”

The image of the guy with the gun, shooting at Jonathan and me, surfaces in my mind at the thought. I give the counter more of my weight as my legs tremble. Less than a week ago all I wanted was sex with Blake—who was still Harrison then—on the sofa at Benny’s.

And now we’re here.

He’s not my lover; he’s my protector . . . and my persecutor. This is real. This is all real. What I hoped would be a mind-blowing fling with a totally hot stranger has turned into this nightmare.

My head spins as my new reality comes crashing down on me. This is my life now. I can’t undo any of it. I stagger to a kitchen chair at the small table near the window and sit heavily, my legs no longer willing to hold me.

“Sam? Are you okay?”

I’m staring at some random point on the floor, unable to lift my eyes. “No.” It’s true. All of a sudden I feel adrenaline-charged and shaky as panic takes hold of me. I rest my elbow on my knee and hold my head in my hand as a cold sweat breaks over my skin.

“Is it your head?” he asks, supporting me with a hand on my shoulder while he snatches his phone out of his pocket. “Cooper, get your ass back here,” he barks into it.

I lift my head and slip the phone out of his fingers. “Cancel that, Cooper. Everything’s fine.”

There’s a snicker from the other end. “You giving Casanova fits, Jezebel?”

“Trying my hardest.”