Page 90 of Mile High Ruin

She says it with genuine irritation, one hand gripping the strap of her small bag while the other gestures vaguely toward herself.

The suite is large enough that the complaint sounds almost absurd inside it. Two adjoining rooms open from the private foyer, with tall windows overlooking the lights of Bucharest, a sitting area arranged around a low marble fireplace, and a bedroom separated by sliding doors of dark wood and smoked glass. Someone has already placed fresh flowers on the dining table and arranged a tray of food neither of us has touched.

Sloane looks tired against all of it.

“How could I forget my luggage on the plane? So irresponsible,” she says.

“You will survive.”

She looks at me through the reflection. “That’s easy for you to say. You apparently travel with an entire replacement wardrobe.”

“I plan ahead.”

“You were shot tonight,” she says, folding her arms in front of her chest.

I take a good look at her. Tired, rumpled, and more attractive to me than she has any right to be after the day we’ve had. Her hair is coming loose again. The mark from Hale’s hand is still faintly visible across one cheek despite whatever she did to cover it, and the fitted blouse she has been wearing since before takeoff is creased around her waist.

I lean against the edge of the desk and watch her. “Besides,” I say. “You won’t need clothes tonight anyway.”

Her head turns slowly. The look she gives me could melt metal. “Excuse me?”

I almost smile. “You heard me.”

“Oh, I heard you. I’m deciding whether the concussion you insist I don’t have somehow transferred itself to you.”

I push away from the desk. She watches me approach, and something changes in her posture before I touch her. Her shoulders remain straight, but her breathing becomes slightly shallower, and her fingers loosen around the bag strap.

I stop in front of her. Close enough that she has to lift her chin to meet my eyes.

“I can have clothes brought up if you want them.”

“That wasn’t what you meant.”

“No.”

The room becomes quiet, as the humor leaves her expression. I reach up and brush one of the loose strands of hair away from her cheek, carefully avoiding the place Hale struck her.

Sloane doesn’t move.

“I want you,” I tell her.

Her lips part.

“But I’m not taking advantage of what happened to you tonight, and I’m not guessing what you want, just because you kissed me in a hospital and again in the car.”

Her eyes hold mine. “You kissed me in the hospital.”

“You participated.”

“You keep using that word.”

“Because you keep participating.”

The corner of her mouth moves.

I let my hand fall. “If you want your own room, I will arrange it. If you want to lock the door and sleep until morning, nobody will disturb you.”

Her lips part. “I should have gone with Camille.”