Page 37

"That bed's huge."

His eyebrow lifted.

"We can share it!" I snatched the two large down pillows he'd tossed on the sofa and marched back into the master bedroom. "Two bolster pillows down the middle—that's the dividing line! You sleep on the left, I sleep on the right! Mr. Moretti, if you dare cross that line even half an inch in the middle of the night—even one finger—"

I spun around, pointing viciously at the heavy antique brass lamp on the nightstand.

"I'll crack your head open with that lamp! Got it?"

The master bedroom fell briefly silent.

Marcelo strolled in casually, hands in his robe pockets. He looked down at me kneeling in the middle of the mattress, murderously drawing a dividing line with pillows.

The dim bedside lamp illuminated his deep, handsome features. The dangerous fire in his eyes gradually faded, replaced by a barely perceptible, low, amused laugh.

"Deal, Ms. Caldwell." His lips curved, voice lazy and mocking. "But if you're the one who rolls over in the middle of the night... I take no responsibility."

"In your dreams!" I grabbed the comforter and threw myself into the right side of the bed, wrapping myself tightly with my back to him.

I heard him chuckle softly, then felt the mattress dip as he lay down.

Only when Marcelo's breathing evened out did I dare turn my head slightly. He was facing away from me now, that serpent tattoo winding from his chest over his shoulder to his waist, sinuous and hypnotic in the dim light.

I took a deep breath and burrowed under the covers, my back to him.

"Good night, Ruby." His voice came through the darkness, low and magnetic.

"...Good night." After a moment of silence, I whispered back.

The room went quiet, only our breathing filling the space. I closed my eyes, trying to sleep, but my mind was chaos. Tomorrow's expo made me nervous, but more nerve-wracking was spending several days with Marcelo in this suite.

Thinking of Mom's warnings, I told myself to keep my distance—this was just work. But then I remembered Marcelo draping his jacket over me on the plane, the seriousness in his eyes when he took me to Colette's studio today.

My feelings were contradictory.

Outside the window, Paris night sounds drifted in—the occasional passing car. Marcelo's breathing in the darkness was especially clear, low and steady, like some hypnotic rhythm. Gradually, my thoughts began to blur. My eyelids grew heavier, consciousness sinking.

Then I fell asleep.

Sunlight stabbed through the curtain gaps, making me squint. I groggily opened my eyes, fumbling for my phone on the nightstand...

Two PM?

"Shit!" I bolted upright, heart leaping into my throat. The expo started at four! How did I sleep this long?

I turned my head—Marcelo's side of the bed was empty, the covers neatly folded. Just then, knocking came from outside. "Ruby?" Marcelo's low voice carried a hint of lazy amusement. "Still alive in there?"

"I'm coming!"

I tumbled off the bed, smoothed my wrinkled pajamas, took a deep breath, and twisted open the door connecting the bedroom to the living room.

The door cracked open.

Marcelo stood in the bright living room. He'd changed into a crisp white dress shirt and charcoal slacks. He held a massive black garment bag with elegant gold French lettering.

His gaze slid from my messy bun down to my bare ankles, like he was suppressing a laugh. "Looks like that blanket really did give you a sense of security."

"I'm just jet-lagged." My earlobes burned involuntarily, my eyes falling on the garment bag. "Is that the dress?"