He certainly did have exquisite taste, Gabby thought, as she wrapped her long wet hair in a fluffy towel and stepped out of the shower. Along with absolutely no qualms about taking the best of what he wanted. The bathroom she was standing in was nearly the size of her turret bedroom at home, and a designer’s dream. Cream marble shot with rose and adorned by gold fixtures, it had a walk-in marble shower with a built-in bench that sported top-of-the-line toiletries, as well as a decadent soaking tub.

She snorted, recalling how effortlessly he’d “appropriated” their luxury accommodations. He certainly did know his way around the human realm. He’d left her standing in the domed entrance to the hotel, gaping at the abundance of glittering crystal, antique furnishings, and Old World elegance, feeling—despite the attempt she’d made on the train at freshening up—the epitome of I’ve-been-dunked-in-a-lake-and-slept-in-my-smelly-clothes grunge. He’d stalked off for the reservations counter while the doormen had stood sniffing disdainfully at her, and gone to work, invisible and undetectable, at an unoccupied computer terminal.

A few moments later he’d returned with printed reservations in his hand. He’d taken her arm (which had caused the doormen to stiffen and blink suspiciously at the space she’d only an instant before been occupying) and guided her past them, into the elevator, up to the twenty-third floor.

I’d have gotten the penthouse, he’d told her with a vaguely apologetic air, but it’s occupied. This is second best. If you like, we can go to a different hotel.

As if. She’d never seen such exquisite accommodations before. The suite had three sumptuous rooms: a large, opulent bedroom with ornate mirrors, richly brocaded chairs, patterned-silk wallpaper, a real fireplace, and a magnificent canopied king bed; a dining room with an elegant table and leather chairs positioned before a sleek wall of windows that overlooked the city; and a living room with an oversized pullout sofa bed, a plasma TV, two sitting alcoves, and a small attached wet bar/kitchenette.

Why did you bother with reservations? she’d asked. Why didn’t we just sneak into the room?

If it were only me, I would have, but since I won’t be holding your hand nonstop—unless of course you’d like me to—he’d purred with a sexy smile and a glance in the direction of the shower, it’s simpler this way. More convenient for you.

He’d pushed her toward the bathroom, told her he would return in one hour, then vanished.

After he’d gone, she’d suffered a momentary, nearly immobilizing flash of panic—what if the Hunters somehow managed to find her while he was gone?—but it dissipated swiftly, leaving her astonished to realize that she truly trusted him to keep her safe, at least from everything besides himself.

After raiding the wet bar for snacks, she’d taken an inquisitive peek inside the bathroom and begun stripping where she stood, leaving her dirty clothes in a pile outside the bathroom door. She’d lingered in the marble shower for twenty glorious minutes, letting the three steaming, jetting pulses—one above, one on each side—work magic on her cramped, sore muscles.

Now, slipping into a thick, downy-soft, white courtesy robe, she stepped out into the bedroom.

Her gaze fell on the bed. The only bed. Looked like she’d be sleeping on the pullout sofa.

He’d kissed her.

Out of the blue and without warning. Grabbed her by the shirt, yanked her close, and lowered that sinfully sexy mouth to hers. And when he’d done it, her lips had been slightly parted. (Okay, so maybe she’d parted them a teeny bit more at the last moment.) She’d expected him to take advantage of it, to thrust his tongue deep, to take her in a demanding, hungry, hot, and slippery kiss. She’d expected a full assault on her senses. She’d expected that kiss to escalate into a hot, steamy make-out session.

Not.

A chaste little kiss. Hardly even a kiss at all. Not that she would have invited his kisses, but—since he’d gone ahead and taken one and she was already damned for permitting it—was it too much to ask that he commit to it? Exercise a little follow-through?

But no, he’d just stood there, not even really touching her except for the handful of shirt he was holding (and he hadn’t even tried to cop a feel of her breast while his hand was right over it; what kind of man passed up such an opportunity?), cocooning her in that erotic, spicy scent of jasmine and sandalwood, brushing his full, sexy lips against hers so lightly that it had made her want to scream. Or bite him.

That tiny little touch, that thing that hardly even qualified as a kiss, had left her feeling hot and achy and miserable.