“I have no idea,” Nat lied.

“Should I call the police?”

“He’s gone now,” Nat said, walking back toward her room. “There’s no point.”

Closing the bedroom door behind her, she sat on the edge of her bed. She felt hot, flushed, jittery. It was the violence that disturbed her, the horrific extent of Cole’s injuries. But she was experiencing something else, too. Relief. Cole was terrified, traumatized. He would leave her alone now. Her mind, body, and reputation were safe.

Gabe had done it. Not personally, but he had hired someone to find Cole, to beat him bloody, to make sure he didn’t hurt her. She’d had an inkling before, but now she knew for sure: Gabe Turnmill was dangerous. Nat should have been fearful, appalled at his propensity toward bloodshed, and she was. But she was also flattered. The fact that Gabe was willing to go to such lengths to protect her made her feel special. And this display of his power made her feel something else.

It was wrong, she knew that, but it turned her on.

26

Park Avenue

Nat woke up alone in Gabe’s bed. It took a moment to orient herself to her luxe, masculine surroundings. Then she remembered the night before. Cole on her front steps, swollen and battered. And afraid. She had sent Gabe a text after the encounter with her former abuser.

Thank you.

I’m safe now.

She had known enough not to mention Cole’s name, not to implicate Gabe in any way. Her hero had responded twenty minutes later, suggesting a late dinner. Nat had replied:

Or I could just come to your place? Show my gratitude?

Those three shivering dots had prefaced his response.

Sounds good.

And it had been good. More than good, it had been great. They’d made love with unprecedented intensity. Nat had been fervent with gratitude, ardent with affection, ravenous with desire. “I love you,” she’d whispered, the words bubbling out of her in a torrent of ecstasy. She had been shocked by her own utterance, embarrassed, mortified. Panic tensed her body as she prayed that her words had been inaudible, indistinguishable from a moan or a sigh. And then, Gabe had responded. His voice was muffled by her hair, her neck, but still, she heard him.

“I love you, too.”

Now, alone in the bed, she stretched languidly, reminiscing about the things she had done to Gabe until he had regained control—as a man of his stature should—and taken over. Forcefully. Masterfully. The shower was running, and Nat considered slipping under the rain showerhead with Gabe, but he had to get to work. She had to get to school. And after the intensity of last night, she wasn’t sure how much Gabe would have left in the tank. She didn’t want to push it with a man his age. Instead, she climbed out of bed, slipping into Gabe’s button-down shirt tossed hastily on the floor. Barefoot, she padded to the sleek marble kitchen and the built-in coffeemaker. How did this thing work again? She selected from the digital screen, made herself a double shot.