She leaned one slim hip against the doorjamb, a towel wrapped like a sarong around her body while she towel-dried her hair. The shower had done her good. Her skin wasn’t quite so pale, although the bruises on her arms stood out.

His breath suddenly caught in his throat. “Did he put his mark on you?”

She frowned. “Like how?”

“Did he bite you? Claw you?” He leapt up, one fluid movement, swift and purposeful, but obviously intimidating. She retreated into the hall, her eyes wide.

“No. He didn’t get the chance. Felipe came and scared him off.” Her frown deepened. “He wasn’t exactly scared. He actually was very confident. I don’t think Suma was the dominant between them. I think it was the other way around.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the dark blemishes marring her upper arm before taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For having the courage to kill the man who murdered my mother. I know that wasn’t easy for you. And for braving a leopard in the throes of madness.” He turned up her arm to examine the four marks there. They matched the scars on his face, although they weren’t deep, more like scratches than lacerations. Still . . . He kissed each red streak, his mouth gentle.

Isabeau leaned into him until he was surrounded by her scent, until he surrendered to it and took her into his arms, holding her close to his chest. Her towel slipped a little, but that was all right with him. The feel of her breasts rubbing along his skin helped revive his body. Every nerve, every cell came alive.

“Marisa was my friend, Conner. But honestly, all I was thinking about was you.” She tilted her head to look up at him. “Well, you,” she hedged, “and maybe shooting boss-man Rio. Sort of accidentally on purpose. I think if he yelled at me one more time, I might have gone psycho on him.”

He took a step, forcing her backward toward the bed. “And then he had the audacity to threaten you with a syringe.”

“In front of everyone. He was lucky he didn’t try it,” she added.

His next step put the backs of her legs against the bed. He took the damp towel from her hand, gave her hair a slight rub as though he was drying it and then simply tossed it away.

“If I don’t dry my hair, it curls everywhere. Little ringlets.” She made a face. “And it’s so long and thick, it takes forever to actually dry.”

Isabeau made a movement as though to retrieve the towel, but he bunched her sarong in his fist and tugged until it slipped off her breasts, spilling them into his sight, before he took the entire towel from her. “I don’t really think it matters, do you?” he asked, and bent his head to her breasts.