He went up onto his feet and disappeared into his closet, then stormed back out to jump into a pair of jeans. “Who else knows aside from Dr. Lincoln, Whitney? Your friends? Businesspeople?”
“No! Nobody. I’ve carried this alone. I carried it . . . with you. Only you.”
He grabbed his phone and punched in another set of numbers.
“No police, Andy,” Whitney pointedly reminded him.
As he clutched the phone to his ear, he shook his finger in the air in an emphatic no. “Don’t worry, it’s just Buchanan and Lexington. I need to get a location on you at all times and I’d like to arm you in case . . .” He bent to the floor and immediately brought her the dress she’d worn only hours ago, handing it over, his eyebrows raised in question. “Do you want to wear this or do you want to wear something else? I’m having them come over.”
She wanted to wear him. His skin. His mouth. The nook in his arms, the only place on earth where she’d ever felt truly cherished and safe.
“I’d like to wear one of your shirts. If you don’t mind. It’s more comfortable.” She didn’t glance at him when she said this, for she didn’t want him to know that she needed his shirt for emotional comfort. Not physical.
“Hey, can you come over? I need one of your personal security devices for Whitney.” He spoke into the receiver, then added, “Great, see you in ten, then. He tossed the phone aside and came over to frame her face in dry, large palms. “Why would I mind when my girl wears my shirt?”
The violent possessiveness in his gaze, coupled with the quiet fervor in his words turned her insides to mush. “Because I’m not your girl anymore. We can’t believe what we say when we have foreplay and sex. It’s just our hormones talking.”
“This says you’re mine.” He lifted her hand in his, and her breath caught as he brushed his lips across his name, then his tongue flashed out to give her a little lick.
A shudder ran from the point of contact of his tongue, down her spine, her legs, and directly to her toes. “We just can’t pick up where we left off. We’re different people. We want each other but I’m different, and so are you. You almost broke Conrad’s arm.”
“Because you’re mine.” He held her firmly by the arms and frowned angrily at her, his voice growing hard with resolve. “I won’t be without you a second longer. I’ve had three fucking years away and that’s enough for me.”
“You chose to be away. Last I heard, you were a Fairchild. Everyone knows a man like you does whatever the hell he wants, whenever the hell he wants it, and the same goes for all your friends, too!”
The phone trilled obnoxiously into the ensuing silence, and after a brief battle of glares, Andrew dropped his arms and went to answer at the nightstand landline, a dark scowl on his face the whole time. “Yes, let him in. And Daniel Lexington as well, he’s on his way.”
He slammed the phone down and looked back at her, sighing heavily.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he grumbled, moving away and coming back to hand her one of his button-down shirts. “I’ll open up and wait out in the living room. Right now, I need you to call your office and get your security to review the tapes, every second for the past seventy-two hours, particularly the last twenty-four, and alert us of any suspicious conduct. All right? Your cameras could have caught something.”
She nodded. Feeling vulnerable and excited at the way he always took charge. “I already talked to the head of security, they’re already on it.”
“It’s going to be all right.” He spoke from the door, his beautiful face tight with determination.
The look he shot in her direction fairly screamed, I would kill for you and Whitney grew warm in every place on her body, including her heart. “I know.”
But as he swung around to allow their visitors inside, Whitney wished he not only meant it about the blackmail note, but about them—him and her—as well.
Quietly slipping into his shirt, she stole a whiff and loved the male scent that clung to the fabric. The dress she’d worn to the benefit seemed to have revealed even more of her bare legs than Andrew’s shirt did, so she decided it would do and padded out barefoot to the living room.
Graves, large and incredibly gorgeous, and as somber as Andrew, was sitting next to him while dabbling with Andrew’s phone, both their dark heads bent and their broad shoulders straining their shirts. Chloe was watching them with a lovey-dovey expression on her face, one that Whitney feared she’d just been wearing herself as she looked at Andrew. “Hey, you! What’s up with this?” Chloe asked. She was still wearing her glittery green gala minidress.
Whitney plopped down next to her on the living room couch. “Some stupid blackmail note I don’t even want to get into.”
Chloe laughed like an angel, all rosy cheeks and singsongy voice. She was especially rosy-cheeked ever since she’d moved in with Graves several months ago. “Seriously? What can anyone blackmail you two about?”
Whitney shrugged, and Andrew spoke out. “Darling, give your phone to Graves for a second.”
Whitney jerked her spine straight and found herself scowling at him across the top of Graves’s bent head. He’d sounded all authoritative and calm, like she really was his darling and should probably obey. God, how she hated that he now knew that she needed him. She’d been desperate for him to fight for her and have to woo her, and now she was once again helpless and almost begging for him to save her. Damn it. “We said you wouldn’t call me darling,” she said.
“My love, will you please just give the damn phone to Graves?”
Her scowl intensified to a full-blown glower. “If you can’t call me darling you can certainly not call me my—”
“Okay, you two!” Chloe snatched up the phone and carried it to Graves, whose face was smiling as he watched her approach. “Here, my love,” she whispered sexily as she bent to him, and Graves grabbed the back of her head and pulled her to him for a soft, sweet, dry kiss on the lips.
Meanwhile, Whitney glared at Andrew.