Compromising Her Position (Compromise Me 1)

As much as he enjoyed proving her wrong, as soon as he hung up his smile disappeared. The deal wasn’t the reason he’d called. It was merely a justification. He’d wanted to talk to her. As soon as he had, he’d wanted to be with her. He could tell himself she needed him there, but that was just another justification. He wanted to be there, dammit. He wanted to be the man who came through for her.

The timing sucked, but he’d make it work. Hell, he’d fly commercial if necessary.

Fucking commercial flights.

Rafe covered the receiver to avoid coughing into the phone. That’s what he got for squeezing onto an over-sold red-eye from Los Angeles to Honolulu.

“My chest hurts just listening to you,” Arden offered from the other end of the phone. “Why don’t you ask the concierge to call a doctor out for you?”

“I don’t need a doctor. And you didn’t call to check on my health. What’s up?”

“Dad’s in L.A. tomorrow. He wants to take me to lunch and then stop by Las Ventanas and see how the re-branding is going. From a design perspective, everything’s going great, but I didn’t know how you’d feel about me showing him around when you’re not here.”

“I don’t love the idea, but I’m not sure how you’d talk him out of it.”

“That would be my next question. I could fake food poisoning or something.”

“I appreciate you risking a trip to the ER just to keep Luc from a fault-finding mission while I’m not there to defend my decisions, but don’t bother. As long as the re-launch happens as scheduled—and it will—I’m fine.” He sipped the drink he’d poured upon arriving at the villa and dropped down onto the sofa. Immediately, images of the last time he’d used the sofa swam in his mind. With a low groan, he rubbed a hand over his eyes.

“Oh yeah, you sound fine. So tell me, do you envision a big, showy funeral, or something small and private, just for family?”

“You’re funny.” His head ached. His throat ached. His whole body ached. Why wasn’t he on the way to a doctor’s office instead of sitting here, nursing a bad cold with good whiskey?

Easy answer. Chelsea had agreed to bring her MILC notes by tonight. She’d offered to email the information, but he’d wanted to see her, so he’d told her his laptop crashed, fabricating a reason to bring her to his doorstep. His gritty eyes traveled to the computer bag sitting under the table in the entryway, containing his perfectly functional laptop. Whatever plague he’d contracted courtesy of one of his fellow passengers constituted karmic payback for the lie. Another round of rib-cracking coughs validated the notion.

“Want to reconsider the doctor, or should I just call the coroner?”

He smiled, despite his misery. “I would never make it that easy on you—” A knock at the door cut him off. “I’ve got to go. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Get some rest.”

Not likely. He fought back another cough and hauled himself up to answer the door.

And there she stood, glowing with vitality, and even more beautiful than he remembered. Her sleeveless white dress highlighted her figure, set off her golden skin and the warm tones in her long, sable waves. Her cheeks flushed pink, either from the walk to the villa or the pleasure of seeing him. He chose to think pleasure. Her deep brown eyes conducted their own slow survey

, finally arriving at his face.

“Miss Wayne,” he said, and then turned away and fell victim to another coughing fit.

Her eyes filled with concern, not exactly the sentiment he wanted to see reflected there.

“Sorry,” he finally managed. “Somewhere between L.A. and Maui, I caught a cold.” As much as he wanted to see her, talk with her, ideally talk her into bed, he forced himself to do the honorable thing. “I don’t want to get you sick. Why don’t you give me the notes and I’ll call you if I have any suggestions?”

She ignored him and stepped closer, the look of concern deepening as her eyes moved over his face. Before he could stop her, she placed her palm on his forehead. “I knew you were coming down with something when we talked. Why didn’t you cancel your trip? You can’t blame the flight, but dry airplane air sure as heck didn’t do you any favors.”

So much for the honorable thing. Belatedly, he pulled away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re burning up. Have you seen a doctor?” Brushing past him, she took his hand and pulled him into the living room. Once there, she dropped her notes on the coffee table and sat him down on the sofa.

He reached for his glass and downed the rest of his drink. “I’m self-medicating.” The heat from the liquor burned a trail down his sore throat and spread across his chest. “Care to join me?” Could be he was starting to feel it a little.

She took the glass and sniffed, raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think even one out of five doctors recommends whiskey for treating a fever. Have you taken any actual medication?”

“I took a couple Advil right before you arrived.” Slightly dizzy, he rested his head against the back of the sofa and stared up at her.

She frowned. “Okay, we’ll give them time to work. Did you have dinner?”

He gestured to the empty glass.