The Millionaire Claims His Wife

“It’s been a long day. I don’t know about you, but I’d just as soon turn in and get some sleep.”

“That’s what I was thinking about. Our sleeping arrangements. We can share the room.”

“We are sharing it,” he said coldly. “I thought I’d made that clear. There isn’t a hell of a lot of choice.”

“You did. And I—I agree. It’s not a problem,” Annie said, rushing her words together. “The bed’s the size of a football field. I’ll take the right side. You can have... What are you doing?”

Chase was yanking open closet doors. “There’ve got to be linens here somewhere... Here we go.” He reached inside, took out an armful of bedding, tossed a blanket to Annie and then draped another over the rocker.

“You’re going to sleep in the chair?”

“That’s right.” He sat down, tucked a pillow behind his head and stretched out his legs. “I wouldn’t want to sully your reputation.”

“Chase, please. I never meant—”

He reached behind him, hit the switch on the wall and the room was plunged into darkness. Annie closed her eyes. Tears seeped out from beneath her lashes.

“Chase?” she whispered, after a long time.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, and rolled onto her side.

I love you, Chase, she thought, because there was no harm in saying it now, to herself, even as she wondered how she was going to get through the endless night.

“Good night, Annie,” Chase said, and he shifted uneasily, trying to find a comfortable position even though he knew there was no such thing, not in a wooden rocker, not with the granddaddy of all headaches in permanent residence behind his temples—and not with the only woman he would ever love sleeping a hand’s span away.

He could smell her perfumed scent, hear the softness of her breathing. All he had to do was reach out and he’d be able to touch her warm, silken skin.

How in hell was he ever going to get through the night?

CHAPTER NINE

CHASE CAME AWAKE with a start. The room was inky black; he could hear the light patter of rain against the roof.

Where was he? Not at home, that was for sure.

Memory came back in a rush. The crazy flight to Seattle. The motorboat, speeding across the water. The island. The cabin. The bedroom...

This bedroom.

And Annie. Annie, asleep in a bed inches from where he sat.

Don’t think about that. About Annie. Think about something else. Anything else.

Chase grimaced. He could think about how it would be a miracle if he ever managed to stand upright again. Now, that was a topic worth considering.

Gingerly, hands clasping the arms of the wooden rocker, he eased himself up so that his back was straight. Not that caution would make much difference. His spine felt as brittle as china, and it ached like hell. The rest of him didn’t feel much better.

Whistler’s Mother be damned, he thought grimly. Wooden rocking chairs were not made for comfort, or for sleeping.

It was chilly in here, too. It didn’t help that the blanket he’d draped over himself was somewhere on the floor. Wincing, he bent down and felt around until he found it. Then he dragged it up to his neck and told himself that this night couldn’t last forever.

What time was it, anyway? Chase raised his arm and peered at the place on his wrist where he knew his watch ought to be. The lighted dial was faint; he had to squint to see it clearly. It had to be, what? Three, maybe four in the morning?

Bloody hell! It was eleven twenty-five. He’d been asleep, if you could call it that, all of two hours.

Wearily he closed his eyes, started to put his head back and remembered, just in time, that if he did, he’d whack his skull against the wall. He’d done it a couple of times already. For all he knew, that was what had awakened him in the first place.

Eleven twenty-five. Unbelievable! If he were in Seattle right now, he’d be wide-awake. He’d be sitting up in a nice, soft bed, with a pillow tucked between him and the headboard, and he’d be reading. Or watching TV. Making notes for the next day’s meetings. Whatever. The one sure thing was that he wouldn’t be sitting in the most uncomfortable chair man had ever invented, with no place to rest his head. Or his legs. As for his butt...men, he’d decided, were not born with enough padding where it counted.

Another couple of hours, he’d end up a chiropractor’s dream.

Dammit, who was he kidding? Another couple of minutes, he’d end up out of his skull. Forget the chair, and the discomfort of trying to sleep in it. Forget the night chill that had seeped into the room. Forget the soft whisper of the rain.

None of that was the reason he was awake.