Was it possible there was another exit from the apartment? A window that opened on an outside stairway?
Karim flung the door open.
The furnishings were spare.
A chest of drawers. A chair. A crib, Ethan sound asleep in it, his backside in the air.
And a bed.
Narrow. Covered in white. The only color came from the bra, the thong, the dark mesh stockings that lay in a tiny heap in its center.
His belly knotted.
His gaze flew to a half-open door, wisps of steam curling from it.
The sound of running water drummed in his ears, or was it the beat of his pulse?
Get out of this room, a voice within him whispered. She’s in the shower, naked. You don’t belong here.
Instead, he took a step forward. Then another.
Ah, God.
He could see into the bathroom. Into the small stall shower. Condensation clouded the glass but he could see her. See her as Matisse or Degas might have painted her—just the hint of that lovely face, that exquisite body.
The water stopped.
Get out, he thought again, but his feet seemed rooted to the floor.
She slid the shower door open.
And he saw her without the glass.
Her hair, wet and streaming over her shoulders, almost hiding the rounded perfection of her breasts.
Her waist, surely narrow enough for his hands to span.
Her hips, ripely curved.
Her legs, long enough so he could almost feel them wrapped around him.
And the golden curls at the juncture of her thighs, guarding the female heart of her.
She didn’t see him. Wet strands of her hair hung over her eyes.
He watched as she reached toward the towel rack, her hand fumbling for a white bath sheet.
That was when he moved.