Chapter 3
Roisin ran down the top-floor corridor of the luxury penthouse, arguing with her common sense every step of the way.
So what if Nathaniel King was a billionaire playboy who didn't know her from Adam? A traumatized kidnap victim who must still be struggling with the aftermath of his ordeal. He was a human being—who was clearly in a great deal of distress.
A door stood open to a dark suite of rooms. She stepped inside, refusing to second-guess herself. Again.
After crossing the living area, she stopped breathless in the doorway to a large bedroom. Heavy curtains cut out most of the morning light, leaving only a slither of sunshine spotlighting a dark shape writhing on the king-size bed.
"Non, non, non toccarmi." She to could hear the shouts more clearly now. But couldn't understand them… Was he speaking in Italian?
The scent of leather and soap and musty male filled the air. The shouts turned to sobs, whimpers, no longer demanding but begging.
Her pulse slowed, her heart contracting. The trauma he had suffered was so real and vivid she could feel it emanating off him.
You have to wake him up. You can't leave him to suffer.
"Mr. King," she whispered, as the sounds became like those of a wounded animal again—one that was scared, alone, in pain. "Mr. King, it's me, Roisin Fitzgerald, your new assistant. Are you okay?" she added, then felt like an eejit.
How could he be okay, making those dreadful noises?
And how could he still be asleep? The violent shaking, the pitiful sounds detonated in her chest. How could anyone remain asleep through such agony?
Maybe because being awake had once been far worse?
She climbed onto the bed, scared to touch him, scared not to touch him.
Curled into a fetal position, he had the sheet wrapped around him, as if he were trying to protect himself. Only his head was visible. The waves of dark blond hair glinted with gold in the thin strip of light. Shudders ran through his body.
"Mr. King, you need to wake up," she said as forcefully as she could.
He shifted, moaned, the raw husky sound echoing in her abdomen, but then his body unfurled and the sheet dropped to his waist.
She pressed trembling fingers to her lips to cover the shocked gasp.
A crisscross of scars covered his broad shoulders and his back. She could make out his ribs, his torso too lean, but the toned muscles held a leashed power… His tanned skin was smooth but for the white scars, so many scars.
He mumbled something she didn't understand, his head shaking. A sheen of sweat made his skin glow, the tousled mane of hair sticking to his neck. She couldn't see his face, but she could hear the words again. Still in Italian, but vicious, bitter, angry, not pleading now—deep and raw and somehow seductive.
Seductive? What the..? Are you mad?
She blinked.
For goodness sake, stop staring at him now. And leave the poor man in peace.
She inched back off the bed on her knees—as the hot wave of something seriously inappropriate washed through her abdomen.
The worst of the nightmare was over. And she had no business whatsoever being in his bedroom. If he caught her, he could have her fired. Or worse, arrested.
What had she been thinking, charging in here?
But as she climbed off the bed, she heard a loud grunt from behind her… And a furious growl split the silence. "W-who are you?"
She swung round to see a heavily muscled body looming over her. The stream of light glinted off sculpted cheekbones, slanted across dark brows and caught the gold rays in the hair touching his shoulders. She scrambled back a step, the stream of swear words—in graphic English this time—making her cheeks ignite and settling in that forbidden spot between her thighs. Then a disturbingly lucid voice demanded.
"And what the hell are you doing in my bedroom?"