The Mistresses Collection. Оливия Гейтс

myself a cup of cocoa.”

      But when she made a move toward the kitchen, he headed her off. “Let’s be civilized about this and meet halfway. Not brandy or cocoa. I propose red wine.”

      “You really don’t like to be beaten, do you?”

      Rubbing a hand over the broad expanse of his white T-shirted chest, he groaned. “Come on, Trin. Cut me a break. It’s late. We’re both beat. Let’s share a drink and chill a little before we crash.”

      She held that breath. Was this poor puppy-dog act one of many from his repertoire—or was she overestimating her own appeal? He dated models, movie stars and heiresses, not girls on strict budgets who lived in studio apartments in Brooklyn. Hell, maybe deep down she wanted him to flirt with her. Maybe even kiss her. She wondered what her friends—her boss—would say. They all knew how she’d felt about men of his ilk. How she still felt.

      But he was right. It was late. They were tired. She could let her guard down a little.

      “Brandy might knock me out completely,” she smiled and admitted, “but a glass of red wine would be nice.”

      In the firelight, his dark eyes glittered with a grin before he crossed to a cabinet that housed a small bar.

      Her gaze took him in from top to barefoot toe. In that white T-shirt and black sweatpants he’d changed into earlier, he cut the figure of a prime athlete. The T-shirt’s fabric fell over the contours of his broad shoulders in an easy, tantalizing way that left her wondering who could ever weary of the sight. His legs were long and, from the firm sway of his body as he found bottles and glasses, obviously strong. As Trinity made herself comfortable on the quilt against the downy pillows, she was aware of every fiber relaxing and, at the same time, switching on to an unprecedented buzzing high. Probably not smart but, right now, it felt heavenly.

      He brought over a glass for her, a snifter for himself and settled down a respectable distance to her left. After inhaling the wine’s bouquet, she sipped and smiled as the smooth warmth slid down her throat.

      “Good?” he asked.

      “Hmm, very.”

      Satisfied, he leaned back against his pillow, tasted again, then hissed back through his teeth, clearly enjoying the burn of his brandy. But then his brow pinched and he glanced from the fire back at her.

      “You know, we really ought to eat something,” he said.

      She settled farther into the pillows. “Let’s sit here and just do nothing for five minutes.”

      “So I won’t suggest you text your boss. You know you won’t make it back to New York for breakfast.”

      Trinity’s insides pitched at the thought of having to explain why she needed a day off when there must be a pack of people who would die for a chance at her job. But then she let her eyes close and she sighed, too exhausted to think about that now.

      She murmured, “Five minutes.”

      Sometime later, Trinity felt something drift over her waist. Jerked back from sleep, she gasped and her eyes snapped open, but then she released that breath. Beyond the soft crackle of the fire and its shifting shadows, she recognized a man—Zack—settling a spare quilt over her legs.

      “If the baby wakes during the night,” he said, collecting his snifter again, “I’ll get her.”

      Reclining again, Trinity’s lips twitched. How did he intend to manage a messy diaper change? But the thought was a sweet one. And out of character, she thought. In his everyday life, she imagined Zack Harrison delegating all the mundane stuff, from RSVPing to five-star events to picking up the dry cleaning or sending a prospective female companion a stunning display of long-stemmed roses.

      Bet his florist expenses are outrageous.

      Overhead, something crashed and clattered on the roof. A branch whipped by the wind against the tiles? Trinity huddled down farther and inched the quilt higher. This snowstorm was really pulling up its sleeves. Could it possibly get any worse?

      As the wind howled on like an angry beast outside, together they watched the fire’s gentle flames lick and curl and spit. The atmosphere was lulling…hypnotic. After a time, Zack spoke.

      “You’re falling asleep.”

      Trinity roused herself. “I was just losing myself in the pictures.”

      “Pictures?”

      “In the fire.”

      He swirled his brandy. “You’re an artistic type.”

      “Right-brained, I guess you’d say.” Thinking of the striking image Zack Harrison had drawn earlier—what an amazing natural form model he’d make—she indulged in a secret smile. “I like to sketch.”

      “I never made it past stick figures. How are you at physics, chemistry?”

      Covering her mouth, she feigned a yawn.

      “All right.” His teasing gaze challenged hers. “So tell me. What do you see in the fire?”

      “Sometimes I see animals,” she said. “Sometimes people’s faces.”

      “And tonight?”

      Thoughtful, she angled her head and lost herself in the snaking hypnotic heat of those flames. “I see a baby. I see bottles and giggles, and a few tears. I’ll probably dream about all that, too.”

      “You don’t sound as though you’d mind.”

      Her gaze dropped. Was it that obvious? Her shoulder came up as she confessed, “She’s a real cutie. It’s going to be hard saying goodbye.”

      Out the corner of her eye, she saw his brandy swirl again and caught a whiff of its distinct bouquet before he pointed out, “Imagine how happy her parents will be.”

      “Yes.” She tried to push aside her doubts—her own experience as a displaced child never reclaimed—and pinned on a smile. “I’ll imagine that.”

      Zack maintained his own neutral look. His jaw didn’t flex. Nostrils didn’t flare. And yet he couldn’t have been more affected.

      From the start, Trinity Matthews had done curious things to his normally lucid state of mind, even with claws out, having a go at him. Sitting here while they talked and joked in the firelight had only served to make him hyperaware of that point.

      Despite the fact that she disapproved of his personal life—based on trashy tabloid news, he might add—he was sorely attracted to her. He wanted to reach over, bring her close. Damn it, he wanted to kiss her. And in a slow, all consuming, let’s-not-get-out-of-bed-for-a-week kind of way.

      The simmering awareness in Trinity’s liquid eyes, the engaging vibe she gave off when she let her guard down…If he traced a fingertip around the curve of her cheek, dropped his head over hers, would she slant toward him? Would she object if he scooped her up and dragged her off to his bed? The temptation was real—ridiculously so.

      And that set him back.

      Not because he was uncomfortable with any aspect of physical attraction, particularly when the person he wanted was so intelligent, competent and full of her own brand of fire. He admired anyone who wanted to stand by a strong opinion—even when they were wrong. His concern stemmed more from the peculiar sense of depth of his attraction to Trinity Matthews. He’d been intrigued by women before but not this way. Frankly the awareness he was experiencing at this precise moment was a little unsettling.

      Clearly it was a product of these unusual circumstances. Here they were—isolated, sharing an unanticipated, highly emotive experience. Yes. That must be the reason for it. This unshakable, unrelenting need.

      For several moments, he swirled his drink and stared into the fire. When he’d composed himself—physically, mentally—he pushed to his feet then ran a hand through his hair.

      “Guess