The partition was up. They were alone in the back of the car.

Kenton opened the small bar and poured a scotch. He didn't offer her one. He downed half of it in one swallow.

"Withdraw the petition," he said. He didn't look at her.

"No."

"Carleigh, be reasonable. Mother is sick. If she finds out we're divorcing, it could kill her."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have given me a reason to divorce you." Carleigh looked out the window at the passing autumn foliage.

"I told you, Blanca is a friend. She has no one else."

"She has an agent. She has fans. She has a family in Ohio. She doesn't need my husband holding her hand at midnight."

Kenton slammed the glass down into the holder. "You are obsessed with her."

"I'm obsessed with dignity, Kenton. Something you clearly lack."

He turned his body toward her. "You think you can survive out there? You think your little 'secretary skills' will pay for your lifestyle?"

"Watch me."

"And the ED clause? You're going to humiliate me in court?"

"If you push me."

Kenton lunged. It was sudden. He crossed the space between them and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. His face was inches from hers. She could smell the scotch and his expensive cologne-sandalwood and musk.

"You are playing a dangerous game," he whispered. His thumb brushed her lower lip.

Her heart raced. Not from fear, but from a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity. His eyes dropped to her lips. For a second, she thought he was going to kiss her.

"Get off me," she whispered.

He stared at her for a beat longer, his pupils blown wide. Then he released her and sat back, adjusting his tie. He looked shaken.

The car slowed down. Gravel crunched under the tires. They were passing through the iron gates of the Parker Estate.

"Smile," Kenton said, his voice strained. "Showtime."

They stepped out. Francine was waiting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, sitting in a wheelchair. She looked pale but her eyes were sharp.

"There they are!" Francine cried out.

Carleigh forced a smile and walked up the steps. She bent down and hugged Francine. "Hi, Mom."

"You look thin, Carleigh. Is he feeding you?" Francine glared at Kenton over Carleigh's shoulder.

"She's on a diet," Kenton lied smoothly, coming up to kiss his mother's cheek.

"Hmph." Francine patted Carleigh's hand. "Well, I'm glad you're here. The house feels so big. I've put you in the East Wing master suite. The guest rooms are being... renovated."

Carleigh froze. "Renovated?"

"Yes. Dust everywhere. So you'll have to share the big room." Francine smiled innocently. "I assume that's not a problem for a married couple?"

Kenton and Carleigh exchanged a look of pure horror.

"Not a problem at all," Kenton choked out.

The East Wing master suite was ridiculous. It had a fireplace, a balcony overlooking the ocean, and a bed that was roughly the size of a small island.

Kenton closed the door and leaned against it, exhaling deeply.

"She knows," he said. "She's doing this on purpose."

"Obviously." Carleigh walked to the closet to unpack her bag. She opened the mahogany doors and stopped.

"Where are my clothes?"

Kenton walked over. The closet was empty of the sensible pajamas she had packed. Instead, hanging on the silk padded hangers, were rows of sheer, lace negligees. Red, black, white. All transparent.

"Oh for God's sake," Kenton groaned. "Mother."

"I can't wear these," Carleigh said, her face heating up. She grabbed a scrap of black lace. "This is dental floss."

"Check the drawers."

Empty. Just more silk.

"I'm sleeping in my dress," Carleigh announced.

"Don't be stupid. It's silk, it will wrinkle and you have to wear it to brunch tomorrow." Kenton walked to his suitcase. He pulled out a crisp white dress shirt.

He tossed it to her. "Wear this."

Carleigh caught it. It was soft, high-thread-count cotton. "Fine."

She went into the bathroom. She showered quickly, trying to keep her bandaged hand dry. When she put on the shirt, it hit her mid-thigh. It smelled like him. That scent-clean, masculine, familiar-wrapped around her like a ghost.

She stepped out.

Kenton was standing by the window, looking out at the dark ocean. He had taken off his jacket and tie. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top.

He turned when he heard her. His gaze dropped to her legs, bare beneath the hem of his shirt. He swallowed hard. The room seemed to get five degrees hotter.

"You take the bed," he said, his voice rough. "I'll sleep on the chaise."

"The chaise is five feet long, Kenton. You're six-two."

"I'll manage."

He turned off the lights. The room plunged into darkness, lit only by the dying embers of the fire.

Carleigh crawled into the massive bed. The sheets were cold. She stayed on the far, far left edge, practically hanging off.

She heard Kenton shifting on the chaise lounge. A groan of discomfort. A sigh. Then silence.

Two hours later, a crack of thunder shook the house. The storm had broken.

Carleigh gasped, sitting up. She hated thunder.

"Carleigh?" Kenton's voice came from the darkness.

"I'm fine," she lied, her voice trembling.

Another crash, louder this time. A flash of lightning illuminated the room.

"Move over," Kenton said.

She felt the mattress dip. He was in the bed.

"Kenton-"

"Shut up. It's a big bed. Stay on your side."

He lay down on the far right. There was a mile of space between them. But his presence was there. Warm. Solid.

Carleigh lay back down. The thunder rumbled again, but it felt distant now. The rhythm of Kenton's breathing filled the space between them.

Sometime in the night, the temperature dropped. In her sleep, seeking warmth, Carleigh rolled over. She backed into something solid.

An arm wrapped around her waist. A heavy, muscular arm. It pulled her flush against a hard chest. A nose buried itself in her hair, inhaling deeply.

"Mine," a deep voice rumbled in sleep.

Carleigh's body went rigid. The warmth was a trap, the scent of his skin a trigger. The emergency room, the flash of a needle, the cold indifference in his eyes-it all came rushing back. Her breath caught in her throat, a silent scream. This wasn't comfort; it was capture. Every muscle screamed to flee, but she was paralyzed by the memory and the weight of his arm. She lay there, wide awake in the dark, a prisoner in his unconscious embrace, counting every one of his breaths and praying for the dawn.