I stepped behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist. She was wearing only a bathrobe. Torturing myself, and hopefully her, I slipped my hand inside the opening at her chest and massaged her breast. I barely contained my groan when she arched her back at the contact, her bottom pressing against my groin.

I didn’t know who she was talking to, but it sounded like business. If it had been one of her friends, I might have continued. But I’d found out a few months ago that she didn’t like it when I distracted her from business calls.

She said I was being unprofessional.

Which, for her and given the fact that I was her boss, was basically a crime against humanity.

So I kissed her neck, withdrew my hands to her hips, then stroked her through the terry cloth one more time. I left her and headed to the shower, planning to make it a cold one. I turned to take in one last look at her.

Janie glanced over her shoulder at me, covered the phone receiver, and whispered psst. She had a small smile on her full, pink lips, and she mouthed, Thank you.

I let my eyes roam over her body, back lit by the window, and promised myself I’d mess up her makeup tonight in the limo.

On that cheerful thought, I showered and dressed in a rush. I was leaving just as Janie finished her call.

“You’re leaving?” She turned her wide, amber eyes to me. She held the bathrobe shut at her neck. This was f**king adorable.

“Yeah, I have a meeting at nine with a private client. I’ll be back around noon to pick you up for lunch before we meet with Grinsham’s people.” I took a kiss from her soft, stunned mouth, and shrugged on my overcoat.

The Grinsham group—of Grinsham Credit and Banking Systems—was the only corporate client we were meeting during this trip. Janie had already done an amazing job on the specs and account itemization. All that was left was winning over their security liaison.

“Oh. Okay.” She nodded and pressed her fingertips to her lips. “I have everything ready for the specs meeting. I guess I’ll see you at noon.”

“Sounds good,” I called over my shoulder and reached for my suitcase.

My hand hovered over the button to call the elevator when I stopped.

I set the case on the floor. I turned to her. I closed the distance between us in five steps, backed her against the wall, and gave her the kiss she deserved, every place she deserved it.

When I finally left, it was with deep satisfaction of a job well done, and the knowledge that I was going to be late.

***

Ten minutes later, I was three steps out of the hotel before I realized I’d left my phone upstairs in our suite. I should have been annoyed. After all, I was already late.

Instead, I smiled.

Janie would be out of the shower by now, and she probably thought I was long gone.

An image of her towel drying droplets of water from the white, soft skin of her stomach, her generous br**sts, the sweet spot between her thighs flashed through my mind. Her hair was probably still wet.

My body tensed and hardened. I glanced at my watch, turned, and walked back to the elevator. Once there, I jammed my thumb against the button. The doors immediately opened, and I boarded it for the fourth time that morning.

Leaving her was never easy, and even more difficult this morning. She was going to be my wife. What better way to celebrate than an idle morning in bed with Janie and her soft, pliant body.

I was going to be very late.

I reasoned that I didn’t have to be present for the pre-meeting. Steven’s plane arrived this morning. He would be jetlagged, but he didn’t need me there. He’d be surprised, but he’d handle it. Strategically it would work to my advantage. I’d been spending too much time with the Wickfords over the last few days anyway. Tactically it made sense to show them that I already considered our relationship less of a priority.

I was careful to keep my steps quiet as I exited the elevator that opened directly into our suite. I paused, listening for the shower, and heard only silence.

I removed my shoes and strolled to the bedroom, smiled even as my body readied with anticipation of her soft submission.

The door to our room was ajar. I pushed it slowly open. It made no sound. I leaned inside to see where she was, my eyes scanned the master bedroom. I found her squatting on the floor in the same white, terry cloth bathrobe from before.

She was next to my bag.

She was going through my bag.

She was digging, searching.

I could barely believe my eyes and spoke her name automatically. “Janie?”

She bolted upright, jumped away from my luggage, and stared at me with stunned alarm.

I glanced at my suitcase, the spot where she’d been rummaging, then back at her. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Her eyes were wide, plainly rimmed with guilt and alarm.

I stepped into the room but didn’t cross to her.

“Janie.”

“What?”

“Are you going through my things?”

She shook her head; then she offered a delayed, “No.”

My gut flooded with displeasure and something else—something like fear. I stared at her, waited for her to tell me the truth.

When I said nothing, she added, “I wasn’t. I promise I wasn’t going through your things.”

I ground my teeth and focused on keeping my voice soft and level because the fear was starting to resemble panic. “You’re lying.”

Did she suspect? Or did she know already about the private clients? Did she know how I’d built my business? What was she looking for?

No. If she knew for sure she’d have left already, or she’d likely be looking at me now with suspicion instead of guilt. Just the thought made my breath catch.

“No, Quinn, I promise I was not going through your stuff. Really.” She started to move toward me, reach her hand out, but then quickly halted and hid something behind her back. “Really, I swear.”

I forced myself to stay calm, study her, and listen to her words instead of jump to conclusions. She was ashamed, but her words and expression were honest. She was telling the truth. Yet the fact remained that I’d just walked into our room and found her crouched over my suitcase digging through it.

I subdued the spike of adrenaline. “Then what were you doing in my suitcase?”

“Nothing.”

That was a lie.

Her neck and cheeks were red. She was blushing like a pole-dancing virgin.

I stalked slowly toward her. “Why were you going through my bag, Janie?”

She shook her head, obviously torn, her face a grimace. “I…I don’t want to tell you.”

“Tell me.” I stopped three feet from her, close enough to catch her if she tried to run.

Abruptly she blurted, “As able consumers we must be accountable for our purchasing practices. It’s not just enough to buy local; we must also be certain that farmers employ responsible techniques, both in the use of labor and the land itself.” She shut her eyes, her hands still behind her back, hiding something.

She was hiding something from me.

Panic, a new kind of panic, coiled in my stomach and chest, the kind that drives a man insane, the kind that is fueled by jealousy.

I worked daily to suppress my baser instincts. But I couldn’t yet control my selfish nature or the accompanying possessiveness.

I knew owning a person wasn’t possible, but I wished it were, because I would have given anything to truly own Janie. I wanted every part of her—all her love, loyalty, fears, secrets, desires—even if that made me a bad guy.

I allowed my voice to betray some of my concern and lack of patience. “What’s going on?”

“Seven hundred and eighty million dollars a year spent on chemical products that can cause devastation to ecosystems and….”

My patience snapped and I charged her, took advantage of her closed eyes, and reached for her wrists.

She sucked in a breath, and her eyes flew open just as I wrenched the hidden item from her grip. My other hand pinned her in place, crushed her against me. She landed against my chest with such force that an oof escaped her lips. I lifted the item out and away from her reach.

I looked at it.

I blinked at it.

I frowned at it.

I rubbed my thumb over it.

What the hell…?

I glanced down at Janie and found her head bowed against my chest. I could tell that she was holding her breath.

“Janie, this is underwear.”

“Yes,” came her muffled reply. She sounded downright despondent.

I stared at the top of her wet head. My panic dissipated. I required several seconds to find my next words.

“Why were you trying to hide underwear from me?”

Her hands now gripped the front of my suit as though she was afraid I’d leave her.

“Gah!” was her response.

I glanced at the underwear again. It was white cotton, surprisingly soft, modestly cut. I could find nothing nefarious about it.

“What is going on?”

She suddenly lifted her head, but her hands still held my jacket front. “I just love it so much.”

“The underwear?”

“Yes! The underwear! The cotton is organically produced in North Carolina. It’s so soft, and it only gets softer each time I wash it, which doesn’t make any sense! How do they do that?”

“But….” I searched her face, my brain, the room, the ceiling; I was so confused. “What does that have to do with my bag?”