Chapter 22 - Brooke

Max was a big lump of relaxed muscle beside me, and I was feeling pretty warm and sated myself, resting my cheek against his firm chest. He smelled like the smoke from the grill, a bit of his spicy cologne, and the ever-present scent of the sea I had grown to love so much.

I should have been guarding my heart as well as my sanity, but I was just too spent to work up to my customary resentment. Until he was lightly snoring less than five minutes after our fevered moments of passion. We’d both been panting, on the verge of a coronary incident, and I was still tingling with the echoes of his touch, and he was… fast asleep.

Hmph. It must be nice to fall asleep so easily, without a care in the world. I couldn’t relate, since I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since I became his captive.

Not his wife, his captive.

There it was. The resentment was back and threatening to make my heart start pounding again. I edged out of his arms so my tension wouldn’t wake him up. Was I concerned about his peaceful slumber?

No, because I had just thought of something that made me go as still as a statue in our rumpled bed. This whole evening, since we ran from the restaurant, had been unplanned, and everything since we arrived with Dima had been completely impromptu, including falling all over each other once Dima was so unceremoniously kicked out.

I couldn’t remember where Max put his things down when we first got home, and normally, I was on high alert about that since I was desperate to catch him putting his phone down somewhere I could grab it. But this evening, I hadn’t been paying attention because we had a guest, and one who might have been injured at that.

Surely, he didn’t lock away his phone, and he certainly wasn’t thinking about it when I threw myself at him again.

Ugh, again. Pushing aside a wave of disgust at myself over my continued lack of self-control, I slowly and quietly rolled out of bed and began to search his abandoned clothes on the floor. Nothing, just his money clip and cardholder. Since I couldn’t buy my freedom, I left them where they were and grabbed my robe.

There was still the rest of the house. Tiptoeing downstairs, I searched the front hall, where he might have tossed it on one of the side tables or in a drawer. Nope. The kitchen and the back deck turned up nothing either, and I began searching in rooms he hadn’t even been in since we returned home. Maybe I didn’t notice since I was busy tending Dima’s wounds.

Not a trace of it anywhere, and eventually, I gave up, defeated and hating Max more than ever. He was always thinking about locking that damned phone away, even when his brother was nearly killed, even when we were in the throes of passion. That was always his first priority.

I wracked my brain but just couldn’t remember when he snuck away to do it, which turned my anger to myself for not being more alert. It was easier to handle than the unwarranted pain of knowing he didn’t trust me one little bit. I really was just his captive, no matter how many sweet anniversary dinners he planned or how he convinced my body to betray me.

Since there were always guards outside, there was no chance of making a break for it. The other day, I swam a bit further up the coastline than I normally did, surprising myself at how far I’d made it. When I turned to the beach, Pavel was waving wildly at me to come in.

As if I was trying to swim to Mexico or something. If I had ignored him for a minute too long, I was sure he’d have come in after me, finally making use of the swim trunks he was forced to wear to remain incognito in case some joggers passed by.

Escape was impossible, and so was catching Max off his game. To keep myself from bursting into frustrated tears, I manically paced back and forth at the foot of the stairs, the smooth marble making a soft slapping sound beneath my bare feet.

“Come back to bed.” Max's voice's infuriating tone of laughter as he stood at the landing above me stopped me in my tracks. “You’ll wear yourself out,” he said.

I whipped my head up to say something scathing, but he was clad in low-slung pajamas pants and no shirt, with dark hair tousled to make him look more adorable than menacing. I could count every ab muscle that rose above his loose waistband, and my traitorous hands curled as I remembered the feel of his hard chest under my palms.

God, I hated him. I hated everything. But as he turned to go, I followed him, and got back into bed.