floor.
Damon retrieved it, smoothed the crumpled pages, and was about to close it when something caught his eye.
Run, breathe, live…
She’d scribbled the words over the pages of her notebook in scrawling, loopy handwriting but what caught his attention were the other combinations.
Run, live
Run right
Live to run
Feel alive
She’d obviously been playing with a million combinations in an attempt to come up with a tagline that worked for the brand.
His attention still fixed on the book, Damon sank onto the side of the bed. With no qualms about delving into her privacy, he flicked back to the beginning, reading what she’d written.
One thing stood out with startling, unsettling clarity.
He’d been completely and utterly wrong in his assessment of Polly Prince.
The creative brain behind every brilliant campaign belonged to the girl lying on the bed.
POLLY woke to an insistent buzzing sound. Cracking open one eye, she was dazzled by an intense beam of light and she gave a moan and stuck her head under the pillow. ‘Turn that spotlight off.’
‘It’s the sun.’
‘Well, what’s the sun doing up at this time?’ Irritable, she stuck her head under the pillow and then howled with pain as it brushed against her wound. ‘Ow. That hurts. And that noise is—’
‘You set the alarm on your phone.’ A strong bronzed hand appeared in front of her face and he picked up her BlackBerry and silenced the noise. ‘It’s six o’clock.’
‘Nooooo. It can’t be …’ Her voice was muffled by the pillow. ‘Go away.’
‘You are welcome to turn over and go back to sleep, but you’ve slept without moving all night and I wanted to know you were alive.’
‘I’m not alive. No one is ever truly alive at this hour of the morning.’ She gave a whimper and huddled under the covers. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘You feel ill?’ His voice was tight. ‘I will call the doctor and ask him to come.’
‘I don’t need a doctor. I’m always like this in the morning whether I’ve banged my head or not. I’m not a morning person. I have to wake up slowly in my own time. What are you doing in my room anyway? I suppose you’re sitting there planning new methods to use me to flush my father out of hiding. I’m just a worm on a hook.’ All the horrors of the night before rushed down on her and Polly touched her fingers to her forehead. ‘Did you put your hook through my head?’
‘No, but that’s still on my list of possible actions.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘Just for the record, I’m in your room because I was worried about you.’
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Most of the night. I slept in the chair. I wanted to be sure you didn’t develop any of the signs the doctor mentioned.’
Carefully, so that she didn’t brush her wound again, Polly cautiously removed the pillow and looked at him. Some time during the night he’d changed out of his tuxedo, discarded his bloodstained shirt and showered. Casually dressed in black jeans and a polo shirt, he looked every bit as striking as he did in a suit.
‘You don’t look like a guy who slept in a chair.’ He looked sickeningly energetic, she thought gloomily, resentful at being forced to start her day confronted by all that vibrant masculinity. ‘You watched me sleeping? Isn’t that a little creepy?’
‘It’s boring. You’re not very exciting when you’re asleep.’ Despite the mockery in his tone, his words jarred uncomfortably with the forbidden thoughts she’d been having.
‘So why did you watch me? Were you afraid your hostage might die?’
‘You are not my hostage.’
‘You brought me here so because you’re hoping my father will come and find me, not because you care about me, so stop the saint act. That makes me your hostage.’
Stunned by the discovery that he’d spent the night watching over her, Polly sat up slowly and noticed the cup of coffee on the low table next to the bed. The aroma of fresh coffee seduced her brain, sliding underneath her defences. ‘Oh—is that for me?’
‘Yes. I’m fast learning that your preference is for pink, but I’m afraid I don’t own a pink cup.’
She didn’t know which irritated her more—his dry tone, or the fact that he radiated vitality while she felt like a wet rag.
‘Of course you don’t. You’re the sort of man who has to constantly prove his masculinity by bossing everyone around. A real man isn’t afraid to have pink in his life. It’s a very happy colour. Real men often wear pink ties or pink shirts.’
‘Real men?’ His sardonic smile was the final straw and she glared at him over the rim of the mug.
‘Yes. And by that I don’t mean all that muscle and testosterone stuff. ‘Her eyes dropped to the hint of dark stubble that was already shadowing his jaw. ‘Masculinity isn’t just about looking as if you can split a log with one swing of an axe.’ Which he did. Oh, God, how could a man look so incredibly good first thing in the morning? Particularly after he’d slept in a chair. Stubble on most men just looked unkempt. On Damon Doukakis it simply amplified his ferocious sex appeal. It wasn’t fair.
‘I’ve split logs in my time, but I confess I’ve never done it wearing a pink shirt.’
Assailed by an unsettling image of those broad shoulders swinging an axe, Polly was about to put the mug down when she spotted the ink on the bedcover. ‘Oh, no! Did I do that? I’m so sorry. I must have fallen asleep holding my pen.’
‘Your pink, fluffy, happy pen. The one that is necessary for all your creative thinking.’
Something in his tone didn’t sound quite right but Polly was too mortified by the damage she’d caused to work out what. She licked her finger and rubbed at the stain. When that didn’t work, she looked at him apologetically. ‘I’ll buy you another duvet cover. I know you have a low opinion of me but damage to property isn’t on my usual list of crimes. I really am sorry.’
‘Compared to most of the disasters that appear to happen when you are around, I would say I escaped lightly. Get dressed. I want to talk to you.’
‘What have I done this time?’
‘That’s what I intend to find out.’
Polly racked her brains to think of
