smallest and cheapest going for ten grand a night—occupied the rest of the space.
Everything about the Crown was five-star, including his apartment. He card-keyed the door and stepped inside, as soft lights slowly brightened. Motion detectors meant he never walked into a darkened room—except the master bedroom. The light switch in there was the old-fashioned kind.
He moved into the open living area and hit the wet bar. He skipped the bottles of top-shelf liquor and grabbed a cold bottle of beer from the fridge instead. Mail was stacked on his desk and he checked it with a bored eye. His vice president of operations would have already handled anything important. Tucker was his cousin and he trusted the man implicitly—again, it was that whole family-doing-business-together thing.
Wandering into the gourmet kitchen, Chase tried to decide if he was hungry. A plastic-wrapped tray of meat, cheese and a variety of artisan breads occupied one shelf in the Sub-Zero refrigerator. His pilot would have alerted Tuck of their pending arrival, and as usual, his cousin had taken care of him before shutting down for the night. The tray was perfect. He slid it out onto the granite top of the breakfast bar and hitched a hip onto the wrought iron bar stool. He ate and drank, watching the play of lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows bracketing the living space.
A few minutes might have passed, or a few hours. He wasn’t sure and didn’t care. His headache had receded and he finally felt drowsy. He covered the tray and shoved it back into the fridge. As he stepped into the hallway leading to his bedroom, the lights behind him faded while the sconces in the hall flickered on. He’d left his briefcase at his desk and his overnight bag in the hallway. Housekeeping would deal with it in the morning, after he went to his business office on the third floor.
It was only one in the morning. He should have been fired up to hit the casino floor, or to check out one of the shows playing at the hotel. He should have hit his office, but he was tired. That fact might have worried him but he was too tired—or too bored—to care.
The bedroom door swung open soundlessly and he didn’t bother with lights. He could navigate this room in the dark. After stripping out of his clothes, he slid between the 1200-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and rolled toward the center of the bed.
Where he encountered a warm body.
Reaching out, he found the soft cotton of a T-shirt. Chase wondered briefly if it was one of his. His palm dipped into a nipped-in waist before smoothing over the curve of a hip and down to the bare skin of a muscular thigh. Tucker must have hustled to get him this coming-home present. He dipped his head and nuzzled the sweet spot behind the woman’s ear as his hand cupped her full breast.
The next thing he knew, the woman raked her nails down his arm, rolled, tucked her feet into his chest and kicked. Chase flew off the bed and hit the carpeted floor with a soft thud.
“What the hell!” The woman scampered to the other side of the bed and hit the on button for the lamp on the nightstand. “Who are you?”
He stood up, naked and unembarrassed. She was in his bed in his apartment in his hotel. He had nothing to be embarrassed about. “I might ask you the same thing, wildcat.”
“Oh, my God, you’re naked. Get out!”
Before he could move, she nailed him in the chest with a boot. A Western boot. Covered in mud and...he sniffed the air. Bending, he snatched the boot and stared at it, barely ducking in time when a second boot sailed toward his face.
“Get out of here, you pervert!” She snatched the phone and began dialing. “I’m calling Security.”
“Good idea, since I’m throwing you out.”
“What? You can’t do that.”
“Sure I can, kitten. This is my apartment.”
Her jaw dropped and then her full lips formed a perfect O. Chase liked the looks of that. And it showed. Her eyes dropped and she flushed before tilting her chin to face him eye to eye. She stood on the far side of the bed and he got a good look at her.
She wasn’t too tall—maybe five-six or five-seven—and while the baggy T-shirt covered most of her attributes, he could scope out her legs—long and muscular. Then he caught the saying emblazoned on her shirt: Sometimes A Cowgirl Has To Do What A Cowboy Can’t. Reading the message stretched across her chest didn’t help calm his libido. He dragged his gaze to her face, which was surrounded by a thick curtain of black hair, sleep tousled and begging for a man to run his fingers through it. Brown eyes bored into him from behind thick lashes that swept her high cheekbones with each blink.
“You’re one of the Barrons,” she murmured, her eyes still fastened on his face. Her tongue darted out from between her lips and he had to bite back a groan. “Can you, uh, put on some pants or something?”
He turned and walked to the chair where he’d dropped his jeans. Stepping into them commando, Chase glanced over his shoulder, only to catch her staring at his butt. His libido immediately whispered sweet nothings in his ear, but he’d already been burned twice in the past month. That shut up his libido and his body calmed down immediately.
“You wanna explain why you’re in my bed?”
“I’m Savannah Wolfe.”
She said it as though he should know the name. He didn’t. “Yeah, and?”
“I... I have permission to be here. Kade—”
“No one has permission to be here.”
“But—” Her face flushed as her temper flared. Chase discovered he liked putting that color in her cheeks.
“No one, wildcat, especially not you.”
“Stop calling me that.”
He showed her the four red marks on the inside of his forearm. “I think it fits. However, as much as I’d like to play, you’re not staying. Get your stuff and get out.”
“But—”
“We can do this like civilized people or I can call Security and have you arrested for trespassing.”
“But—”
He pulled his cell from his hip pocket. “Tired of the buts, cat.”
“I—”
He hit a button and she dropped her gaze.
“Fine. Get out so I can get dressed.”
“Not happenin’, girl.” He snagged her boots and tossed them to her. She caught them easily.
“Fine. If you get off on watchin’, then you are a big ol’ pervert.” She strode over to another chair and grabbed her jeans and a plaid shirt. An old canvas duffel bag slouched on the floor next to the chair. She had her shirt on but not buttoned and one leg in her jeans when Security hit the doorway.
“Problem, Mr. Barron?”
“Not anymore. Please escort this woman off the premises.”
The dark-suited security officer didn’t give Savannah a chance to get dressed. He snagged her bag, draped it over her shoulder, grabbed her boots and jammed them
