Nothing to Hide

TWENTY

TWENTY

Boston became Montreal became Miami became Buenos Aires. They made it all the way to Sydney and got through four nights at the Australian Crimson. Whether it was jetlag or just sheer exhaustion, Roxie was fighting a headache. Her usually rosy demeanor was difficult to maintain under the pulsing weight of the dull pain.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Greg asked as they wandered along the hotel corridor toward her suite.

“I’ve been streaming to the masses for weeks now,” Roxie said. “I can handle it alone.”

Over the past couple of days, fatigue clawed at her every minute. That was what she got for not being an international jetsetter. The sucker punch of jetlag was a real b***h.

Still, she was doing her best to maintain the routine, which meant going to dinner with Greg. Unless there was something else going on, they tended to eat together. The documentary director was good fun, as were his buddies when they weren’t in work mode.

She slipped her keycard into the door. Usually their hotels were more high-tech. Their Sydney suite was smaller than normal too, but Zairn had his reasons for everything.

She popped the door open before turning back to Greg.

“Thanks for dinner,” she said because it was polite.

Being on Rouge’s dime and that of Greg’s CollCom production company, Roxie was grateful for everything they gave.

“You didn’t eat anything,” Greg said, coming closer to slide his hand up the doorframe next to her. “Want to invite me in for a drink?”

“I have to stream and get ready for tonight,” she said, laying a consoling hand on his shoulder. “You’re low on the list, docu guy.” She boosted the door further open with her hip and caught it on a flat hand when it swung back. “You have time to console yourself though, look for the bonus.”

She gave him a pat, then went into the suite. The door clicked shut. Relief. Except Zairn was in the living room. If it wasn’t for him, she might have lay down and taken a nap right there.

“From one guy to the next,” she murmured, forcing herself to smile. “I know it’s your first instinct to get me drunk, but I would kill for a gallon of the strongest caffeine in the hemisphere.”

“Hatfield wouldn’t pay for coffee?”

“I can buy my own coffee,” she said, intending to go to her room, though that did mean walking past him. “I only wanted to stroke your ego by playing pretend damsel in distress.”

“You’ve been tired the past couple of days—”

“I’m going to work!”

Roxie traced her middle finger across his chest as she walked by. Anything to keep him quiet. If she stopped or let him express her failings, she would drag all night. The only remedy was to keep going.

Hmm, a kink in the plan: streaming meant sitting down. Getting setup on autopilot, Roxie logged in and went to the streaming section. When the user numbers picked up, she’d be glittering and personable. Just for a second, she surrendered to weakness. Folding her arms on the desk in front of her laptop, she dropped her forehead to them. Why was she so tired? Her whole body ached and trembled, she couldn’t remember ever experiencing lethargy like this.

“You’re broken.”

Zairn’s voice. No surprise. They wandered in and out of each other’s bedrooms all the time.

“Damaged is the word,” Roxie said without lifting her head. “And if I am it’s because you’re dragging me around the world, subjecting me to your indulgent life of luxury… Come rub my shoulders.”

Her exhaustion was so potent that she couldn’t even muster a smile when his strong, satisfying fingers slid onto her skin.

“I can have a professional come here to do this.”

“Why?” she asked. “Is it too much like hard work? This is not high-intensity labor. Work for a living, Z. Just for a minute.”

“Your skin is clammy,” he said, concern embedded in his words.

“So what? Wash your hands when you’re done.”

He wasn’t listening. “You’re burning up,” he said, laying a horizontal hand on the back of her neck.

Any other time that grip would be hot for a whole other reason.

She stayed still when his hands left their task. The power to object or jeer wasn’t in her. When she was scooped up out of her chair and carried to the bed, all she did was moan pathetic sounds of objection.

“Stay there,” Zairn said, pushing her hair away from her face. “Jesus, you’re sweating. What the hell was Hatfield thinking?”

He didn’t expect an answer, which was just as well. Talking was beyond her ability; bed felt too good to contemplate concentrating. He went into her bathroom. The offensive glare of the light intruded even through her closed eyes. Recoiling, Roxie turned away from it.

A second later Zairn was back, scooping up her head to lay a cold, damp compress on the back of her neck and another on her forehead.

“How’s that?” he asked, stroking her cheek while holding the forehead compress in place.

Tipping her face up in the direction of his voice, she showed him a smile. “Good…” she said, trying to sit up, except he caught her shoulders to hold her down. “I don’t need it. I’ll be—”

“Stay put.”

“I am not your employee. I don’t have to do what you tell me,” she said, shoving his hands away to sit up. But not for long. Her head spun and nausea flared in her belly, so she flopped back down. “Maybe for a minute.”

“Yeah,” he said, putting the compress back on her head.

The cool, soothing weight tried to lull her to sleep right there.

She snapped awake when his hand left her head. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” he said, returning his hand to the compress. “I’m right here, baby.”

“Stay… Just for a minute… until I have to get ready for tonight.”

“Yeah, baby, you aren’t going anywhere tonight,” he said. Before she could object, he spoke again, although not to her. “We need a doctor… For Rox… No, bring someone here… I don’t care.”

His hand left her head again, but it didn’t leave her body. He skimmed it down the length of her, as though assuring her that he wasn’t going anywhere.

When he took off her shoes, she smiled at the relief. “You’ve been looking for an excuse to strip me n***d for weeks, Mr. Lomond.”

“Hold on a sec,” Zairn said, probably into the phone. “I’m paying the doctor who’s coming to see you, Lo. If he says we have to sew your mouth shut…”

She smiled again and as his hand rested on her knee, she bent it into the caress. “Maybe the doctor will say I require full body massages every hour on the hour, will you hire someone to do that too? Someone hunky and hot. I want final approval.”

“You get grandma or I do it myself—yeah… okay and—good man.”

“Was that Tibbs?”

“Yes,” he said. The bed moved as his hand withdrew; she whimpered in protest. “Taking off my jacket, babe.”

After inhaling, she exhaled a pathetic blub. “I’m too tired to even sass you.”

“Damn, you must be dying.”

“Z,” she whined.

“If you weren’t wiped, you’d tell me to take off anything I like, to get more comfortable. You’d comment how I might use this situation to my advantage and how it won’t make a damn bit of difference. I’ll never be lucky enough to have you.”

It was sweet of him to tease himself in her place. His kindness highlighted her selfishness. “You should go,” she said, slipping her phone from her pocket. “If you stay, I’ll get you sick. I’ll call Jane and she’ll talk about making me chicken noodle soup.”

The phone was plucked from her hand. “No phones, you’re going to rest. And I’m not going anywhere.”

The bed moved again. He settled closer. Sitting semi-upright, he scooped her up to rest her against him.

“You’ll get sick,” Roxie said.

“I don’t get sick.”

“Your arrogance applies to germs too?” she asked and tried to peek up at him, but he stroked her hair, using the motion to settle her again. “I thought you said everyone on the planet liked you. Why would germs be exempt? You don’t appeal to that audience?”

“They like me, so they don’t slow me down.”

She was vaguely aware of him doing something with a phone. Hers or his, she had no idea and didn’t care.

“It’s so sad,” Roxie mumbled. “I really like Australia.”

“Good. It likes you.”

“It made me sick.”

“The dancing made you sick,” he said. “I tell you every time we hit the club that you have the run of Crimson. You could turn the most private of VIP areas into your own little Haddaway den. You still insist on going down to dance with the masses.”

“It’s part of the experience, party boy,” she said, shifting her head to undo a couple of the shirt buttons over his abdomen. Sliding her hand into the slot, she relaxed further when her fingers loosened against his skin. “Being ill will do me one favor. All the icky mucus should put you off. Maybe I caught a break.”

“I’ve never wanted you more, Hot Stuff,” he said, distracted by whatever he was doing on the phone.

Roxie sighed. “It’s your hero complex… that or you like your women weak.”

“Mine or not, Lola, you will never be weak.”

“Don’t you forget it, Casanova.”

Lying there, breathing him in, he’d granted her permission to feel as lousy as she did. Something she’d never have done on her own. Her throat ached, her head throbbed, and despite being on top of another person, it felt like someone was sitting on her.

Moving of her own accord wouldn’t be happening any time soon. She wanted to stay there, against him, slipping into slumber. His fingers combed through her hair, over and over in a rhythm that sent her to sleep.

His next words startled her awake.

“Doctor’s here, baby,” he murmured, taking her hand out of his shirt to kiss her knuckles. “Let me go talk to him.”

The way he laid her down was so gentle. She snuggled against the pillows and opened her eyes to watch him leave, but the glare of the laptop on the table by the door stung her eyes.

“Z—”

“I’m on it.” The click of the laptop lid closing betrayed that he’d read her mind. “Close your eyes, babe. I’ll be back in a minute.”

A minute, a day, a week, Roxie wasn’t sure she’d ever move from the bed again. She’d planned to go to Crimson and do her job, but Zairn had overruled her stubbornness. In truth, him cutting her some slack was the greatest gift ever.