He pulled her over next to him on the leather couch. She had a quick thought that she must have truly lost perspective to be doing this in his office before she could only focus on Sloan and his hands in her hair.
Later, much later, she woke alone on the couch. Disoriented, she sat up. Cool air caressing her skin reminded her of her nakedness. She grabbed the blanket Sloan must have covered her with and wrapped it over her shoulders.
Glancing around, she spotted Sloan hunched over his father’s drafting table near the window, absorbed in the paper before him. He didn’t look up as she hastily dressed, noting the clock read nearly one in the morning.
Walking to where Sloan stood, she peeked around his shoulder. To her surprise, the drawing was one of the designs for the fall show. The lingerie designs.
The table was covered with drawings in various stages of completion. They were classically beautiful—delicate, colorful and feminine—not slutty as she’d feared from the first. The designs were delicately sexy, with an exotic flavor that drew her.
“These are beautiful, Sloan,” she said.
He grunted, seeming lost in thought. “What they need to be is finished.”
She smiled. If she knew anyone who thrived under the pressure, it was Sloan. He might dislike—okay, hate—external expectations, but when it came to his expectations of himself, he didn’t just meet them. He exceeded them.
But she was surprised by these drawings. They were his. Sloan’s. Not Patrick’s. Not Robert’s. Not Anthony’s. Sloan drew with sure strokes, bringing the design to life by catching the fluidity of the fabric, the lace detail and the fit against the body beneath. Compared to the one design sketch he’d shown her before, these were easily Picassos. And he’d kept them secret from her all this time.
She felt blown away—a bit sad that he hadn’t told her before now—but blown away, nonetheless.
The scratch of pencil on paper continued a moment; then he froze. With extra care his eyes lifted to meet hers.
“Hey there,” she said, residual emotions sharpening her tone just a bit. “Remember me?”
His jaw worked, allowing her to gauge the tension gripping him. Keeping her voice calm and free of accusation, she asked, “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
Um, ouch.
Something of her reaction must have caught his eye because he started throwing out excuses. And they actually made sense. “I’ve always drawn, always wanted to learn more about design, but never got the chance once I changed my major. After Dad died and Vivian forced me out of the company, I didn’t see the point. But I’ve always wanted to try.”
“Is Patrick some kind of front?”
His smile was a bit lopsided. “Hell, no. He’s had to give me a crash course ever since he came home. Without him this would be a disaster. I’ve drawn up building plans for years.” He looked over the pages before him, a kind of fascinated pride brightening his already light eyes.
“But why keep it a secret?” She struggled to keep disappointment out of her voice.
His mouth twisted. “You’ve seen how Vivian reacted to Patrick. Do you think she’d have signed any kind of agreement if she even remotely knew I would be in on the actual designs? Hell, my ideas for the show were shot to hell and back, but in the end she had no choice but to accept it.” His naked shoulders lifted in a shrug, drawing her attention away from his sardonic grin for a moment. “It was one less battle to fight.”
Which made sense, but she couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t told her. Didn’t he think she’d understand after everything they’d said to each other, done with each other?
Maybe he didn’t trust her as much as she’d thought he did.
* * *
Returning to the scared-rabbit mentality of her childhood had never been one of Ziara’s life goals, but these days she found herself fearing the world around her like that lost, lonely child once more.
She wasn’t entirely sure how to stop it. Throughout the next week, anxiety rolled over her whenever Sloan wasn’t with her. Even though it was a stupid, feminine insecurity, she realized she wasn’t as immune to the disease as she would have hoped.
Which was why she was awake at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning instead of curled up in the arms of the only man to ever inspire her to snuggle. He’d slipped into her bed after a really late night at the office and slept the morning away. But here she was trudging to the kitchen for some coffee, rather than waking him up.
When a knock sounded on her door, her heart jumped. Please don’t let that be Vivian. All she needed was to confirm Vivian’s already glaring accusations by having Sloan walk out from her bedroom in his favorite pajamas—his birthday suit.