In the back of the limo, Solana leaned her head on Jack's shoulder and watched his fingers fidget, weaving in and out of each of hers like a needle and thread. If she didn't know better, she'd think Jack was nervous.

Not like she hadn't given him a reason.

Michelle Patterson. Of all people, why did she have to be there tonight? Solana should have recognized her, but the last time she'd seen the heiress was in a magazine spread two years ago as Solana waited for her flight out of LA. In Vegas, the Patterson's were not a name that came up often. Their crowd were yachts and country clubs, not casinos and strip bars.

Solana gripped Jack's arm tighter at the memory of instantly liking the woman. Blissfully unaware of Michelle's identity.

Warm fingers caressed hers, and Jack rubbed his chin against her forehead. The tender touch helped ease the grip she'd dug into Jack's leg. He was here. He'd left with her rather than return to the crowd at the wedding. He'd chosen her.

Back in that dark closet, his words struck a cord. I'm on your side. Everyone left her. This was simply her lot in life. Yet here was this man whispering promises of protecting and staying with her. She was tired of being abandoned or abandoning before anyone could leave her. What would happen if she stayed?

When Jack opened the door, offering her a path to run away, the temptation to give in to her instinct to bolt, get as far away from the likes of Michelle, swelled like a balloon. As the light seeped through the crack in the exit, it illuminated Jack's handsome face. What she saw made her escape plan wane. Deep crinkles etched into his skin as Jack pressed his eyelids together tightly, his lips formed a grim frown, waves of hurt rolled off him.

The hurt was all too familiar. It consumed her every time her mother had walked out the door, promising to return soon, both knowing full well Valencia wouldn't be back for months or years.

Solana couldn't do the same thing to Jack.

Didn't want to.

"We're here."

She opened her eyes to find the limo in the underground of a parking garage. Jack slid out of the side door and offered her his hand. On the short walk to the elevator, he didn't let go. Nor in the private elevator to his penthouse apartment. Only in the small, illuminated alcove outside of the elevator did he release her. But his touch wasn't gone for long. Hot fingers brushed against the base of her neck as he unwound her shawl, sending shivers down her spine.

She'd suggested his place because this story couldn't be told in her abuela's house. The walls too thin, the memories too painful, the facts too difficult. Now she was here, though doubt surged, and she regretted her choice. They came from different worlds. His high rises and caviar, hers bungalows and debt collectors.

Did he only want sex, not the baggage that came with being Solana Wilde? Her finger found the hard stones of his mother's necklace. She'd find out soon enough.

Hot breath fanned her neck. "Take off your shoes."

"Oh, sorry." Was Jack a neat freak? Another thing they didn't have in common. She had T-shirts lying on the floor of her room that needed washing two days ago.

Cold marble hit her bare feet. The clear bowl on the solitary table in this colourless foyer brought the sharp contrast further into focus. Her abeula's house was small and cramped, the front door barely passable for coats, umbrellas and Luc's bicycle.

She slowed her pace. This thing between her and Jack was unsustainable. Could never work. Especially after he found out the truth. Her fists tightened, the urge to flee again pushing itself to the forefront of her brain.

Jack undid the top button of his shirt, and the fingers of his other hand encircled her wrist. "I don't mind the heels, just figured you were dying to get out of them." His fingers tugged on hers and asked to weave into hers.

Not a neat freak, concerned for her comfort. Well, this was different. She accepted his warmth, letting it drive out the cold.

With a wave of his free hand, the lights came to life, illuminating a vast space devoid of colour. Onyx marble floors gleamed beneath her feet, a pair of dark leather couches faced each other, a glass table separating them, an enormous TV, black and silent, hung on a soft grey wall.

Solana suppressed another shiver. The place was beautiful, modern, and sleek. Could grace the pages of any designer's look book, yet everything was hard lines, cool and lifeless. Like the lobby of a soulless corporation, not a home. The space was completely devoid of anything of the Jack she knew.

Massive clear windows provided a backdrop of a darkened city, lights dropping off in a wobbly line, most likely where sand met ocean. The glass reflected a silhouette of a petite blonde and a tall, dark prince back at her. "Nice place."

"It's nothing special." He led her across the vast space, past a kitchen complete with black cupboards, black countertops, the only appliance in sight a small steel expresso machine similar to the one in the hospital waiting room.

"My abuela would kill to cook in a kitchen like that."

Jack's steps slowed. "She's welcome here anytime."

"Be careful, you let her in here, she may never leave."

In the soft light, his blue eyes searched hers. "Don't tempt me."

The corners of his mouth bent south and he resumed his path, turning down a hallway lined with colourless photos of iconic architecture from around the world. Solana recognized the Trevi fountain from Rome and stopped in front of it. "Did you take this?"

He regarded the picture like he was seeing it for the first time. "Nope. Never been to Italy. "

"What? You must be joking." She stared at Jack's serious expression. "I'm dying to see the real thing. Caesar's Palace on the strip is as close as I'll ever get. If I had the money, it'd be the first place I'd go. Spend a month eating gelato and spending lazy afternoons wandering museums and side streets."

A thick eyebrow shot upward. "Not lying on a beach?"

"California has beaches but no Uffizi Gallery."

Without comment, he continued his march down the hall to the door at the end.

Solana felt her mouth go dry. He did want sex. Surely they were heading to his bedroom. A mixture of relief at not having to explain to Jack about Michelle swirled with a tinge of apprehension of being with him again.

Truth was her body was already buzzing with the thought of his touch, his hands somewhere other than holding hers. His hard lines moving across her. In the dressing room she'd given in to her desire, and one of her regrets was that it didn't last long enough. To spend the night with Jack, to act out the scenario's her fevered mind had conjured since then was building need.

They reached the end of the hall, and her suspicions were confirmed as they entered what had to be the master bedroom. But unlike the rest of his place, this room had personality. A warm cocoa colour edged the walls, complimenting the cream carpet, soft on her bare feet. Walnut furniture, elegant and classic, filled the room with curves and comfort. She tried not to stare at the massive four-post bed dominating the corner where the two floor to ceiling windows met.

Instead, she focused on the bureau to her left, decorated with a collection of photographs. Not black and white like the others, rather full of colour. A smiling couple, the same woman holding a toddler's hand, an older woman kissing a young man on the cheek and a devastatingly handsome man posing for the camera, full of confidence.

The question of who they were rose in her throat, but Jack hadn't stopped moving. Curious, Solana followed. Were they going to take a shower first? The dress was comfortable, but now stained with the memory of the conversation with Michelle. The glamor of the night had vanished. What she wouldn't give to change into her onesie.

They entered another space the size of her abuela's living room. On her right were rows and rows of dark suit jackets, pitch black, navy blue, dark grey.

"Is this your kink?"

Jack turned to face her. "My kink?"

"Yeah, do you bring all your women into your closet and do the nasty on your expensive suits or something?"

As he shirked his shoulders out of his tuxedo jacket, Jack shook his head and grimaced. "I don't bring any women in here."

Solana let his words sink in. Did he mean the closet? His bedroom? This penthouse? "Then why are we here?"

Laying his jacket on the chaise, Jack knelt down, tugged open a bottom drawer and pulled out a wad of padded material, the colour of which matched his baby blue eyes. "For this." He stood and shook the item. The silky fabric fell into the shape of a bathrobe. "I thought you might like to slip into something more comfortable."

"Before we have sex?" Solana snatched the article of clothing out of his grip, the material soft as butter against her skin. She ran her finger along the broad collar until she found the monogrammed J and B in deep blue stitching. This was not something she expected Jack Blackhorne to own. The robe was luxurious all right, that fit, but the colour was all wrong.

Jack's hand froze halfway through undoing his tie. "Before you tell me why you tried to run away from me."

"Not you. I..." Oh, this would be hard. Solana searched for a delaying tactic. "Where can I change?"

"I'll go make us some drinks and meet you in the living room." He didn't wait for an answer, brushing by her, leaving nothing but his woodsy scent behind.

Solana stared at the line of suits before her. Had she ever seen Jack not in a suit? Yes, back in Vegas, at The Peppermint Stick, but even then he'd worn a buttoned down shirt and dress slacks. After a glance over her shoulder to ensure he'd left, she pulled a knob and opened a small cupboard to find stiff white shirts on hangers.

The crisp cotton swayed as she ran her fingers along the starched sleeves and considered the persona Jack portrayed to the world. Perfect in his suit and tie. This was his inner sanctum. There had to be more than his work uniforms. She wanted to know what Jack wore on his days away from the office.

Closing the door, she snooped for more casual wear. They'd never discussed his hobbies. At least not the ones he hadn't allowed himself to explore. What gave Jack Blackhorne the thrill riding motorcycles gave her?

On her knees, in a bottom drawer, she found two pairs of dark jeans which look like they'd never been worn. Disappointment rose in her throat. Jack gave all the appearance of a playboy, but didn't seem to actually play.

Soft music drifted in from the living room and Solana became acutely aware Jack was waiting for her to appear.

Her breasts fell back to their normal, less than bouncy position as she discarded the push-up bra. The wired contraption gave her non-existent chest life, but wouldn't miss the metal digging into her skin. Wrapped in the soft silk of Jack's robe, Solana exited the warmth of Jack's inner sanctum.

Time to face the music.

Sorry for the delay in the chapter. The internet decided to go down in most of Canada yesterday. Kinda upset as its the first time in years I haven't posted on a Friday. Ruined my record.