open at the same moment hers did. Surprisingly, she didn’t look nearly as shocked to find him towering over her as he felt.
“What happened?” she asked in a sandy, sleepy voice.
Sebastian’s first instinct was to tell her—to explain why she was in his bed and how she’d gotten into his clothes before he ended up with a screaming, shrieking female on his hands. Again.
Then he remembered his initial goal in “coaxing” her to open up. He’d meant for her to go cross-eyed and spill the beans, not faint at his feet, but now that she was once again conscious, but still groggy . . . There was no time like the present.
With slow movements, he approached the bed, rearranging the pillows at her back and helping to prop her into a better sitting position before lowering his hip to the mattress beside her.
“Chloe,” he murmured, “listen to me.”
She blinked, but held his gaze. Unable to resist, he lifted a hand and brushed it down the side of her face, through the soft waves of her chestnut hair.
“I need you to answer some questions for me. All right?”
Her eyes were just the right shade of violet—wide, black pupils with a ring of bright color around the outside. And while there was still knowledge there, intelligence, awareness, she was mesmerized, as well. Just enough. With no signs of being ready to slip back off into oblivion.
Good.
“Chloe,” he said softly.
She shook her head, making his mouth turn down in a frown. “Not Chloe. Charlotte.” Then her nose wrinkled. “Hate that name. Call me Chuck.”
It was Sebastian’s turn to blink in confusion. Not Chloe? How could that possibly be? And yet this explanation was something she’d uttered a million times before, he could tell. She was obviously used to telling people she hated her given name and would prefer to be called by the shorter, more masculine “Chuck.”
Reorganizing the order of the questions swimming around in his head, he decided to start with the easy stuff— scoff . . . there was the understatement of the century—and build from there.
“Who’s Chloe?” he asked simply.
In an almost mechanical tone, she said, “Sister.”
“Older or younger?”
“Younger by two minutes.”
Twins! he thought as comprehension dawned. Followed by, Son of a bitch.
He’d grabbed the wrong sister. How the hell had he grabbed the wrong flipping sister?
Sebastian played back over everything he knew about Chloe Lamoreaux, mostly supplied by what little Aidan had shared about his latest lady love. Brown hair, nice body, showgirl for Lust, the dance revue club in his very own casino.
His gaze traveled the length of the feminine form stretched out along his bedclothes. Brown hair, rockin’—er— nice body (if nice was equivalent to the sexiest, hottest, most nubile thing he’d ever seen), and she had to be a showgirl.
He’d watched her onstage. Caught her as she’d walked offstage . Found her wearing one of Lust’s trademark red-and-orange “Flames of Hell” costumes, complete with feathers and sequins and stockings and platform neck-breaker heels. If that wasn’t clear confirmation that she was a dancer, he’d go downstairs, walk up to the nearest roulette table, and put his entire vast, vast, vaaaaaast fortune on black.
And yet this wasn’t the sister he’d been after. He didn’t think. Either he had it wrong . . . or Aidan did.
His brows knit in consternation. “What does your sister do?” he asked. And then, for clarification, added, “As her job. What’s her occupation?”
“Showgirl,” Chuck answered automatically, still glassyeyed. “Dances at Lust inside the Inferno. Doesn’t want to forever, though. Kicks are hard on the knees. Guys’ pinches are hard on the ass.” She chuckled at that, as though it was a long-standing joke between the two sisters.
Well, at least he and Aidan were right about that much.
“And what do you do?”
If he was expecting a similar explanation, he should have remembered
“What happened?” she asked in a sandy, sleepy voice.
Sebastian’s first instinct was to tell her—to explain why she was in his bed and how she’d gotten into his clothes before he ended up with a screaming, shrieking female on his hands. Again.
Then he remembered his initial goal in “coaxing” her to open up. He’d meant for her to go cross-eyed and spill the beans, not faint at his feet, but now that she was once again conscious, but still groggy . . . There was no time like the present.
With slow movements, he approached the bed, rearranging the pillows at her back and helping to prop her into a better sitting position before lowering his hip to the mattress beside her.
“Chloe,” he murmured, “listen to me.”
She blinked, but held his gaze. Unable to resist, he lifted a hand and brushed it down the side of her face, through the soft waves of her chestnut hair.
“I need you to answer some questions for me. All right?”
Her eyes were just the right shade of violet—wide, black pupils with a ring of bright color around the outside. And while there was still knowledge there, intelligence, awareness, she was mesmerized, as well. Just enough. With no signs of being ready to slip back off into oblivion.
Good.
“Chloe,” he said softly.
She shook her head, making his mouth turn down in a frown. “Not Chloe. Charlotte.” Then her nose wrinkled. “Hate that name. Call me Chuck.”
It was Sebastian’s turn to blink in confusion. Not Chloe? How could that possibly be? And yet this explanation was something she’d uttered a million times before, he could tell. She was obviously used to telling people she hated her given name and would prefer to be called by the shorter, more masculine “Chuck.”
Reorganizing the order of the questions swimming around in his head, he decided to start with the easy stuff— scoff . . . there was the understatement of the century—and build from there.
“Who’s Chloe?” he asked simply.
In an almost mechanical tone, she said, “Sister.”
“Older or younger?”
“Younger by two minutes.”
Twins! he thought as comprehension dawned. Followed by, Son of a bitch.
He’d grabbed the wrong sister. How the hell had he grabbed the wrong flipping sister?
Sebastian played back over everything he knew about Chloe Lamoreaux, mostly supplied by what little Aidan had shared about his latest lady love. Brown hair, nice body, showgirl for Lust, the dance revue club in his very own casino.
His gaze traveled the length of the feminine form stretched out along his bedclothes. Brown hair, rockin’—er— nice body (if nice was equivalent to the sexiest, hottest, most nubile thing he’d ever seen), and she had to be a showgirl.
He’d watched her onstage. Caught her as she’d walked offstage . Found her wearing one of Lust’s trademark red-and-orange “Flames of Hell” costumes, complete with feathers and sequins and stockings and platform neck-breaker heels. If that wasn’t clear confirmation that she was a dancer, he’d go downstairs, walk up to the nearest roulette table, and put his entire vast, vast, vaaaaaast fortune on black.
And yet this wasn’t the sister he’d been after. He didn’t think. Either he had it wrong . . . or Aidan did.
His brows knit in consternation. “What does your sister do?” he asked. And then, for clarification, added, “As her job. What’s her occupation?”
“Showgirl,” Chuck answered automatically, still glassyeyed. “Dances at Lust inside the Inferno. Doesn’t want to forever, though. Kicks are hard on the knees. Guys’ pinches are hard on the ass.” She chuckled at that, as though it was a long-standing joke between the two sisters.
Well, at least he and Aidan were right about that much.
“And what do you do?”
If he was expecting a similar explanation, he should have remembered
Similar Books
