Sinful Seduction by Ann Christopher

he never discovered.
    “What does that mean?”
    It meant many things, none of which she was prepared to get into right now. Mostly it meant that Sandro affected her a million times more than his brother ever had, and the men were twins.
    How could that make sense?
    “I don’t know what it means,” she said as a flush crept over her cheeks.
    His brows quirked with skepticism, if not downright disbelief. It was no surprise that he wasn’t convinced, especially since she was lying through her teeth, but it was still a jolt to be challenged.
    “Are you sure about that?” he asked.
    She didn’t answer.
    That persistent knocking was really getting on her nerves.
    Skylar groaned, fighting the grogginess and trying her best to get back to the peaceful oblivion she’d just left. There was a beautiful moment of absolute silence, but the second she began to relax, there it was again:
    Knock knock knock.
    It was getting louder and harder to ignore, which was really upsetting. If it continued, she’d have to open her eyes.
    Knock knock knock.
    That did it. With a Herculean effort, she struggled against the warmth of the linens, batting them away, and cracked her lids open a tiny slit.
    What the—?
    Full consciousness slammed into her. Levering up on her elbows, she took in the room with a sweeping glance.
    First thing? She was no longer on the leather sofa in the study. No. She was in a pale blue bedroom that looked as though it’d been ripped straight from the pages of Architectural Digest magazine. The wall opposite the bed wasn’t a wall at all, but a row of floor-to-ceiling windows that were currently covered with the kind of handmade silken Roman shades that probably cost ten grand per window. Even with the shades down, though, the room was bright with natural light, telling her that it was way late, possibly past noon.
    There was a seating area in front of another smaller fireplace, which had a blazing fire spreading heat better than a radiator ever could. There were lamps, chairs, tables and ottomans. There was a wardrobe, a dresser and a dressing table, and a pair of crutches leaning against the dressing table. There were two open doors, one of which led to a bathroom, the other to a walk-in closet.
    Knock knock knock.
    “Hello? Are you alive in there?” called a voice.
    Oh, but the surprises didn’t end with the room. There was more: she was in a bed. A four-poster so high that it needed—yep, there it was—a stool to climb into, made all the higher by the luxury flowered linens piled atop her.
    But the biggest surprise of all was her attire. Rather than Sandro’s T-shirt, she was now wearing—she looked down at her body, gasping in disbelief—her own Victoria’s Secret full-length pink-cotton nightgown, the one with spaghetti straps and triangle cups. The same nightgown that had last resided in her overnight bag, which was, in turn, in the trunk of the smashed car. The bag that was now, she saw, neatly sitting in the corner near the wardrobe.
    Her e-reader, which she’d charged before she came, had been thoughtfully placed on the nightstand.
    Being smarter than the average bear, she added up all the evidence and came to one inescapable conclusion: Sandro had, sometime this morning, carried her up here, undressed and redressed her, and arranged her in this bed, all without waking her.
    Unbelievable.
    Knock knock knock. “Hello,” called that exasperated voice again. “I’m coming in to make sure you’re not dead—”
    “Who is it?” she cried, yanking up the bedding under her chin.
    “Nikolas,” came the reply.
    Nikolas? Who the hell was—
    “Nikolas Davies?” said the voice. “Sandro’s kid?”
    Oh! Nikolas! Of course!
    “Sorry!” she said, swiping a hand through her rat’s nest of hair. “Come in.”
    The door swung open and Skylar tried not to gape.
    Nikolas walked in with a bed tray held in one hand.
    Actually, he didn’t walk so much as he…slunk. Which may be the only way to