Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [19]
Brenna shook her head, smiling. “No, thank you, Johnny,” she said. “Mr. Walters and I stopped for dinner earlier.” She realized with a little shock of surprise that this teenager was only a little younger than herself, yet she felt a million years removed from his youthful enthusiasm.
Johnny nodded, and walked briskly to the front door. “The kitchen is well stocked if you feel like a bite later,” he said, and then grinned engagingly. “I'm a great one for midnight snacks, myself.”
“Me, too,” Brenna confided solemnly, from where she stood in the bedroom doorway.
“Be sure and tell the desk if you need me,” he said, and with a final grin he quietly closed the door.
Brenna stood there for a moment, feeling a great sense of aloneness sweep over her as the door shut on that cheerful presence. Looking around the exquisite apartment, she wondered dazedly what she was doing in all this luxury. She didn't belong here. She belonged in that small apartment in Los Angeles with Randy. Then she squared her shoulders determinedly. She was just tired and dispirited over the separation from Randy. This was a great opportunity. She would be an idiot to let herself become intimidated by these rich surroundings. She was the same Brenna Sloan here as in her own apartment in Los Angeles. All she had to do was to hold to that truth with both hands, and she'd be all right.
She considered making herself a cup of hot chocolate, but decided not to bother. She was suddenly unutterably weary. Opening a suitcase, she pulled out a white jersey tailored robe and shower cap, and drifted into the bathroom. She noticed, without surprise, the lavender tub and gray and crystal accessories.
She made the shower a brief but thorough one, wanting only to sample the softness of the queen-sized bed. After toweling off on the huge fluffy towel on the heated rack, she slipped on her robe and gave her hair a lick and a promise with the brush she found on the built-in glass vanity. Then with a sigh of contentment she lay down on the bed, not even bothering to remove the spread. She'd get up and unpack soon, she thought drowsily as her lids closed. And she wanted to be sure to talk to Donovan about Randy tonight. She tried to force her weighted lids open again, knowing she should try to call Donovan before she gave in to this delicious sleepiness. That was the last thought that surfaced before she fell soundly asleep.
It seemed only a moment before she was awakened by a thundering cacophony of sound. She moaned and rolled over, trying to ignore it, but it continued interminably until she realized it was someone at the front door. She sat up, and slowly rose to her feet. Catching sight of the clock on the bedside table, she realized groggily that it was almost ten. She had slept for almost two hours! It wasn't enough she realized, as she stumbled bleary-eyed out of the bedroom, across the living room to the front door, and fumbled with the lock.
She wasn't even surprised to see an extremely angry Michael Donovan on the doorstep. Leaning her head against the door, she peered at him owlishly, observing that he looked as vital and alive as ever in figure-hugging black cords and a black turtleneck sweater, his hair a dark flame above the sombre garments. She wondered sleepily if there was such a thing as an energy vampire. Just the sight of his electric-charged vitality made her feel tired—more tired, she corrected herself drowsily.
“Hello, Mr. Donovan,” she said, yawning.
“Good evening, Miss Sloan,” he said sarcastically. “I hope I didn't disturb you.” He pushed the door open, and brushed by her, closing the door behind him with a resounding slam. She flinched at the sound, as well as at the obvious untruth. It was quite evident that Donovan was not at all sorry to have awakened her. He strode into the center of the living room, and turned to regard her impatiently, looking outrageously out of place in the delicate grays and violets of the room. Like a pirate at a