Sleeping with the Playboy Read Online Free Page B

quotes, and to arrange for Dr. Knight’s locks to be changed first thing in the morning. She then shut off her computer and rubbed her burning eyes with the heels of her hands.
    Dr. Knight seemed to prefer lamps that gave off dim, golden lighting. Relaxing and romantic, yes, but not very practical. She should have had the overhead light on, rather than staring at that bright screen in the semidarkness.
    She rose from her chair to take her empty water glass back to the kitchen. After rinsing it out in the spotless, gleaming sink, she still didn’t feel much like going to sleep, so she decided to look around the penthouse a bit more. She wandered leisurely around the kitchen.
    Dr. Knight certainly had an impressive collection of cookbooks. He had an entire floor-to-ceiling bookcase full of them, and they covered everything from vegetarian cooking to Indian food to chocolate and poultry. Did he like to cook for himself? she wondered, imagining those hands of his stirring chocolate batter, cracking a delicate egg.
    She could imagine those hands doing a lot of things—unbuttoning buttons, unzipping zippers, sliding beneath a waistband….
    Something inside her tingled pleasurably as her mind meandered around that idea, but when shecaught herself veering off the path of professionalism again, she shut her eyes and shook her head. She spent the next few minutes forcing herself to think about the penthouse, instead of the man who inhabited it.
    Jocelyn made her way out into the main hall and walked slowly in her bare feet, checking out the paintings on the walls. Most of them were contemporary landscapes, with plenty of seascapes as well. Closer to the front door, there were more framed black-and-white photographs of old abandoned, dilapidated farm houses.
    She peeked into Dr. Knight’s exercise room and flicked on the light. He had a treadmill, a life cycle and a weight bench, and again, everything was shiny and clean. There wasn’t a hint of clutter anywhere. She wondered how anyone could be so perfect all the time.
    Where did he keep his junk? Did he even have any?
    She crossed the room to check the window latches, even though she had already checked them a couple of hours ago, then realized with some uneasiness that she was overcompensating for something: a personal rather than professional interest in poking around. She had questions about the man down the hall, sleeping soundly in his bed for what must be the first time in days.
    An image of Dr. Knight stretched out on that huge bed, his muscular arms and legs sprawled out, his sun-bronzed body tangled in that thick, down duvet, burned suddenly in her brain. Her vision had him sleeping in jockeys, but perhaps he slept in boxers. Or maybe nothing at all.
    Damn, she was doing it again. She willed herself to stop, and tried to remember her rule about not permitting herself to entertain any personal curiosities about her clients.
    Not to mention the fact that Dr. Knight seemed like Tom in every way, and she had no business feeling curious about anyone who resembled her ex—people who derived their joy from living in lavish penthouses, wearing expensive tuxes and being spotted at the opera.
    Then again, a few little things had made her wonder if there was more to Dr. Knight than what appeared on the surface. The beer thing had thrown her.
    She came to the telephone near the front door, and noticed the high-tech answering machine beside it. Since he’d told her she could go through his underwear drawer if she wanted to, she decided to listen to his messages. One never knew where clues about stalkers could emerge.
    She pressed play and reached for the volume control so she could keep the messages from waking her client. The machine clicked as it kicked in.
    â€œHi, Donovan, it’s Eleanor. I had a great time last week. Just wondering how you’re doing. Give me a call.” Beep.
    â€œDonovan, where were you the other night? I missed you, baby.