Groaning, Carlos tossed under the sheet, unable to
relax enough to sleep. He’d tried counting sheep, but they morphed into
tantalizing images of Trella in white jeans. Despite how badly he wanted her in
his arms, yielding to temptation included a one-way ticket to hell.
Thrusting the cover off, he climbed from bed and
strode to the window. He stood there, watching the lights of the Valley in the
distance. Sleep in the same house as Trella? Impossible.
Carlos left the room, wandering down the darkened
hallway toward the kitchen. Spending the night equaled utter stupidity. One
whiff of the woman and his common sense evaporated like steam. He needed something to occupy his mind, such as
figuring out why Louis worried about her safety.
He entered the kitchen as a beam of headlights cut
across the wall. He stooped, senses keen and ready. Crouched low, he eased his
way to the window. Avoiding the swath of light, he straightened until he saw
the dark outline of a vehicle revealed by landscape lighting. After a moment, the car continued around the
circular drive and back onto the street. He made a mental note to have cameras
installed. The house needed an extra layer of security beyond a standard house
alarm system. Concern drove him to check every door and window
downstairs.
Carlos paused in the doorway of the laundry room. Trella’s orange tank
lay atop the washing machine. He stared at the fabric, remembering how her
nipples had strained against it. He didn’t recall walking farther into the
room, but seconds later, he stood in front of the machine. He picked up the cotton, soft to the touch. He
raised it to his nose, engraving the soft light floral scent into his brain.
Before the idea of taking it overwhelmed him, he replaced it then retraced his
steps to the bedroom. He climbed under the sheet and lay on his back,
praying for sleep. Thirty minutes later, he remained wide awake.
Carlos stalked from the bed, returned to the laundry
room and snatched up the tank top.
Yes,
Sister Mary Frances, I’m in hell.
