Chapter 6 6

The heavy door of the Maybach slammed shut, sealing with a solid, expensive thud.

Instantly, the roaring storm, the flashing cameras, and Gaven's furious screaming were completely severed.

The interior of the car was a different world. The temperature was perfectly controlled, warm and dry. A soft cello sonata played through the hidden speakers. The air smelled intoxicatingly of rich leather and sharp, clean cedar.

Brooke collapsed back against the plush leather seat. Her chest he heave violently as she fought to catch her breath. Freezing rainwater dripped from her hair, soaking into the pristine floor mats.

She slowly turned her head to look at the man sitting next to her.

He was sitting with his long legs crossed at the knee, a sleek laptop resting on his thighs. He was wearing a dark suit that fit his broad shoulders flawlessly.

Foster closed the laptop with a soft click. He turned his head, his dark, fathomless eyes slowly dragging over her ruined appearance.

Brooke stared at the white bandage on his forehead. Her breath hitched.

It was him. The man from the canyon last night. The man she had pulled from the wreckage.

"I..." Brooke started, her teeth chattering from the cold. She awkwardly gathered the soaked, heavy layers of tulle around her legs. "I'm sorry. I'm ruining your car."

Foster didn't say a word.

He reached into the custom storage compartment between the seats and pulled out a thick, folded cashmere towel. He held it out to her.

Brooke took it, her fingers brushing against his. His skin was burning hot.

"Thank you," she whispered, wrapping the towel around her dripping hair.

The wet wedding dress was clinging to her skin like a second layer of ice. The heavy fabric had become semi-transparent, tightly outlining the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts. It was suffocating her.

Foster's gaze dropped. His eyes tracked the line of her collarbone, dipping lower to where the wet lace clung to her skin.

His jaw tightened. His Adam's apple bobbed sharply as he swallowed. A dark, dangerous fire flared in the depths of his eyes.

He abruptly looked away. He reached out and pressed a silver button on the armrest.

With a soft mechanical whir, a thick, soundproof privacy partition rose between the front and rear seats, locking into place.

The back of the Maybach instantly became a sealed, intimate vault. The air grew thick, heavy with an undeniable, suffocating tension.

Foster shrugged off his heavy, custom-tailored trench coat. He tossed it onto Brooke's lap.

"Change," Foster ordered. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in Brooke's chest. "You'll catch pneumonia."

Brooke stared at the massive coat on her lap. Her ears burned hot, a stark contrast to her freezing skin.

She hesitated, then turned her back to him. She reached behind her neck, her freezing, numb fingers fumbling blindly for the hidden zipper of the dress.

The delicate lace had snagged in the metal teeth. The water made it impossible to grip. She pulled, but it wouldn't budge.

She let out a frustrated sigh, her shoulders slumping.

Foster watched her struggle. He let out a quiet breath.

He leaned forward.

Suddenly, the massive, overwhelming heat of his body was right behind her. Brooke's spine snapped straight. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Stop moving," he murmured.

His warm breath brushed against the sensitive skin of her nape. A violent shiver racked her body, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

Foster's large, rough fingers brushed against her bare shoulder blades. His touch was electric. Brooke squeezed her eyes shut, her hands gripping her knees.

With a deft, precise movement, Foster untangled the wet lace. The zipper gave way with a soft hiss.

He slowly pulled the zipper down. The metal teeth parted, exposing the smooth, pale skin of her back to the cool air of the cabin.

Foster's eyes darkened as he stared at her exposed skin. His knuckles turned white as he forced himself to stop at the base of her spine.

He immediately pulled his hands back, retreating to his side of the car. He leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling with a heavy breath.

Brooke quickly shimmied out of the heavy, wet dress. She grabbed his trench coat and wrapped it tightly around herself, burying her face in the collar. It smelled intensely of him-cedar and raw masculinity. It felt incredibly safe.

She curled her legs up onto the seat, pulling the coat tighter.

She looked at him, studying his sharp profile.

"Why did you help me?" she asked softly.

Foster opened his eyes. He turned his head, his dark gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk that was equal parts dangerous and devastatingly handsome.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, possessive whisper.

"You saved my life last night. And I, Foster Pruitt, never leave a debt unpaid."