Chapter 9

The next morning, the first rays of the Manhattan sun pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.

Jaclyn woke up early. The swelling in her ankle had gone down significantly.

She slipped into a loose, white silk robe. She walked barefoot out of the bedroom and headed straight for the massive, state-of-the-art open kitchen.

In her past life, she didn't know how to boil water. But during the months she was locked away in the psychiatric facility before her death, she had learned basic survival skills.

She opened the double-door stainless steel refrigerator. She pulled out bacon, eggs, and pancake batter.

She knew Gaines's hidden preference for traditional, greasy American breakfasts.

She turned on the gas stove. The blue flame hissed to life. She dropped a pad of butter into the frying pan. It sizzled and melted instantly. The rich, salty smell of frying bacon began to drift through the cold, empty penthouse.

In the master suite, Gaines had been awake all night, staring at the ceiling on the sofa.

The smell of grease and smoke hit his nose.

He sat up instantly. His brow furrowed in anger. He assumed one of the kitchen staff had ignored his strict orders about entering the private floor before 8 AM.

He stood up. He was wearing a pair of dark grey cashmere sweatpants and nothing else. His bare chest and heavily muscled abdomen were tense with morning irritation.

He marched out of the bedroom and down the hallway.

He stopped dead in his tracks at the edge of the kitchen. His pupils dilated in pure shock.

Jaclyn was standing at the marble island. Her back was to him. The thin silk robe clung to her curves as she clumsily flipped a pancake with a spatula.

The scene was so domestic, so incredibly normal, it felt like a hallucination.

Gaines crossed his arms over his bare chest. He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes narrowing as Dr. Alan's words about Stockholm Syndrome echoed in his head.

"Did you poison the batter?" Gaines asked. His voice was a low, gravelly sneer. "Hoping to kill me off to get your freedom?"

The sudden, harsh voice startled Jaclyn.

She gasped and jerked her hand backward. The edge of her wrist brushed directly against the scorching hot metal rim of the frying pan.

A sharp hiss of burning flesh sounded.

Jaclyn cried out in pain. She dropped the spatula. It clattered loudly against the stove. A bright red, angry blister instantly formed on her pale skin.

The mask of the cynical billionaire shattered into a million pieces.

Gaines's rational brain shut off completely.

He closed the distance between them in two massive strides. He grabbed her injured hand. His grip was rough, fueled by raw panic.

He dragged her to the stainless-steel sink and violently shoved the faucet handle up.

Freezing cold water blasted over her burned wrist.

Gaines stood right behind her. His broad, bare chest was pressed flush against her back. His breathing was heavy and ragged, his chest heaving with adrenaline.

Jaclyn didn't fight him. She turned her head slightly, looking up at his sharp jawline. Her eyes softened, filling with a warm, watery light.

He held her hand under the water for three full minutes.

Finally, he shut the water off. He turned around, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out a first-aid kit.

He kept his head down. His large, calloused fingers scooped out a dollop of burn ointment. He rubbed it over her blister with agonizing, feather-light gentleness.

The contrast between his brutal strength and his delicate touch made Jaclyn's heart ache.

She could smell the clean scent of his body wash mixed with the faint, masculine odor of sleep.

"Thank you," Jaclyn whispered softly.

Gaines's hand froze.

He slowly lifted his eyes. His dark gaze locked onto hers. The physical proximity was suffocating. The air between them crackled with dangerous, electric heat.

Then, reality crashed back down on him. He realized he was acting like a desperate fool again.

He dropped her hand as if it were on fire. He took two large steps backward, putting the kitchen island between them. His face hardened into a mask of pure ice.

"Stop playing house, Jaclyn," Gaines ordered, his voice harsh and unforgiving. "The Acevedo family doesn't need the lady of the house to cook."

He turned his back on her, ready to walk away and lock himself in his study.

"I know the account number for Guy Lester's offshore bank in the Cayman Islands," Jaclyn said. Her voice was perfectly calm and steady.

Gaines's foot stopped inches from the floor.

He froze completely. He slowly turned his head, looking back at her over his shoulder. The mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by a sharp, lethal intensity.