It fell far short, drifting harmlessly to the old hard-wood floor. “Hell.” Covering the distance to the crumpled terry in a single long stride, he bent and swept it up. Only to have the towel around his waist come untucked and slide down his legs to take its place. “Son of a fucking bitch!” He swept that one up, as well. Breathing heavily, he stood clutching both linens in white-knuckled fists as he stared blindly at the wall. Then he gave a sharp shake of his head and got a grip. He sucked in deep, measured inhalations and slowly exhaled them until his breathing was regulated again. Jesus. What was this? He never had to struggle for control, because he never lost it in the first place. Not since he was sixteen, at any rate. For a couple of years there, he’d been monkey wild. Fighting anything in pants. Screwing anything in skirts. But that was a long time ago. The man he was now was deliberate. In control. Master of his rare way ward impulse. So what had he been doing out in the hallway with the music-video princess?
