Doran’s stomach heaved and his mouth flooded with saliva, but he gulped hard, willing himself not to vomit as he followed Lara through their rusted tin can of a ship. He hated small spaces like this. The metal walls seemed to shrink, contracting around his rib cage until he had to close his eyes to draw a lungful of air. He knew the sensation wasn’t real, but that didn’t make it any less painful. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why she’d booked passage on the Banshee instead of a luxury liner. This ship was a dump. He shouldn’t have to share a room with anyone—or sleep on the damned floor. Hell, his second apartment was larger than this piece of dung. Wait. Second apartment? He froze in place as images flashed before him of a bright living room furnished with plush leather sofas and tables made of etched glass. Sunlight peeked between the narrow slats of UV-resistant window blinds, which he instinctively knew concealed a stunning panorama of the city skyline. He’d finessed many a date out of her skirt with that view.
