Don woke to the soft rustle of fabric and the muted glow of late-morning light filtering through half-drawn curtains.
The suite still carried the faint, lingering scent of last night's steam and skin, but the bed beside him was empty.
Miss Claire stood near the wardrobe, already half-dressed in a tailored cream blouse and dark trousers that clung cleanly to the elegant lines of her body.
She fastened the final button at her wrist without hurry, the motion smooth and unhurried, then turned just enough for her gaze to settle on him.
"There will be no repeat of what occurred last night," she said, her beautiful tone measured and clear, carrying none of the softness that had briefly lived in her eyes hours earlier. "I trust we understand one another on that point."
Don pushed himself up against the headboard, the sheet sliding low across his hips.
