The Untouchable Billionaire's Only Healing Touch

"Welcome home," Gerhardt said.

Isa looked up at the building. It was a glass monolith in Tribeca. The Penthouse.

"The Glass House," he corrected. "My architect has a fetish for transparency."

They took the private elevator up. The apartment was stunning, she had to admit. Floor-to-ceiling windows offering a 360-degree view of Manhattan. But there were no walls.

"Where are the rooms?" she asked.

"The partitions are glass," Gerhardt said, walking into the kitchen. "They fog up when you hit a switch. But essentially... privacy is a myth here."

"Great," she muttered. "A fishbowl."

"Sterling sent over your schedule," he said, sliding a tablet across the marble island. "Charity gala on Tuesday. Flower show on Wednesday. And the Obsidian House auction on Friday."

Isa's head snapped up. Obsidian House. Her auction house.

"I'll go," she said quickly. Too quickly.

Gerhardt paused, a glass of water halfway to his mouth. "You're eager."

"I like antiques."

That night was the first true test. The bed.

It was a California King, thank god. She built a wall of pillows down the center.

"Is that necessary?" Gerhardt asked, watching her from his side.

"It's the Great Wall of Isa. Cross it and die."

He snorted and turned off the light. "Goodnight, wife."

Isa lay awake for hours, staring at the city lights. The events of the last few days swirled in her head. The necklace. Christopher's words. Gerhardt's scars.

Around 3:00 AM, a sound woke her.

A whimper.

She turned. Gerhardt was thrashing in his sleep. His brow was furrowed, sweat slicking his skin.

"No," he mumbled. "No... please... dark..."

He was having a nightmare. Probably about whatever caused those scars.

She reached through the pillow wall. "Gerhardt?"

She touched his arm.

He gasped, his eyes flying open. He didn't recognize her for a second. He looked terrified.

Then, his gaze focused. He saw her.

He didn't pull away. He lunged.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her through the pillow fort. He buried his face in her neck, his breathing ragged.

"Stay," he commanded, his voice thick with sleep.

"I'm here," she whispered, despite herself. "I'm not going anywhere."

He tangled his legs with hers. He was heavy, warm, and solid. The shaking stopped. Within seconds, his breathing evened out. He was asleep.

Isa was trapped. Pinned down by a two-hundred-pound billionaire.

She sighed, looking at the ceiling.

"You owe me a chiropractor," she whispered to the sleeping man.

But she didn't push him away.