The Rival's Heir. Joss Wood

comforter. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen and he would be facedown in blessed quiet.

      He liked quiet. He liked calm. Most of all, he liked sleep.

      Judah went to stand by the front door. He would stay calm, he told himself. He would just hand Jac over, not engage with his volatile ex-lover—screaming and throwing stuff was Carla’s favorite way to negotiate an argument—and then he’d lock the door behind him and strip off as he headed to his bedroom. He smelled like regurgitated milk since Jac had shown her disgust for the situation by vomiting all over his shirt. He should shower but he probably wouldn’t; his need for sleep was too strong.

      At thirty-five, he was too old to go for days without sleep. He was too old for drama, full stop.

      Judah yanked open the door. All thoughts about keeping his cool disappeared. “I always thought you were unbelievably self-absorbed, but this behavior is beyond where I thought you would ever go. She’s a little girl, Carla, not a doll—Jesus.”

      Judah blinked once, then again before lifting his free hand to rub his bleary eyes. But when he opened his eyes again, the Duchess still stood in the doorway, her silver-gray eyes dominating her face.

      Hoping against hope, Judah pulled her to the side and stuck his head into the corridor. Nope, no feisty Italian opera singer in sight. He looked down at his watch. She was now an hour and a half late.

      Judah was, not to put too fine a point on it, starting to worry. He needed to start making some calls. Something about this entire situation felt wrong.

      “This isn’t a good time, Duchess.”

      The use of the nickname didn’t impress her, but Judah didn’t care. He was too tired to deal with an uptight blonde.

      She stepped into the hallway, carefully shut the door behind her and looked at the still-crying Jac. “How long has she been upset?”

      “Forever,” Judah replied wearily. “I don’t think she’s stopped crying.”