Читать онлайн книгу «Lightning Strikes» автора Colleen Collins

Lightning Strikes
Colleen Collins
THE RIGHT BEDThe first time Blaine Saunders spies the antique brass bed, she has to have it. Practical in every other way, she's suddenly discovered a weakness for sensuous beds where dreams come true.THE WRONG ADDRESSBut the chances of her beautiful bed being delivered to the wrong address twice are about the same as lightning striking twice. Who knew that could happen? Tracking down the elusive bed is exhausting. So when she finally finds it in a stranger's apartment, she's sure no one will notice if she has a quick nap….THE RIGHT MAN!Where is his bed? When Donovan Roy arrives home late one night, the last thing he expects to find is a different bed…complete with a sleeping beauty! And in a white-hot flash of shared passion, he knows he'll do anything to keep her…and the bed.


Blaine wanted Donovan
More than ever, she wanted to make love to him. Fiery, passionate love. The kind that burned away all petty worries. She stared at his profile, wondering how to approach him.
“It’s getting awfully hot in here,” she whispered.
He looked around the room for a thermostat. “Want me to turn down the—” He broke off, as if he suddenly realized she wasn’t talking about the temperature. “Well…what do you want?”
Blaine shifted in her seat. Outside, the rush of rain and wind sounded like someone whispering, “Lovers.”
Lovers. The thought thrilled her.
“What do I want?” To show him, she pressed her lips against his neck, taking tiny, nibbling bites. Emboldened by her fired-up libido and his sharp intake of breath, she leaned close to his ear and whispered, “I want to devour you.”
Dear Reader,
A year ago, my editor visited me in Colorado. We took a day trip to Manitou Springs, a lovely town nestled in the foothills of Pikes Peak, and we were talking about my writing a WRONG BED book. At that moment we walked past an old antique store with the most beautiful, ornate brass bed in the window and my editor pointed at it and said, “There’s your Wrong Bed story.”
And that’s the moment Lightning Strikes began taking shape in my mind. The story opens when Blaine Saunders, down on her luck and out taking a mind-cleansing stroll, is lulled into a store by a sensuously magical brass bed in the window. And on a whim, practical Blaine has a spontaneous moment and buys the bed!
That’s just the beginning of more spontaneous moments in Blaine’s life—moments filled with fun, sensuality and some steamy adventures with a dark, handsome stranger who falls into her life, and into that brass bed….
I invite you to visit my Web site, www.colleencollins.net, where you can read about my upcoming Temptation novels, enter contests and more.
Enjoy Lightning Strikes! And like the heroine in the story, do something fun and sensual for yourself on a whim….
Best wishes,
Colleen Collins

Books by Colleen Collins
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
867—JOYRIDE
899—TONGUE-TIED
HARLEQUIN DUETS
10—MARRIED AFTER BREAKFAST
22—ROUGH AND RUGGED
30—IN BED WITH THE PIRATE
39—SHE’S GOT MAIL!
Lightning Strikes
Colleen Collins


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
I’d like to dedicate this book to the Common Grounds coffee shop in Denver where I’ve sipped many lattes and written many romances. And thanks to my great friends in Denver with whom I shared lots of laughter and good times. John and Ralph, save a chair for me at the “Little Bear.”
And thank you to my editor, Wanda Ottewell, for her ongoing encouragement and support.

Contents
Chapter 1 (#u773720ab-49b2-54e1-ab68-cae5494d71ae)
Chapter 2 (#u75ec44dc-79cb-5d16-9552-92ef163d5cd1)
Chapter 3 (#uaf5e49e3-eaf9-5e03-a68f-bf2cc148ae0c)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

1
BLAINE SAUNDERS GLIDED her fingers along the cylindrical metal and closed her hand tightly around it, loving its hard, smooth texture. Then she sucked in a gasp of air and sneezed.
Damn allergies. Still gripping the section of metal on the brass headboard, Blaine stuffed her other hand into her pants pocket and withdrew one of the always-present tissues she kept handy this time of year. Just a few minutes ago, she’d sneezed her head off outside the Spice of Life coffee shop, one of her fav haunts in Manitou Springs. But then, almost everywhere in Manitou was a fav haunt—what wasn’t to like about a picturesque mountain community filled with quaint shops and winding streets nestled at the base of Colorado’s Pikes Peak?
But when summer hit, the temperatures spiked and the afternoon thunderstorms rolled in, changing the cozy little town into a bowl of pollen.
She blew her nose. June should be declared Pollen Month.
Tucking away the tissue, Blaine brushed her fingers along the glistening headboard and imagined how pleasurable it would be to sleep in this beauty every single night. She leaned closer, catching her reflection in its polished surface. The shimmering metallic image gave her big green eyes and shoulder-length auburn hair a magical allure she never felt in everyday life. If she held her head a little higher, her gold-tinged reflection looked almost like Liv Tyler in Lord of the Rings.
Blaine sighed deeply. Then coughed. Damn allergies.
Dabbing the tissue at her nose, she stroked her finger in a lazy path along a metallic curve, enjoying the streak of moisture left from her hot skin making contact with the cool metal. So cool. So hot outside. Would anyone notice if I pressed my hot face against this cool metal?
She looked around. Jerome, the store owner, stood by a window, his hair glinting silver in a stream of sunlight, where he fastidiously dusted off an antique cabinet. But no one else was around. Great. She leaned over and pressed her forehead, then her cheek, against the sleek metal.
Ahhhhhh.
This had to be better than sticking her face in front of a fan, which she’d been doing back at her office all morning long. Especially after David called to announce he was engaged to another girl, although the fan didn’t, unfortunately, blow away her disappointment. So she’d reminded herself that four months of Thursday-night dates didn’t necessarily equate to ever-after.
For David, it didn’t equate to exclusivity either, it appeared.
But for Blaine, it had been a close-enough, sorta-boyfriend situation that she’d suggested they take a romantic Alaskan cruise, a dream she’d nursed since grammar school when she’d written a report on the northern lights. When David agreed, Blaine had exuberantly spent her income tax return on a cruise ticket. Which she’d been on her way to get a cash refund for when this beguiling bed had snagged her attention.
She pressed her cheek harder against the metal, loving its sleek, cool texture. If only men were like this. Stable, reassuring, cool when it was hot outside…hot when it was cool inside…
“Blaine, dear, are you all right?”
Blaine, her cheek still pressed to the section of brass bed, shifted her gaze. Jerome stood stiffly next to her, his gray, cookie-duster mustache twitching. His gaze darted to the metal pressed to her cheek, then back to her eyes.
“I’m fine,” she murmured, easing ever so casually to a standing position, hoping she didn’t have a cylindrical indent on her cheek. Jerome’s cologne, which always smelled like spicy orchids to her, traced the air.
“Still haven’t fixed your air-conditioning?”
“When my accounts pay up, I might.”
In the moment of silence that followed, Blaine knew that Jerome knew exactly what she was talking about. Several months ago, Jerome had hired Blaine to organize an estate sale, for which he had yet to pay. As owner of the Blaine Saunders Temporary Agency, she normally brokered temporary personnel for others—anything from accounting to technical writing—but because Jerome had been an old friend of her mother’s, Blaine had taken on management of the estate sale herself.
Then, the economy took a surprising nosedive. Businesses started cutting back on everything from office supplies to employee head count. The latter hit Blaine’s business hard because before a company reduced its own employee base, it eliminated all workers contracted through outside agencies. Which was, unfortunately exactly what the Blaine Saunders Temporary Agency specialized in—contracting workers, from secretaries to database specialists, to businesses.
Almost overnight, she lost three-fourths of her contracts with local corporations. To make ends meet, Blaine had moved out of her condo and rented a small room in someone’s house. And she applied for a small-business loan, which she’d hear soon if the bank approved or not. She’d also requested her outstanding accounts to please pay up, but when Jerome had pleaded tight finances, she’d told him to pay when convenient.
Which made her feel a tad guilty for her quick retort, but if Jerome wanted to mention her not being able to fix things, well…
He glanced around his shop, then leaned forward slightly. “You’re second on my list,” he said under his breath. “Right after I pay Ralph.”
“Ralph?” She thought she knew everyone in Manitou Springs.
“He delivers the antiques to my customers.” Straightening, Jerome raised his voice. “Heard your father’s working with you.”
When the economy faltered, her dad had volunteered to help Blaine out at the agency. Having let go of her part-time assistant, Blaine had appreciated her dad’s offer. Plus, she knew he welcomed a respite from spending the bulk of his retirement years parked in front of a TV.
“Yes, he’s having a wonderful time playing receptionist,” Blaine said. And a wonderful time playing matchmaker, or trying to. She had yet to tell him about David getting engaged to another woman…Blaine felt bad, yes, but she knew her father would be downright devastated.
A slightly crooked lamp shade caught Jerome’s eye. “Also heard your sister’s getting married.” He reached for the shade and leveled it with a flick of his fingertips.
Sonja, Blaine’s kid sister, had always been one for surprises. Her most recent being her news that she planned to elope in a week with a cadet who’d just graduated from the prestigious Air Force Academy in nearby Colorado Springs. Their dad, after darn near kissing the ground, had convinced Sonja to at least have a small ceremony in town, claiming it’s what her dearly departed mother would have wanted.
“Yes, she’s getting married,” Blaine affirmed, realizing Jerome had successfully steered the conversation away from his debt. “Mom would have been so proud.”
Ever since they had lost her to cancer fifteen years ago, Blaine had been a surrogate mom to Sonja. Which hadn’t been bad because practical, tomboyish Blaine got to live out all the fun girly stuff through her popular sister Sonja.
Jerome’s voice interrupted Blaine’s thoughts. “It’s a beautiful bed, isn’t it?”
Blaine eyed the glistening brass beauty that had lured her into Jerome’s shop. “It’s gorgeous,” she whispered, her fingers playing along one of the shiny cylinders that curled seductively in the headboard. She tried to imagine the bed in the cramped room she was renting, but realized there was no way this exquisite object could even begin to fit in the door, much less the room.
Jerome touched a veined hand to the brass knob that topped one of the four posters of the bed. “Just received it yesterday,” he said, the pride evident in his voice. “We’ve already had an offer.”
“An offer?” Blaine’s fingers tightened possessively on a bend of metal.
“Yes.” Jerome lifted the price tag, a square red label that dangled from a section of brass. “They said they’d return today, by noon. I’m hoping they want to at least make a down payment…”
By noon? She jerked her head to her wrist and checked the time. Eleven fifty-five. “They can’t!” she blurted.
Jerome cocked one white eyebrow. “Blaine, I do believe the heat’s gotten to you. You never raise your voice.”
“When it’s important, I do.” And suddenly, this bed was very, very important.
“And what’s so important about this bed?”
Because it symbolizes everything I’m not, and everything I’ve secretly desired—passion, fantasy, forbidden indulgences. “Because…it’d be a perfect wedding gift for Sonja.” That sounded better than to admit she coveted it. But on second thought, she realized it would be perfect for Sonja and her husband-to-be.
“Is Sonja’s betrothed going to buy it?”
Blaine pursed her lips. Hardly. Sonja’s fiancé, Rudy, was on a squeaky-tight budget.
“No,” she answered, tilting her head to see the price on that red tag. She blinked at the string of numbers, and comma. Two-thousand-plus dollars. Hoo-boy. Even though, after cashing in her cruise ticket, she’d have double that much, she didn’t need to splurge half of it on a bed.
The slam of a car door distracted Blaine.
A pleased expression crossed Jerome’s face as he peered out the plate glass window. “Ah, there they are now.”
Blaine glanced out the window. A couple who looked to be in their forties were getting out of one of those ritzy sports cars. They looked supercoiffed, as though they never wrinkled or sweated. As they headed across the street toward the antique shop, Blaine wondered if they always sauntered as though they didn’t have a care in the world. And more, what it felt like to not have any worries or cares.
The couple entered the shop, eyed Jerome, and waved a greeting. “We wanted to look at it one more time,” the woman called out in a singsong voice.
Blaine tightened her grip.
The couple approached the bed, then walked slowly around it, inspecting it.
“It’s a bit high,” the woman murmured.
Thanks to the rose scent from the woman’s perfume, Jerome’s exotic-orchid scent and the world of pollen, it took all of Blaine’s willpower to not explode a sneeze that could move this bed to the next county. She had to be alert, pay attention. The bed was at stake.
“The height has an advantage,” commented Jerome, folding his hands neatly on top of each other. “You can store things underneath, saving room in the bedroom.”
The woman arched one unnaturally blond eyebrow. “And the brass…the color isn’t uniform.”
“It’s an antique,” Jerome explained. “It’s aged with time, like a fine wine.”
The woman sighed and placed her hand on her husband’s arm, her thin, tan wrist adorned with a sparkling tennis bracelet. “I’m not sure, darling. I want an antique, yes, but this looks so…so old…”
Jerome glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, I promised I’d hold it for you until noon, which is in two minutes…”
In the following silence, Blaine looked at the piece of magic before her. It was to die for. Ornate curves of brass that begged to be stroked and explored. A plump mattress that cried out for more than sleeping. Yes, this would be the ultimate wedding gift for Sonja, who had zilch furniture for her new life. And this way, Blaine could visit the bed, enjoy it vicariously as she’d always vicariously enjoyed other things in her sister’s life.
But it was more than just a bed. Or living vicariously through her sister. Suddenly, with a surge of desperation and defiance, Blaine realized how tired she was of losing things. Losing a sorta-boyfriend, losing her condo, on the verge of losing her business. It was time for Blaine Saunders to win something, damn it! Something glorious, exotic, indulgent.
She had to win this bed!
Blaine cocked her head and scrutinized it. She cleared her throat. “This bed is much too high,” she said in a low, blasé voice as though she often analyzed things like expensive brass luxuries. She slid a conspiratorial look at the couple. “Did you read about that incident at The Broadmoor recently?” She paused, letting the name of the nearby superexclusive hotel sink in. “Seems some old, high brass bed collapsed in the middle of the night. The wife survived…but…” Blaine made a tsking sound under her breath.
The woman glanced nervously at her husband. “Darling, can we talk for a moment?”
As the couple sauntered off, whispering, Jerome jerked his head toward Blaine. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
“Trying to not implode in front of those nice people.” When Jerome stared at her, she explained. “Allergies.”
“I didn’t know allergies turned people into storytellers.” He gave his head a shake. “Collapsing beds. The Broadmoor.”
She smiled sweetly. “Jerome, when are you paying Ralph?”
He shifted her a look. “I said you were second on my list—”
“I never put myself first, Jerome, but right now I have the urge. Make me first.” She batted her eyes with great exaggeration, which coaxed a smile from the older gentleman.
He lowered his voice. “Blaine, honey, you got your mama’s eyes. And when you put your mind to it, her wicked charm, too.”
Blaine grinned, remembering her mom’s sassy, stubborn ways. Maybe Blaine didn’t get Sonja’s curly blond hair and ultrafeminine style, but she’d happily call it even if she got her mom’s personality.
Jerome’s smile faded. “But, unfortunately, I don’t have the cash.”
Blaine glanced up at the ceiling, contemplating the situation. “Did you know that many small communities in Alaska still use the bartering system?”
There was a long pause. Finally, Jerome said, “The one thousand dollars I owe you doesn’t pay in full for this bed.”
“No, but it’ll pay for half. I’ll make up the rest.” She gave herself a mental shake. Make up the rest? Have I lost my mind?
On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a crazy idea. It was only a quarter of her cruise refund. Besides, a thousand dollars wouldn’t save her agency—she needed a substantial loan to do that.
Jerome glanced over his shoulder. The man and woman were smiling, sort of, but inching toward the door. Turning back to Blaine, Jerome sighed. “Appears there’s no sale.”
Blaine glanced at her wristwatch. “Well, it’s noon so you’re not obligated to hold it any longer.” She grinned broadly. “Jerome, wrap it up with a big bow because this baby’s sold.”
BLAINE BLEW A LOCK OF hair out of her eyes as she stared at the apartment door, upon which was crookedly nailed a number 4. “Jerome,” Blaine muttered under her breath, “maybe you should’ve paid Ralph first.”
Ralph swore he misheard the address where he was to deliver the brass bed, but Blaine couldn’t help but wonder if Ralph was nursing a grudge that his account with Jerome was still unpaid. A really big grudge considering that when she discovered Ralph had misdelivered the bed, and asked him to redeliver it, he claimed it would cost her and Jerome double.
No way Blaine was paying double.
So, she’d decided to pick it up and deliver it herself.
She knocked. No answer. Great. Nobody’s home. Or are they?
Frowning, she pressed her ear to the door, trying to detect any telltale squeaking brass bed sounds. Her beautiful brass bed better not be being broken in by some apartment dwellers turned vigorous, sex-starved sex fiends! Because that was what that bed did to people—it ignited their deepest, lustiest desires. Their magical dreams. Their secret indulgences.
That’s what it’d done for Blaine, anyway.
She started to knock, but opted to pound on the door this time. “Get off that bed,” she whispered in a throaty growl.
“May I help you?” asked a scratchy, feminine voice.
Blaine spun around to see a diminutive little old lady wearing a strawberry pink running outfit and white high-heeled sandals. Her brown eyes sparkled with curiosity while she puffed on a cigarette.
“Uh, my bed—I mean, my sister’s bed—was delivered here by mistake and I need to pick it up.”
The lady blew out a stream of blue smoke. “You mean those big, burly fellows went to all that trouble, only to deliver it to the wrong place?”
Blaine nodded, fighting the urge to sneeze. Right now, she’d opt for Jerome’s cologne over cigarette smoke. Good thing she had her allergy pills with her. She’d pop another one as soon as she got near water.
“Are you going to pick up that big bed all by your little self?”
Blaine fought the urge to roll her eyes. She’d heard this all her life. At five-four, she’d been told she was too small to be on the girls’ basketball team, but that was before she’d shown off her killer dunk. And in high school, neighbors were impressed when Blaine took on the household repairs to help out her newly widowed dad. And not just the wimpy repairs, like a leaking faucet or a squeaky door. One summer Blaine put a new roof on the house!
“I’m stronger than I look,” she answered, for what seemed the zillionth time in her life. “Plus, I’m going to take the bed apart—” she lifted her toolbox “—and then I’ll cart it down piece by piece to my truck.” She motioned to the street, where her dad’s bowling buddy’s truck was parked at the curb. “Do you, uh, know where the person who lives here is?” If Blaine could get inside fast, she had a chance to get the bed to her sister’s before it got too dark.
“Donovan’s in…” The lady sucked on the cigarette as she thought. “…San Antonio, I think. Or was it San José?”
Blaine paused. “He’s in Texas or California?”
The lady nodded.
“How’d he accept a delivered bed, then end up in another state so fast?”
The lady waved her cigarette in the air. “Oh, no, no, no. He’s been out of town for almost a week now. I’m the one who let the men in to deliver the bed.”
“You live here, too?” Then why were they standing outside, having this discussion?
“Oh, no, no, no. I’m Donovan’s neighbor, Milly. He travels so much, he left me a key in case there’s an emergency at his place, or like today, he gets a surprise delivery.”
Surprise to him and me, both. “Then you can let me in so I can redeliver the bed?” Blaine fished in her pocket, pulling out both a tissue as well as the receipt. She tried to show the correct paper product to the woman. “Because, as you can see, I legally own this bed.”
The lady eyed the paper and nodded. “Just one moment. I’ll get the key.”
Five minutes later, Blaine stood inside this Donovan person’s apartment. Before heading back to her place, Milly had said to be careful of his plant.
Shifting her toolbox from one hand to another, Blaine looked around the living room. It was almost 7:00 p.m., so there was plenty of light out. But this place was dark.
“What kind of plant?” she muttered to herself, squinting to decipher objects in the shadows. “Potato?” She set the toolbox on the floor, crossed to the windows, and opened the drapes. Sunlight flooded in, lifting the gloom.
With a pleased sigh, Blaine turned around and paused.
“What is he? A monk?”
She’d never seen such a sparsely decorated place. It was almost as though no one lived here. In the far corner of the living room was a seen-better-days, plaid recliner with a standing pole lamp next to it. Against the right wall was a bookshelf, filled with hardback and paperback novels, and one shelf of CDs. On top of the bookshelf was a CD player, bracketed with two square speakers.
And no plant.
She glanced to her right. Set back, more a nook than a separate room, was the kitchen. Except for a few objects on the counter, it was white and bare.
“That’s it?” she said to herself, her gaze traveling back over the apartment. “No TV?” She couldn’t imagine a guy not watching sports or cop shows. Maybe he kept it in his bedroom…the room that housed her gorgeous bed.
Time to get to work. Blaine picked up her toolbox and headed for the hallway, which had two doors. One to the bathroom, one to the bedroom.
And in the latter, she saw her bed. Her beautiful, fantasy-drenched bed.
It sat in the center of the room, sparkling from the sunlight that fell in yellow slants through blinds on the window on the back wall. The streams of light fired spots of gold and copper on the brass. Blaine just had to stop and take in an appreciative breath at the sheer majesty of it.
She sneezed. Pulling another tissue from her pocket, she swiped at her nose and glanced again at the window. Sure enough, it was cracked open.
Enough to let in a flood of pollen.
Time to pop another allergy pill.
She typically took only one a day, but today she’d taunted the pollen gods by spending the better part of this afternoon outside—walking to Jerome’s, walking to the travel agency to cash in her ticket, hanging outside Henry’s, her dad’s buddy’s, to borrow the pickup. Which had no air-conditioning, so she’d driven over here with the window rolled down.
But before taking more medicine, she wanted to quickly scope out the bed, see how it was assembled.
She headed toward the magical, sexy object.
Crackle.
She looked down. She’d stepped on some big leaf.
In her mind, she heard Milly’s raspy voice. “Be careful of his plant.”
Blaine gingerly lifted her foot and eyed the humongous leaf. Had to be the size of a dinner plate. Her gaze traveled to where it was attached to a vine that curled along the floorboard to the far corner of the room. There, it led up to a clay pot, that housed some Jack-and-the-Beanstalk number with more leafy vines that coiled up the wall and along the top of the window.
That’s no plant. That’s a roommate.
Blaine leaned over, and ever so gently, pushed the vine closer to the floorboard so there’d be no more accidental steppages. She momentarily pondered how the delivery guys hadn’t destroyed part of the plant, which only made Blaine feel all the guiltier for stepping on it.
Well, just because I could play sports didn’t mean I was coordinated in everyday life. How many times had she knocked over a vase or tracked mud and dirt into the house?
Setting down her toolbox, she swiped at her suddenly watering eyes.
Damn allergies. She needed to see before she could even scope. She’d take a pill and hope it kicked in fast. With the way she was feeling, she’d wanted to post-pone this bed delivery adventure, but she had to take care of it today because Sonja had hinted about all kinds of maid-of-honor and sisterly tasks up until Saturday, the day of the wedding.
Blaine retraced her steps to the kitchen. There, she opened several cupboards, which were more sparse than the rest of this guy’s apartment. A few plates, bowls, cups and water glasses. She filled a glass with tap water, then retrieved her plastic vial from her shirt pocket. Tapping out a pill, she popped it into her mouth and washed it down.
On the way back to the bedroom, an object on the bookshelf caught her eye. She paused and picked it up. An old, chipped pocket knife. Why keep an old tool around? She loved her tools the way other girls loved clothes and makeup. And one of her pet rules was to keep her tools in mint condition, clean and ready to use. She’d never keep an old, battered pocketknife.
Blaine turned the knife over in her hands. Besides the plant, this object seemed to be the only decoration in this place.
Placing it back on the shelf where she found it, Blaine headed back to the bedroom, yawning.
For the next fifteen minutes, she checked out how the bed was bolted together. Then she opened her toolbox and extracted a wrench.
Sleepy. I’m so sleepy.
Blinking, she positioned the wrench around the bolt. She yawned again, a long tired yawn. This wrench felt so heavy. Her eyelids felt heavier. The medication was unusually strong.
Foggily, she thought back. She took one pill after buying the bed. Another before driving Henry’s truck over here. And one a few minutes ago.
Ohhhhh. Instead of her usual one, she had inadvertently taken three.
Distant thunder broke the silence.
An oncoming summer storm. The rain would be great, but the preceding winds would only kick up more pollen. She could already smell the ragweed, the flowers, the…
Ah-chooo!
She extracted her tissue and blew her nose.
When will that last pill kick in? Better take a breather, rest, wait for the storm to pass.
Besides, if she tried to keep working on this bed in her druggy state, she’d undoubtedly keel over on that plant and do far more than simply crunch a leaf.
Blaine hoisted herself on top of the bed. Ahhhhhh. This mattress was so big and soft, it was like sitting on a cloud. A sensuous, seductive cloud that promised a world of fantasy and dreams come true…
Too hot to sleep in my clothes. She began tugging off her T-shirt.
A few minutes later, Blaine fell back, barely aware of her head hitting the pillow.

2
THE TAXI DROVE AWAY, its motor fading into the night air as Donovan Roy unlocked the door. A breeze riffled the air, infusing it with the rich scent of earth and grass. Must have rained earlier. He was partial to this time of year in Colorado, when an afternoon storm could rush in like a giddy schoolgirl, all breathless and flustered, then unleash its passion like a seasoned woman.
He shifted his overnight bag on his shoulder, catching another scent. Roses. Or was it honeysuckle? No, that had been in San José. Lilacs? Could be. They’d grown in wild abundance, purple and fragrant, outside his hotel room in Cincinnati.
San José.
Cincinnati.
As he shoved the door open with his shoulder, his thoughts struggled. Which city was he in this time?
His memory was always sharp, damn near perfect, except when he pushed himself, mentally and physically, to the limit. Shouldn’t have taken this last job. Should have taken a break. But he’d needed the money.
He paused on the threshold, squinting at the shadows in the room.
Hell, it’s home!
He kicked shut the door behind him and dropped his bag, which hit the hardwood floor with a solid whoomp. He tugged off one of his boots and tossed it next to the bag.
God, I’m wiped.
He reminded himself that despite such dog-tired moments, he liked doing what he wanted, where he wanted, when he wanted. Liked keeping his boots next to the front door, liked tossing back a shot while listening to the blues, liked keeping the ringer on his phone permanently off.
Which was why he liked his consulting gigs. They fit his lifestyle to a T. No playing the corporate games, no molding himself to society’s expectations. As long as he met his deadlines and produced quality work, he could wear his hair longer, dress in jeans and T-shirts, take off a few days when the mood struck.
He yanked off the other boot, then remained bent over, arching his back to release some tension. His body ached from folding his six-three frame into airline seats, taxi seats. This past year, he swore he’d visited more cities than the president himself. Wonder if it’s the same for the big guy— After a while, people and cities blurred into a swirl of shapes and voices.
Especially when Donovan pulled an all-nighter, like he’d done last night in San José.
He straightened, tossing the other boot in the vicinity of the first, then glanced up at the clock on his wall. A slant of moonlight highlighted the chunk of redwood he’d found on the California coast several years ago. Inspired, he’d polished and rigged it to be a clock.
3:00 a.m.
Donovan scratched the stubble on his chin. He’d been up—he squeezed shut his eyes and added the numbers—damn, over forty hours.
His eyes suddenly felt gritty, heavy. Sleep didn’t beckon, it badgered. He absently rubbed his right leg, the damn spot that ached when he pushed his body too hard.
Gotta get to bed. I’ll sleep till noon, maybe later, then make myself the meanest, hottest plate of huevos rancheros this side of the border.
Smiling at the prospect, he trudged toward the hallway as he peeled off his T-shirt. Reaching the recliner, gray and bulky in the shadows, he tossed the shirt over its back. Then he stripped off his jeans, stepped out of his briefs, and dropped both on the floor.
With a drawn-out yawn, he headed for the bedroom.
He started to roll over onto the mattress, but it was…different. He fumbled in the dark. Damn, this mattress was higher off the ground than he recalled. A good foot, maybe two, higher.
He was so tired, it took all his will to keep the shadowy dream figures that toyed at the edges of his consciousness at bay. So tired, the thump-thump of the old pine tree that brushed the side of this apartment building whenever the winds got restless, sounded eerily like the drumbeat of an old Muddy Waters song.
Donovan blinked his heavy eyelids. Too heavy to stay open.
So why in the hell am I still standing?
Oh yeah, the bed. Too high.
He stroked the satiny mattress cover. Felt like that bed at the motel in Cincinnati. Or was it Seattle?
Hell, that’s where he probably was. Cincinnati or Seattle or…
He lifted his good leg, rolled onto the mattress, and stretched out his tired body. Ah, the breezes felt good. Warm. Comforting. Like a woman’s touch…
The shadowy figures in his mind sharpened and withdrew, preparing to start the dream.
Silky strands of hair caressed his cheek. The scent of soap and almonds.
Almonds. Reminded him of Deidre, the airline stewardess in Boston, and her almond-scented body lotion. He flashed on her raven hair, blue eyes…he couldn’t remember much more. Their hit-and-miss relationship had been a long time ago…another lifetime ago…
The image faded.
His leg brushed against another, feminine one.
Yeah, let me dream of a lady.
In the dark haze of his mind, he imagined his fingers touching warm skin. Soft. Supple. As he explored the feminine curve of a back, he was vaguely aware of other sensations.
Warm, dewy skin.
Smooth, taut muscle.
Scented breezes, imbued with a hint of almonds, swirled around them, enveloped them.
Oh, yeah, let the dream come on.
He willingly let his mind slip over the edge of reality into a haze.
The woman liquefied in his arms, her shape conforming to his. He stretched to his full length, relishing the fluidity of curves and bends that molded against his primed body.
Breasts, soft and full, pressed against him. The puckered tips of nipples tightened, grew hard.
Feeling her arousal was like an aphrodisiac.
His fingers explored the terrain. He ran a palm, fingers spread wide, down a taut tummy, played briefly with a navel, then reversed course and crept back up to the soft, round base of a breast.
He stretched open his fingers even wider, sliding them on either side of a pebbled nipple. With a groan, he rolled the nub between his fingers, tugging it gently.
A feminine moan. Ragged, breathy. And when her hips ground a little against him, desire shot through him like a bolt of lightning.
His hand slipped down, instinctively seeking that spot of heat and gratification…
In her dream, Blaine sat on a chair, staring across the cruise deck at Mount McKinley, which rose like a fore-boding monolith to a sky filled with pristine white clouds. So white, it pained her eyes to stare at it.
Cool sea breezes ruffled her hair.
No, fingers ruffled her hair.
She blinked, groggily aware that the sunlight had faded to black. Hazily aware that the wild and rugged Alaskan terrain had disappeared.
The dream had shifted, changed.
She was naked, in the arms of a man.
She felt mesmerized by his warmth and masculine scent. His solid body crushed her close. So close, she couldn’t tell where her skin ended, where his began. It was as though they were one warm, pulsating body.
She shuddered a breath, falling further into the dream. Relinquishing herself to it.
As their bodies shifted, her skin burned and tingled at points where they touched.
She moaned.
A deep, throaty groan responded.
A soothing breeze swept over them. The scent of pine. A dream took shape. Instead of a cruise ship, she lay beneath a tree, the swaying branches sweeping a blue sky. Sweeping, stroking her skin…
…no, the man’s hand stroked her skin. Down, down…brushing the bend of her waist, inching up her torso and sliding over her breast.
She gasped and pressed herself into his warm palm. Flames fanned higher as his fingers played lazily around her breast, circling the nipple. Rough, yet sensuous hands. And oh, so sweet the way they moved magically over her skin. Stroking, caressing, teasing…
Heat swept over her body, then sank through her skin, flooding every cell with a primitive need.
The hand slipped away.
The dream suspended. Savage disappointment shot through her.
His hand wedged between her legs.
Then he touched her there.
The world shrank to a focal point of fiery need where his fingers circled and stroked her sex. She tensed, arching her back, aching for release.
Hot, wet lips suckled her breast and she emitted a soft, guttural cry.
Wave after wave of heat rushed through her. She needed…more. Maneuvering her pelvis just so, she sank herself onto those skilled fingers.
Sizzling need coiled within Donovan as velvety heat enveloped his fingers, which mimicked what other parts of him wanted to do.
Against his chest, he felt feathery shudders of breath.
And where he touched her. God, that was the sweetest. Her hips thrust against him with a small yearning movement that spread fire through his body.
Need skyrocketed through him. Unbearable, exquisite need.
Shadows, like flames, leapt and danced in the periphery of his dream.
He tugged her snug against him, took his hardened member and slid it into her. God…so…tight. She was so wet, so ready. He shifted his hips, inching farther into silky, feminine folds.
She moaned, the sound sweet and anxious.
He slipped deeper until he was fully inside, his desire straining as he fought the urge to explode…to tumble over the edge…
Her body stiffened. A strangled gasp escalated to a cry as her insides contracted, tighter, tighter…
He stilled, holding her against him, as though they were poised on the edge of the world.
And as her insides suddenly convulsed, he buried himself into her, exploding his release.
BLAINE BLINKED. Sunshine, bright and hot, fell across her face. Hundreds of dust particles swayed and danced in the shaft of dazzling light. She sucked in a breath and coughed.
Damn allergies. She sniffed. Double damn. She was hopelessly clogged up.
And hopelessly groggy.
After rubbing her watery eyes, she again squinted into the sunshine. Above her head, a window was open.
No wonder she could hardly breathe—all the pollens in Manitou Springs had probably found their way through that opening last night. Two months ago, when she’d rented this room, her dad had warned her about living in a stranger’s house. People will use your things without asking. People won’t respect the ten-to-six rule. The latter being one of her dad’s favorites as long as she could remember—the “ten-to-six” rule being that you turned down the noise from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. so people could sleep.
But she’d just chalked up his warnings to his worrisome nature.
Except for this morning. Somebody had sneaked into her room and opened her window. That went far beyond simply breaking the ten-to-six rule. That was breaking her fundamental, I need-to-breathe-it’s-allergy-season rule.
Although which of her roommates would open her window was a mystery. Georgio, who’s real name was George but “Georgio” better fit his flamboyant hair-dresser persona, owned the house. But his master bedroom and bath were at the far end of the house and he never entered her room unannounced. Which left the other paying renter, Sam, a sullen college student whose wardrobe consisted of jeans and Star Wars T-shirts and who seemed to subsist on cigarettes and coffee.
Not that Sam seemed like a stealthy window opener, but those Trekkie types sometimes did odd things. She once walked in while Sam and some of his buddies were mixing green Jell-O in the bathtub.
Her gaze shifted to a section of glistening metal below the window. Glistening, cylindrical brass that magically looped and curled.
My beloved bed!
Well, Sonja’s bed.
Blaine smiled lazily and stretched.
Wait. How’d my bed get into my tiny, cramped rent-a-room?
She frowned, vaguely recalling crawling into the bed after too many allergy pills. Well, no wonder I’m having a heck of a time waking up. She strained to remember exactly what happened last night. Images slowly materialized in her sluggish brain. Henry’s truck, Milly, a big leaf…
More images took shape in her mind. Not images exactly, but sensations.
Big, rough hands. Bare skin against bare skin. Roaming, skilled fingers…
A sleepy, and very masculine, groan interrupted her mental inventory.
Someone, no some man, was behind her, on the other side of the bed!
She stiffened, terrified she’d look over her shoulder and discover one of Sam’s Trekkie friends, wearing thick horn-rim glasses, a Jedi outfit and reeking of green Jell-O. God, had she done it with a Trekkie?
She squeezed shut her eyes. Please, Lord, I wanted to be Liv Tyler, not Princess Leia.
She stealthily eased herself off the bed, nearly falling when her foot lost traction on the slick satin-covered mattress. She caught herself, then wobbled to a standing position.
With great trepidation, she turned and looked at her mattress mate.
A guy’s long, muscular, tan body was sprawled naked across the white satin mattress.
Naked. She glanced around the room. Good. No Jedi or Vader gear. Better yet, no Jell-O.
She eased out a pent-up breath, coughing slightly in the process. This room…she eyed the plant, suddenly remembering exactly where she was. This is that traveling guy’s apartment. Where the bed had been misdelivered.
She tilted her head and checked him out. Was this the traveling man? What had Milly said his name was?
Blaine rubbed her itchy eyes as more hot, fuzzy memories of lusty sex coalesced in her mind. She dropped her hands and stared at the guy…the guy she’d…noooo, impossible. I’m a practical, hardworking rule follower—I’m the last person to have hot sex with a stranger!
That was the kind of thing her sister Sonja might have done, but never Blaine. No, Blaine was the one to whom Sonja made such confessions, not the one who committed the deeds. And Sonja had confessed some doozies to her big sis Blaine, who tried to listen with a straight face and an open mind while also amazed at what two people could do with too much time, and lust, on their hands.
And now Blaine had joined this too-much-time, overlusted segment of society.
She frowned. What exactly had they done?
More memories. Sweat-drenched bodies and a moment of pleasure so intense, so exquisite…
She wiped her suddenly shaky hand across her moist brow. Those memories were too real. They must have done exactly what she feared they’d done.
And it all happened on her wedding gift to her sister.
Blaine shut her eyes, giving her head a shake. Forget the bed, you have bigger issues to deal with. You don’t even know this guy’s history, much less his sexual history.
How many times had she counseled Sonja on this very subject. Badgered her about using protection.
Okay, I need to figure out who this guy is, make sure he’s…healthy, then get this damn bed moved.
Blaine did an inventory of her mystery lover. Thick brown hair that curled at his temples and neck.
She tugged mindlessly at her own shoulder-length hair. Wonder if he doesn’t have enough money for a haircut these days, either.
His eyes were closed, which accentuated the fringe of thick lashes that skirted his lids. Coarse brown stubble roughened the lower half of his face.
And what a face.
Square, solid, with a chin that jutted forward slightly even as he slept. As though on guard, ready to take life on the chin. A tough guy. Funny, though, how he slept with his hands clenched into tight balls, as though he were protecting something. What? From what she’d seen of his place, he owned next to nothing. Maybe he was protecting something deep inside himself. A secret.
Her gaze swept back over him. He was tall, if she judged the way his head touched one end of the mattress and his feet almost dangled off the other.
She perused him head to foot again, stopping in the middle…Maybe this was crass, but she wanted a good look for herself, ensure that he looked healthy before she woke him up and asked him if he was.
He looked good. Very good. Normal. No, better than normal, but that wasn’t what she was supposed to be checking.
She released a pent-up breath.
But she’d have to be blind not to notice.
Even asleep, with his body relaxed, he was big. Not that she was a size expert, unless intimate relationships with four different men—well, technically three—made one an expert. Which, at thirty years of age, was an embarrassing admission.
“What are you staring at?” asked a gruff, irritated male voice.
Donovan blinked at the naked woman, who slowly raised her head and stared, wide-eyed, her green eyes nearly translucent in a slant of bright yellow sunlight. It reminded him of the way sunlight filtered through the aquamarine waters in the Caribbean. The rays sliced through those shimmering blue waters, revealing every nuance of life.
She quickly crossed her arms so they covered her breasts—but not before he’d seen their full, pink-tipped beauty. A memory seared through his mind, then faded.
Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. “I’m…I’m…” Suddenly, she dropped back her head, then jerked forward with an ear-numbing sneeze.
He shut his eyes. Gave his head a shake.
He’d woken up bone weary plenty of times before, but it’d been years since he’d woken up with a woman he didn’t even recognize.
And of the two or three fair members of the opposite sex with whom he had woken up and not remembered, this was the first who’d checked out his privates, then sneezed.
He’d try not to read too much into that.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, then squinted open one eye. Coffee. He needed coffee.
He glanced up. She stood there, cross-armed and wide-eyed. As though she were standing at attention.
“What are you doing?” he croaked.
She shrugged. “Waitink…” She coughed, then cleared her throat. “Waiting for you to wake up,” she answered, enunciating each word.
“Well, I’m up.” Barely. He never dealt with the world, especially the people in it, until after he’d had his jolt of caffeine. The opposite of this lady, it appeared, who bounded out of bed and observed the world—and those still sleeping in it—with big, disarming green eyes.
With great effort, he propped himself on his elbow, determined not be amused by this quirky situation. He still wasn’t sure what he was dealing with, but whatever it was, he’d keep his cool until he understood the situation, which was a one-eighty turn from the younger, hotheaded Donovan.
“You sick?” he asked.
“Allergies.”
Naked. Wild auburn hair. Allergies.
And, he thought with an inward smile, impossibly cute.
But nothing clicked. Not a single detail, and he a man who earned good money thanks to his affinity for details. Couldn’t analyze a computer failure unless one had a head for bits and bytes.
And nibbles. Another flash of memory. His lips on her flesh, nibbling.
He squinted one eye at her. For the life of him, he was clueless to identify this emerald-eyed, allergy-ridden woman who stood naked before him.
And if he couldn’t identify her, could he identify where the hell they were?
He jerked his head around.
He was in some fancy brass bed, for starters. He glanced around the room. White, nondescript walls. And his plant.
He frowned and looked up at the slatted blinds, with the missing fourth slat that always looked like a missing tooth. And that’s my window. He shifted his gaze back to the intruder.
“What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?” Okay, so much for keeping his cool. This was his turf. Different rules altogether. Nobody entered his domain, ever, without his permission. Maybe he’d lost a lot in the world, but he still owned his privacy.
Without moving her strategically placed arms, she managed to point a forefinger at the bed. “This belongth to me.”
He paused, unprepared for that curve ball. “This…bed,” he repeated slowly.
She nodded.
“This bed that’s in my bedroom.”
She nodded, her eyes widening.
He should count to ten. “Tell me.” One, two, three. “How the hell did your bed get into my bedroom?”
“Rawlf,” she whispered, followed by a cough.
His gaze slid down, over her arms—for a compact type, she’s got some biceps— down to her belly button, which is where the mattress cut off his view. Nothing looked familiar, yet heated memories of satiny skin and soft breasts ricocheted through his mind.
Had they…?
He glanced down. He was naked, too. Not that he really gave a damn. Growing up on a ranch with three older, rowdy brothers had permanently eradicated his shy gene.
But considering he was naked, and she was naked…
He cocked an eyebrow and shot her a look. He caught her scent. Sweet, like almonds. That little detail sizzled through his brain, triggering other memories. The taste of her lips. Her lusty moan.
Details…small details taunted his memory. If he didn’t need the money so bad, he’d blow off future back-to-back business trips. Because to forget what you experienced with a woman had to be one sorry statement for a man’s life.
First things first. “Where’s my bed?”
Her plump little lips opened into a little O—and remained stuck in that position. Finally, she blurted, “Your bed?”
Back in college, this would have been one of his buddies’ tricks. Plant a naked woman and a strange bed in good ol’ Donnie’s room. But he didn’t have buddies like that anymore. Had no buddies, actually, unless he counted Bill, the bartender at The Keg.
“My bed. Wooden. Plain.” He’d never described his bed before, just slept in it. It was comfortable, cheap…and up until last night, reliable.
She wriggled her nose, as though she were going to sneeze again, then pursed her lips and appeared to hold her breath for a long moment. Finally, she released her breath in a whoosh, looking relieved. “Don’t know.”
He nodded. Forget the coffee, I’ll just go straight for the vodka. But despite the insanity of the situation, he detected a logical thread. “Did Rawlf take it?”
She cleared her throat. “R-A-L-P-H,” she spelled.
“Oh, Ralph.” It was hard to stay ticked listening to such a cute, stuffed-up nose. Attached to such a cute, compact body. He rubbed his bottom lip, trying not to smile. “So did, uh, Ralph take it?”
“Prob’bly,” she answered.
Donovan dragged his hands through his hair, blew out a gust of air, then shoved himself across the bed. He swung his legs over and stood in front of Ms. Big Green Eyes. Her female scent wove around him, drugging him with more eerily familiar sensations of heat and sin….
He gave his head a shake, forcing his thoughts to stay focused on the problem at hand.
Although part of him didn’t feel this was such a big problem anymore. Hell, it’d been so long since he’d had fun, he almost didn’t recognize the feeling. It was almost like being the old Donnie again, enjoying the moment, feeling alive….
“I take it Ralph then delivered this bed and picked up my bed—although you’re still a big question mark.” He stepped closer.
Her green eyes darkened, as though a shadow had passed over a sparkling sea. And in that moment, he realized this woman was nervous about whatever had happened between them. Not shy-nervous, but anxious-nervous as though she was in way over her head. To look at her strong little body, she appeared to be a woman who could handle anything.
But that look in her eyes betrayed a fragility.
The realization stabbed him, right to the core of a memory he wished he could forget. He knew how people could appear strong, yet be so fragile that when they shattered, pieces of their life splintered far and wide, some never to be found again.
“I guess Milly can fill in the details,” he said quietly. Only his neighbor Milly could have let these people in. And she would have had a good reason. Yeah, she’d explain everything…except why and how this woman got naked…
Another steamy memory burned through his brain. Too real, too hot to be merely a dream. He reached over and touched the woman’s hair. The silky strands fell through his fingers…a sensation he recalled from last night…
“Did we—?” he asked. “Are we—?”
Her eyes moistened as though she couldn’t contain her feelings any longer. She nodded, her chin trembling.
“We’re…we’re…” A tear spilled down her cheek. “…lubbers.”

3
“LUBBERS?” DONOVAN ASKED, cocking an eyebrow.
She swallowed, hard. “Lubbers,” she said slowly.
He noticed she was breathing through her mouth. Allergies. Then it hit him. “Lovers,” he repeated slowly.
She closed and opened her eyes, then nodded sadly.
Was I that bad? Maybe he hadn’t been with a woman in a while—okay, months—but that didn’t mean he’d lost his touch. Hey, once you learned how to ride a bike, you never forgot, right?
Which somebody needed to remind this lady.
“Let’s get dressed,” he growled, turning around, “then discuss this bed situation.”
She coughed. “Question.”
He paused. “What?”
“Are you…healthy?”
“What?” Coffee. Black, hot, now.
“Healthy.” She coughed again. “You know, no diseases or anyting.”
Then it dawned on him what she meant. They hadn’t used…damn, he never did that. If he hadn’t been so exhausted.
“I’m healthy. Just had my annual. I’m a hundred percent.” He paused. “You?” After all, he should ask, too.
She snorted. “Very, very healthy.” She coughed.
“For the record, except for last night, I always use protection with a woman. I don’t know what happened…” It was the truth. Honest to God, he thought it was a dream.
“I don’t know what happened, either.”
Well, at least she was taking partial responsibility. “Now that we’ve covered that, let’s get dressed.”
Heading out of the room, he spied a red toolbox and a pile of clothes in the corner of the bedroom.
“Those yours?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. She quickly covered her breasts and nodded.
“You missed one.” He dropped his gaze to a dark pink nipple that peeked through two of her fingers.
She gave a little shriek, fumbling to cover up.
He turned away, smiling to himself. “I’ll get dressed in the living room. You get dressed in here. Let’s meet up in five and discuss what happened to our beds. And how you ended up in my house.”
But they’d skip the part about how they also ended up becoming “lubbers.” Hell, what had happened? He’d sworn it was a steamy, erotic dream where everything fit just right. Reality was never like that. Not the first time, anyway. He’d never taken a woman to bed and instinctively known her body. Known its terrain as well as his own. Known where to touch, how much pressure, when she was ready. That’s why it had seemed so…perfect. As though they were destined to be lovers.
Perfect?
Destined?
Hell, he was sounding like a guy who’d fallen in love at first sight. Hit by a zap of lightning. The kind of crock those New Age poets that dawdled at the Spice of Life coffee shop spent hours scribbling about. They’d sit for hours sipping their chai tea, writing love poems on napkins while listening to piped-in harp music.
Buddy, you’re still suffering from sleep deprivation. You need coffee. Hot, black, and kick-ass strong.
Naked, he marched to the kitchen.
BLAINE BLEW ON THE COFFEE. It was too hot to drink, smelled like burnt beans and was black enough to fill a fountain pen. But she accepted it, with a smile, because it was the least she could do after throwing a wrench into this guy’s life. Plus she wanted to be as easy to get along with as possible considering she’d intruded on his life, his bed. Well, her bed.
She cringed inwardly. Argghhh. If only I hadn’t overdosed on that allergy medicine last night. Because if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have woken up without a stitch, next to a royally pissed-off guy whose bed she’d somehow lost.
She stifled a sneeze. Great, her allergies were acting up again, but no way in hell would she pop a pill. Not right now, anyway. Even though one pill never made her that sleepy, after her little overdose yesterday, she didn’t want to take another one too soon. The last thing she needed was to fall asleep while he was talking to her and further test that thundercloud mood he’d flashed earlier.
At least this time, they were both dressed. And this room had some light in it, thanks to the opened curtain and switched-on lamp. She glanced to her right. Yesterday, she’d noticed the books, but had been unable to see their titles. Now she could clearly see the words on their spines. A biography of Ulysses Grant, another of Robert E. Lee. Novels like The Razor’s Edge, Of Human Bondage. A thick book titled Great Poets of the Twentieth Century.
No thrillers? Mysteries? Man, this guy went for the heavy stuff. She wondered if that reflected his life, too. Heavy books, heavy thinkers. Which probably meant he approached situations with heavy caution.
Well, she’d certainly blown that approach sky-high!
She blew on her coffee again, more for something to do, and sneaked a peek at him over the rim of her mug. He wore a pair of faded jeans, ripped at one knee, and an olive-green T-shirt that read As You Ramble On Through Life, Brother/Whatever Be Your Goal/Keep Your Eye Upon the Doughnut/And Not Upon the Hole.
Considering his moodiness, she’d have thought he kept his eye upon the hole.
He took a slug of coffee. She cringed inwardly as she watched him swallow the stuff. His gut must be made of asbestos.
“Start from the top,” he said, leaning back in the recliner.
He’d been sitting on his recliner when she’d finally emerged, fully dressed, from the bedroom. Surprisingly, he offered her a cup of coffee and the recliner, which had left her momentarily dumbstruck. She’d expected the guy to blast her with some angry accusations, not polite inquiries.
Rugged, moody…yet, it appeared a heart beat within the beast.
She’d accepted the coffee. And declined the recliner—after all, it was the only place to sit in the room, and who was she to deny a man his throne? So, she’d sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor. As she got comfortable, she’d noticed he rubbed his leg again. Funny, he didn’t appear to have a limp, but then the only time she’d seen him walk was when he exited the bedroom, butt-naked.
And to be honest, her eyes hadn’t been focused on his legs at that moment.
“From the top?” he prompted.
Oh, yeah, he’d asked her a question. “Frob de top?” she repeated. Damn allergies. She was starting to sound like a clogged pipe. Keep it short and sweet.
She sucked in some air through her mouth. “Yesterday, I cashed id my Alaskan cruise ticket ad bought by sister a bed.” She paused to catch a breath. “A weddig gift frob me.” That was neat and tidy. No mention of boyfriends getting engaged or the pending bank loan…
There was a long pause during which the guy frowned, downing another slug of coffee. She could tell by the glint in his eyes that his mind was working, the wheels turning. Oh yeah, he was cautious all right.
When he finally nodded, Blaine realized it had taken all that time to decipher what she’d said.
“And?” he prompted.
“And…de bed was delivered to de wrog address.”
“Rog?”
She nodded.
“Oh, wrong.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. This guy was serious to the max. The last thing she needed to do was make light of the situation.
“Delivered to the wrong address by this Ralph person.”
“Yes.” She tried to down a sip of coffee, but the stuff damn near scalded her tongue. She sucked in a cooling breath of air, her eyes watering. “How do you drik this stuff?”
“I like hot things.”
Heat flooded her face. That’s what last night had been. Hot. The hottest she’d ever experienced. God, her skin burned with the memory of his touch. Those calloused hands were skilled, relentless…
She looked around the room, too embarrassed to meet this guy’s eyes…her lover’s eyes. She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position on the floor. Man, she was sweating in places she’d never sweated in before. Memories of what happened last night—in her sister’s wedding-present bed, for God’s sake—were better than anything, anything, Blaine had ever experienced with a guy, which now just seemed a blur of fumbling and body parts.
Maybe it had been better because last night had been like…a fantasy. Lush, provocative, meltdown hot.
Maybe that bed was magical, after all.
She looked up at the man with whom she’d shared the ultimate intimacy—what had Milly called him?
“What’s your nameb?” she asked.
He frowned. “Oh, name. Donovan. Donovan Roy.”
His finger played along the lip of his cup, circling it slowly. “Yours?”
“Blaind Saudders,” she answered, forcing herself to look him in the eyes and not at his finger, whose sensuous, circling motion reminded her of how he’d touched her last night. “I rud de Blaind Saudders Temp Agency.”
He stared at her, his brow furrowed. “Okay,” he said slowly.
His last name rang a bell. “Roy’s Eggs?”
He seemed to hesitate before answering. “My mom sells those, yes,” he said gruffly. A shadow crossed his features.
He took another drink of coffee, but seemed to keep the mug in front of his face afterward. As though not wanting to face something?
Not face Blaine? Uh-oh, and here she was, savoring last night’s sensuous finger play while he was analyzing his great escape. Maybe this was one of those dreaded “morning-afters” she’d heard Sonja and her girlfriends talk about. The guy’s uncomfortable, afraid the woman doesn’t know the difference between a fling and forevermore, and he’s dumb-ass clueless how to deal with it.
Blaine looked down at the scuffed hardwood floor.
Shame. I could sand and varnish this, make it shine like new.
“So,” she finally whispered, “when de bed could’t be redelivered, I decided to do it byself.” There. She was picking up their previous thread of conversation, saving him from having to deal with whatever-it-was-that-happened-between-them last night.
“I see.”
Donovan searched Blaine’s face so long, she had the eerie sense he read beneath her words, sensed her feelings. And for a moment, she despised him for it. Wanted to tell him, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t wondering some girly thing like “will he call me?” That she didn’t pine and daydream over any guy…
“Milly let you in.”
“You have a problem with dat?” Blaine snapped. Some of her coffee sloshed onto the floor. Bending over, she wiped it up with the sleeve of her T-shirt.
“No,” he said slowly, looking at the smeared brown stain on her T-shirt. “Milly has a key. I’ve told her to use it when necessary.” He paused. “You didn’t have to do that. I have paper towels, you know.”
“I know.” She slugged back a mouthful of hot coffee, wincing as she swallowed.
“You okay?”
She nodded, afraid to speak. Sometimes even she was aware she was behaving oddly, but damn if she was going to let him know that.
After a long moment, he continued, “I’m still trying to understand why you decided to sleep in my bed.”
Decided? As though she’d planned this little escapade? She bit her tongue, reminding herself that her bed—her gorgeous, magical bed—was at stake. She needed to stay reasonable and calm because the bed was now in this guy’s possession. And wasn’t possession nine-tenths of the law?
“Allergy pills,” she said softly. “Too many. Fell asleep.” She expelled a weighty breath, which unfortunately came out as a scratchy wheeze.
“You sound terrible.”
“I am terrible.” She winced. Maybe she was trying to be calm and reasonable, but it didn’t mean her tongue didn’t move ahead of her mind sometimes. Okay, so she felt bad about what had happened. Not such an awful thing for this guy to know.
One corner of his mouth kicked up in a grin. “No, you’re not.”
“I like to follow the rules.”
His eyes sparkled. “Could’ve fooled me.” He took another slug of his coffee. After swallowing, he said. “Myself, I abhor rules. Maybe you should rethink your stance, be easier on yourself.”
This wasn’t at all what she expected. Rather than ranting and raving at her, he wanted to talk, so she was talking—or trying to. And in return, the guy was acting interested, heck, even sounding concerned.
As though he cares.
Her insides went all swampy. And the way he looked at her—his rugged face softening, those full lips giving her a loose, kicked-up grin, made her feel…special.
Guys often looked at her kid sister this way. Blaine knew because she’d seen it plenty of times. And she never begrudged her sister for it, either. It was part of being the surrogate mom, happy for Sonja’s beauty and popularity. Thankful, even, because Blaine knew life would be easier for Sonja. It wasn’t a bad thing, just a reality. Some people stood a bit more in life’s golden light.
But at this moment, Blaine suddenly had an inkling of what it was like to bask in that light. To feel…cherished.
She swiped at the corner of her eye, hoping Donovan thought it was allergies, not emotion, getting to her. Damn, I’m getting all girly. If this guy doesn’t cut to the chase, wrap up business, I’ll have to do it myself.
“I didn’t take advantage of you.”
She looked up. “Huh?”
“Last night. I didn’t take advantage of you.”
She peered at him, momentarily taken aback by his admission. He looked so…apologetic.
“I, uh, was tired.” He rubbed that spot on his leg again. “Had been up for hours. Days, actually.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Honest to God, I thought I was dreaming. I’d never take advantage of a woman.”
Dreaming. He thought he was dreaming. It had nothing to do with me. She plastered on a smile. “Do’t worry,” she said, forcing herself to sound upbeat, confident.
“What’s Ralph’s number?” Donovan stood, dangling the empty coffee mug off one finger.
Blaine started to look at his face, but all that body was in the way. Her gaze did a slow tour up his jean-clad legs, past that midriff, which underneath that T-shirt she knew to be tight, muscled, and covered with a wild mass of hair.
Finally, she reached his face—solid, angled—and peered into those soft brown eyes. Funny, back in the bedroom, when their conversation had been tense, those eyes had been a turbulent brown—like a dirty, churning river during a winter deluge.
Now they spilled light, the muddy brown shifting to a whiskey color.
“Ralph’s number?” he repeated.
“Od my desk.” Jerome had called her at work and left it. She’d jotted it on one of her sticky notes.
Donovan headed toward the kitchen. “Is he listed?”
She couldn’t remember Ralph’s last name. “My friend who sold me da bed has da numbbb—” she blew out an exasperated breath, tired of being so damn clogged up “—number.” There, she got the word out.
“Got your friend’s number?”
Blaine looked at those whiskey eyes. This was a man who took care of business, no matter what was churning inside of him. She could relate to that. “Sure,” she answered.
A few minutes later, after talking briefly with Jerome, Donovan was punching in Ralph’s number on a kitchen wall phone, its blue color dull, its receiver scarred with what looked to be a burn mark. But old, usable things seemed to be Donovan’s style. The old, torn plaid recliner. Makeshift bookshelf, really a carefully arranged assortment of old cement bricks and two-by-fours.
Donovan glanced at her where she sat perched on a plastic kitchen chair, which she’d guessed was formerly someone’s patio furniture. “I think he owes us one free delivery.”

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