He shook his head. “Wow, you don’t give easy assignments.”
“And every other universe in existence, too.” She pushed past him and headed to the coffee table. If she couldn’t reach that mammoth chest of his to administer another well-deserved poke, at least she could reach her abandoned tequila shots.
“Ah, an advocate of the multiverse theory.” He followed her across the room.
Betsy stopped at the coffee table and turned, narrowing her eyes at him. “Smart-mouth.” She reached for a fresh tequila, even though her stomach had begun emitting strange gurgling sensations.
But he snatched the glass first, holding it out of reach. “I think you’ve had enough.”
She gave him the kind of look she normally reserved for rodents and things that had at least six legs. “There’s only enough when it makes you forget.”
“Forget what?”
She waved her hand. “Things.”
“What things?”
Betsy groaned. What was the man, a freaking district attorney, that he couldn’t stop asking questions?
“None-of-your-business things.” She tried to curl her lip in what she hoped was an appropriately hostile expression, but the rise of bile in her throat warned her that something was about to happen—something messy, undignified, and totally humiliating.
Clapping a hand over her mouth, she turned and ran to the bathroom. Her stomach was spiraling out of control, just the way her life had
Chapter Two
Rob was right. She was nice-looking—more than nice-looking, damn pretty. She was also on the verge of losing her dinner. Matt glanced at the row of empty glasses on the coffee table and nodded. Her dinner along with all the alcohol she’d been chugging in order to forget…he shrugged…well, obviously to forget some guy. Probably this Tyler she kept mentioning. If not that, then why would she have wanted all men, including him, to hop onto a fast-track rocket to extinction?
He sniffed the filled shot glass he was still holding, then took a sip and frowned.
Tequila. But from the taste, pretty weak tequila, as if it had been watered down—a really dumbass way to treat any eighty-proof beverage. Obviously, the lady wasn’t a hardcore drinker; more of a desperate one—the kind of person who occasionally imbibed for emotional reasons, and then always did a god-awful, sloppy job of it.
He put the glass down and lifted his head to listen. From the noises she was making in the other room, the regurgitation phase of her bender had begun.
With a sigh, he pulled off his jacket, tossed it on a chair, and went to help, easily following the sounds until he found her in the bathroom with her head bent over the toilet as she shook with a good end-stage case of the dry heaves.
He touched her arm, but she shook him off and mumbled something that sounded like “Yogurt,” but was probably closer to “Oh God.” He tried again, putting his hand on her shoulder as she moaned and just managed to flush the john before she began a slow slide to the floor.
Catching her before she landed, Matt pulled her upright again, turning her around in his arms.
She looked up at him, her hands pressed against his chest to make him keep his distance. Hair had fallen in her face.
He would have loved to brush it away, but he sensed that if he tried, she would happily break his fingers off at the elbow.
“You’re still a man.” Her expression implied that being close to a tarantula would have held more allure.
Matt shrugged. “I was, the last time I looked.” He gave her what his mother always called his irresistible, little-boy smile.
She narrowed her eyes with disgust, obviously resisting it.
“Look, I—”
“Go away.” She pushed at his chest so hard that he let go. She groaned, lurched away, and ended up stumbling a few inches, then bumping to a stop when her shoulder hit the tiled bathroom wall. With a moan, she leaned her head against it.
Matt sighed, almost moaning himself. Okay, dealing with a hostile woman called for desperate measures, so he took them. “Come on, Betsy.” He picked her up.
“Hey!”
Her arms went flailing.
He ducked his face away to keep from getting beaned, suddenly certain that the old saying was true. No good deed did go unpunished. This farce was proof of that. “Off to beddy-bye, whether you want it or not,” he told her as he went into the living room, trying his damnedest not to drop her squirming body or receive a concussion from her flying fists.
For a moment, he stopped and looked around. There was an open door on his right and, mercifully, something that had to be a bed inside. He headed for it, pausing halfway there to give her an ultimatum. “Okay, one more swing and I drop you, got it?”
In return, she favored him with the testiest go-to-hell look he’d ever seen. But apparently she wasn’t too far gone to know she didn’t want her backside making a crash landing on the rug, and she stopped struggling and remained stiffly in his arms, her eyes bleary but still spitting fire.
He carried her into the bedroom, not paying any attention to her yelp of protest when he swung her over his shoulder so he could pull the covers away and dump her on the sheets. She bounced a little when she landed, then lay there on her back, scowling at him.
He ignored her expression—clearly, if she acted on it, she would claw his eyes out first chance she got—and quickly pulled off her shoes, careful to avoid getting a stealth kick in the face from one of her resistant feet. Then as he tossed her shoes on the floor, he changed his mind and decided to try another approach. After all, if the lady was Rob’s friend, why make an enemy of her right off the bat?
“Look, I’m sorry about the rough handling.” He leaned close so that he could make direct eye contact with her scowl and convince her he was usually a nice guy. No hitting women, screaming at them, forcing them to do anything against their will. It had never been his style and never would be, and for some reason, he suddenly wanted her to know that.
“I don’t normally act this way,” he explained. Then he paused and shrugged, grasping at words. “But this has been…how can I put it? A singular experience.”
She looked up at him, blinked, and stared into his face, her scowl dissolving and giving way to… Well, he wasn’t exactly sure to what, but her new expression was certainly a lot better than the old one. Yeah, she was definitely a good-looking sloppy drunk.
Matt smiled at her and pointed across the room. “See that chair by the window? I’m going to stay there until you fall asleep. You know, just to make sure you’re okay and don’t need anything. Then I’ll leave and—” He broke off as she reached for him. Giving her a wary look, he leaned away, certain she planned on catching him off guard and using his face as a punching bag.
But she didn’t. She just reached up and, grabbing at his sweater, she curled her fingers into the fabric and yanked him forward, pulling him off-balance as she dragged him into bed.
“Betsy!” His yelp of shocked surprise filled the room as he landed in a sprawl beside her.
But her eyes had closed, and she exhaled a small, sleepy sigh.
Matt propped up on an elbow and watched her. Her mouth was slightly open…her breathing sounded deep, even, totally exhausted…and one of her hands still clutched at his sweater. He tried to slide away, but she made a cranky noise and tightened her hold.
He obediently stopped moving and drew in a deep breath as he considered his options. They resolved themselves into two possibilities, either try to get loose and take the chance of waking her, or else stay there for a while until she finally woke up by herself.
On the one hand, if he stayed, she might be sober and hopefully in a better mood once she woke, and they could have a good laugh at how silly the situation was. On the other hand, if he struggled to leave, he would probably wake her now and risk re-arousing her wrath at all things male. All in all, the first option seemed preferable. He frowned. Of course, once she woke she could still be filled with resentment at men and be doubly angry th
at he’d shared her bed without being invited to.
Not that anything was going to happen if he stayed. He didn’t take advantage of any woman and definitely not of someone who was too drunk to know what she was doing. Of course she didn’t know that and might not believe him if he told her.
Matt sighed—softly, but apparently still loud enough to reach her sleeping brain, and in response she moved closer. That slight movement was enough to make his decision for him. Leave now even if it woke her up.
Taking a nervous breath, he tried to pull slowly away. But a determined tug dragged him back, and a testy noise that sounded like a demanding, drawn-out Noooooo made him stop.
Then her fingers tightened their hold even more firmly on his sweater, clutching the fabric in a death grip.
He looked down at her as she curled in against him and exhaled a completely satisfied sigh. Matt froze where he lay and bit back a completely unsatisfied groan, knowing that resistance was probably futile.
This angry, argumentative, pain-in-the-butt woman obviously needed the temporary feel of a warm body to hold and comfort her and wouldn’t settle for anything less.
Okay, fine. If that’s what she wanted, that’s what he’d give her. And as soon as she woke, he’d grab his things, bid her a not-so-fond farewell, and get out of Dodge as fast as he could. Matt studied her face for a moment, amazed at how sweet and innocent she looked in sleep. Total deception. A yawn snuck up on him.
God, he was exhausted. The packing of all his earthly goods, traveling a few hundred miles to get here, and then setting up temporarily in Rob’s apartment had already taken a huge chunk of his energy. And now this aggravating encounter with Rob’s erratic friend had drained whatever reserves still remained. He could definitely use a little sleep. After all, at this point what harm could it do?
None at all, right? Maybe during the night she’d even release her hold on him, and he could leave before she knew they’d shared the same bed.
Careful not to send her into another round of sweater grabbing, he kicked off his shoes, snuggled her comfortably against him, and pulled the blankets up to cover them both.
****
The first coherent thought that entered Betsy’s mind as she painfully came awake was that somehow she’d made it to bed. The blanket covering her was a dead giveaway. So was the pillow cushioning her aching head. The fact that the broken bedspring that always stuck into her rear was doing it again was another sure sign that her bed was her present location.
Of course, the unfamiliar weight pressing against her side did feel a wee bit strange. Actually, the only thing that felt stranger was her mouth. It felt like she’d spent the last few hours sucking on dirty gym socks.
From the throbbing in her forehead, it would be a mistake to open her eyes, but she had to find out about that damn weight, so she did it anyway, lifting her lids just a smidge. Yep, definitely a mistake. Light from the window across the room immediately stabbed into her pupils, half blinding her and turning the ache at her temples into a hammering pulse beat.
As she squeezed her eyes shut to block out the glare, she heard a pathetic moan. It came from her, and she rested for a moment until she could gather up her courage for another foray into the land of the blinding sun. Then, steeling herself against the coming pain, she tried again. Surprisingly, this time it was better. Not great, but at least now she managed to make out shapes, colors, forms—the shape of her dresser, the colors of the pictures on the wall, the form of the guy sleeping next to her in bed.
Betsy blinked and stared. The guy sleeping next to her in bed! A total stranger, too. She was sure she’d never seen him before, and she hadn’t been with so many men that she wouldn’t recognize a former bedmate when she found one sprawled next to her with one of his long legs draped over hers.
She would have bolted upright as soon as she saw him, but aside from his leg-draping posture, he also had one arm flung across her chest, more or less holding her in place. So self-preservation and cunning would have to rule the situation, because when finding oneself in bed with a guy never seen before, it was best not to make a fuss. At least not until she could determine whether he was dangerous.
She lay back carefully, afraid to make any sudden moves. Her heart had set up a pounding rat-a-tat-tat in her chest. Actually, in her whole body. That was the way it felt, at any rate, as if her whole body was one gigantic heartbeat thumping away like an out-of-control piston.
Slowly turning her head on the pillow, she studied him again. Yep, definitely a stranger. And here she was in bed with him.
How had that happened? She pressed her lips together to keep from screaming. Maybe she didn’t want to know.
Whatever had happened, it couldn’t be good. Not the way he had her half squashed against his side. Not the way his leg pinioned both of hers to the mattress. Definitely not the way he was smiling in his sleep.
Oh God, how did he get into her apartment? And once he was inside, how did he take that vital extra step and worm his way into her bed?
She tried to ignore her throbbing head and take an inventory of her condition. She seemed to be fully clothed, thank God. From what she could make out, he was, too. Squeezing her thighs together, she held her breath for an instant, then released it. Wonderful. No sign of post-sexual soreness or dampness that she could tell. Okay, one of her breasts did feel a little sensitive, but that was probably because his hand lay over it.
And when a hand lay over her breast and a leg lay over her legs, dangerous man or not, Betsy was certain of one thing. It was time to get out.
Hunkering as far into the mattress as she could go, she tried to slowly slide away from him. Nothing doing. His hand pressed down more firmly on her breast, and she froze, biting her tongue to keep from moaning, groaning, or screaming bloody murder.
She watched his face, only a few inches away from hers on the pillow. Don’t let him wake up, she silently prayed. Don’t let him hear me. Don’t let him feel me trying to leave. Don’t—
He made a snuffling sound and shifted closer. Then his eyes opened.
Betsy sighed. So much for prayers being answered.
“Betsy.”
She stared at him. He’d called her Betsy. All right, that had to be a good sign. At least it meant they were on a first-name basis. Now if she could just remember what his first name was. “Um, yes.”
He smiled. It was a nice smile. Nice, that is, for a guy who had his crotch on the verge of getting jiggy with her nether regions. “Feeling better?”
No, no, a thousand times no. But at least he was considerate enough to ask. Which had to be another good sign. Didn’t it? She shrugged. “Not sure.”
He nodded. “I’m not surprised. You were pretty unsteady when I got here.”
“Uh-huh. And when did you get here?”
“Around ten-thirty.”
Betsy stared at his totally unfamiliar, but sort-of-sexy, face. What had she been doing at ten-thirty? No clue. She remembered Tyler’s don’t-call-me-I’ll-call-you rejection. Delivered while they were standing on a street corner, knee-deep in rush-hour traffic, no less.
“I know we’ve been going out for a while,” he’d told her as she struggled to hear above the incessant screech of tires and the ear-splitting blast of horns. “But I’m sorry. It’s just not working out for me.”
Translation—she wasn’t hot enough in bed, or probably anywhere else, for that matter.
Then his slick handsome face had assumed an exaggerated look of false regret as he cleared his throat and took a backward step, probably to avoid becoming the bull’s-eye target of a surprise fist to the jaw, in case she decided to throw one.
“You know, I mean, considering our different approaches to, umm, things.” He lamely finished his kiss-off speech.
But by then Betsy was only half listening. She was too busy giving him a drop-dead stare and thinking, Yeah, do it in the middle of the street, buddy…shows how brave you are.
She’d once read an article
by a male columnist advising other males who were desperate to break off a relationship and to do it as painlessly for themselves as possible, to choose a public place as their heave-ho venue because an audience of strangers made a volatile reaction from the rejected lady less likely. And her own beloved—cue bitter laughter here—had acted right out of that same yellow-bellied coward’s playbook.
“I’m sorry, really sorry,” he’d assured her, ramping up his really-sorry expression. Then he gave her an awkward handshake, wished her all the luck in the world, and virtually ran across the avenue, where a tall blonde, who looked as disgustingly flawless as he did, emerged from the shadows to meet him.
A perfect duo for the top of a wedding cake, Betsy had decided as she dragged herself home, trying not to break down until she reached the front door.
All of that she suddenly recalled with annoying clarity, but the things that came afterward were still pretty much a blur—vital things, like how she’d ended up sleeping with the strange guy lying next to her.
It was something she had to know, and she had to know it now, so she pushed the rancid thought of Tyler and his brand new blonde from her mind and focused her attention on why she had suddenly become bed partners with someone she’d never met before.
“Uh-huh, so you came here at ten-thirty. And then we, uh, jumped into bed together, or what?” She stared pointedly at her breast.
His gaze followed right along, then widened in an expression of horror when he saw his palm down there cupping her nipple. “Oh God, sorry.” He immediately yanked his hand away. “Look, nothing happened. You called Rob yesterday. Rob McConnell. He wasn’t there, and we’d accidentally switched phones, so I was the one who took your call.” He grinned. “You wanted to get him, remember?”
Betsy grimaced. All right, it was coming back to her now. She’d called Rob, blurted out her intention to hurt him, and then frantically cut the call when she realized she hadn’t reached Rob, but was talking to a stranger instead. Even worse, a stranger who could see her name on Rob’s damn phone. “I remember.” She struggled not to cringe.
Operation Sizzle Page 3
