by Lisa Plumley
Thump—thump. Her heart turned over at the purr in his voice. The sleepy, let’s-stay-in-bed look in his eyes didn’t help her composure much, either. She had to get out of that bed before her body got the better of her brain and convinced her to attack Dylan again, the way she had at the conservatory last night. Biting her lip, Stacey dug her toes in a promising lump then realized it was part of the sheet. Rats.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” Dylan grabbed hold of the headboard for an anchor and yawned as he stretched. His toes popped out from beneath the sheet at the end of the bed. The muscles in his arms flexed, then relaxed again. He resumed his propped-on-the-pillows stance and smiled at her. “Being together like this, I mean.”
Stacey’s gaze dipped from his dark-stubbled jaw to the broad expanse of his shoulders and muscular chest. Geez, he looked amazing. She made herself return his smile. “Yeah, uh, nice.”
Find those pajama bottoms! her brain yelled. She wiggled and scooted sideways, still searching with her toes. How could being in bed with a man discombobulate her so much? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t spent four years sleeping next to a male person every night. Well, almost every night. Except for when Charlie had been working overtime, or out of town, or….
Face it. He hadn’t been Dylan. And it wasn’t just sculpted chest muscles or gorgeous green eyes or cute rumpled hair she was talking about, either. Charlie would never have put himself out to help her with something like the honeymoon ruse. Period. Dylan would—was—and if his help with the police and the taxi driver yesterday was any indication, she knew he’d stick by her to the end, too. Even if she made him mad.
Maybe, just maybe, she could trust him a little.
A very teeny-tiny little.
But it was a start. Heartened at the thought, Stacey let herself relax a bit, still probing the bottom of the mattress with her foot in the hopes of finding the rest of her clothes. “So, what’s on the agenda for tod—aaaay!”
She’d scooted too far backwards. The mattress dipped with her weight and she went with it, straight off the edge.
Clutching fistfuls of comforter, Stacey landed on the floor with half the covers twisted around her. A pillow bounced on her head, then dropped on the carpet. She frowned at it. Cool move, Stacey. Way to look sophisticated.
Way to hide her T-shirt and panties getup. Aaack! She flung part of the comforter over her exposed legs just as Dylan leaned over the edge of the bed. His arm swept sideways. His hand, filled with something he’d picked up from the mattress, appeared over the side of the bed. He grinned and held whatever it was aloft.
Her pajama bottoms.
“Looking for these?”
“Give those back!” Holding the comforter plastered against her hips for a shield, Stacey grabbed for the pajamas.
Dylan raised them higher. “Say please.”
“What? No!” She snatched, missed, and scowled. Ginger, apparently awakened by all the excitement, bounded over with her tail wagging. She barked at Dylan.
“Shhhh!” they said.
Ignoring them both, the dog put her paws on the mattress. Her tail swished, narrowly missing Stacey’s nose. She hauled her from the mattress, letting the dog plunk down beside her.
“Figures,” Dylan said. “As usual, she’s on your side.”
“She’s on the right side,” Stacey told him, leaning over to pet her. Ginger licked her chin, nicely showing some doggie allegiance. “Now give me those pajamas.”
“Make me.” He had the audacity to laugh.
She grabbed the pillow from the floor. His grin faded.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Backing up on his knees, he held up his arms to ward off the pillow. Speaking from between his elbows, he said, “I have to warn you, you don’t know who you’re messing with here.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“Pillow fight champion of Camp Wigwam, that’s who.” He inched his fingers toward one of the remaining pillows. “Two years running.”
“Oooh, I’m scared.” Stacey grinned, releasing her blanket long enough to yank down her big T-shirt. Grabbing her pillow, she twirled it by its corner and tried to look menacing. “I’ve got you beat by a year. Three year champ, Camp Weehawken.”
“Camp Weehawken’s a bunch of girls.” He draped her coveted pajama bottoms over the headboard like a pirate flying his flag on a stolen ship.
Or a matador inciting the bull to charge. Except Stacey felt more mulish than bullish.
“I’m going to get those anyway.” She raised an eyebrow with mock regret. “So you might as well surrender.”
“Never. Besides, I’ve got more ammunition than you do.” Turning partway, Dylan picked up his pillow and passed it from hand to hand, treating her to a pirate’s roguish grin and a revealing view of his sleeping attire, too. He was wearing, she saw, a pair of green striped boxer shorts. And nothing else.
The broad planes of his chest narrowed into a tight stomach that had to cost him a thousand crunches a day. Between passes of the pillow, Stacey glimpsed narrow hips and the finely muscled strength of his thighs as her gaze skimmed lower, followed the crisp green-and-white stripes of his boxers.
Mercy, but the man kept some kind of body hidden beneath those sloppy Tshirts and baggy jeans of his! She’d never have guessed, never have thought to…
To wallop him with a pillow. Stay focused, she ordered herself. His attempts at distraction wouldn’t work on the likes of her.
“But I’ve got better aim.” She squinted up at him with her best Dirty Harry impression to hide the fact that he had distracted her, at least for a nanosecond. “Hand over my pajamas.”
Her cover up came too late. He’d already caught her all but counting the pinstripes on his underwear.
“Do you like what you see?” Dylan asked, as smoothly as though she’d never spoken between ogling him and making her demand. How come he always seemed to guess what she was thinking? Stacey sure as heck never noticed him ogling her. Suddenly, the notion made her feel sort of miffed.
Oh, no, it didn’t. That was ridiculous. What did she care what Dylan thought of her? She had no intention of cozying up to him again and risk having the honeymoon suite charade exposed because her attention was someplace else.
“I see my clothes draped over the headboard like panty raid souvenirs.” She twirled her pillow overhead. “Hand them over.”
“Come and get ‘em.”
“Bully.”
“Chicken.”
She hurled her pillow. It flew at Dylan’s face with a satisfying thwap! and slid into his lap. Too late, Stacey realized she’d let go of it. Rats! Now she was defenseless. She’d only meant to whack him once, just to show she meant business.
“Looks like you’ll be the one surrendering,” he informed her, grinning at the pillow, then at her. He lowered his pillowcase-covered ammunition—and lowered his voice. “I promise to be lenient in my terms. Amnesty’s granted for a kiss.”
The seductive tone of his words raised goose bumps along her arms, but Stacey wasn’t ready to surrender.
“You wish. I’m not giving up.” She cast about for another weapon. Her gaze lit on her other pillow, tilting precariously at the edge of the mattress. Biting her lip, she snaked her hand toward it.
Dylan snatched it first. “Uh, uh, uh. That’s mine.” He pretended to think about it. “I guess you could always take off your T-shirt and wallop me with it, for lack of a more lethal weapon.” He waggled his eyebrows with overplayed lasciviousness. “On the other hand, that might be most lethal of all. What do you say?”
“I say you’re out of there.” Stacey grabbed the portion of silk sheet still remaining on the bed and tugged. He was kneeling on top of it. All she had to do was pull, and Dylan would come tumbling to the floor too, minus a couple degrees of smugness and his pillow stockpile.
She wrenched harder. Nothing budged except her. Dylan had captured the sheet’s other end and started pulling.
“Hey!” She kept hanging on. Her backside
bumped across the carpet. Beside her, Ginger scrambled out of the way, breathing blasts of doggie breath into her face as she went. “Hey!”
“All’s fair in love and war.”
Tug of war she wasn’t a champion at. But where brute strength couldn’t take her, Stacey figured as she pulled, cunning would. Sneaking a glance at Dylan, she saw he’d added both hands to his sheet-pulling efforts. Perfect.
She let go. Just as she’d hoped, Dylan flopped on the bed, thrown backward by the force of his own strength turned against him. With a yell of triumph, Stacey scrambled on the mattress and trampled on her hands and knees over the sheets, atop Dylan, and over to the bedpost. She yanked her pajama bottoms free.
She whirled them overhead like a cowboy’s lasso. “Woo-hoo!” she crowed, putting her hands on her hips and settling back onto her heels. “Don’t mess with the Weehawken champ.”
Laughing, Dylan raised his arms and tee’d his hands together to make a time out signal. “You win,” he groaned. “I’m no match for your stealth.”
He struggled up on his elbows and peered down the length of his body at her on the bed next to him. They were so close their hips nearly touched, but Stacey felt too triumphant to care. She grinned hugely, feeling carefree, with laughter still tugging at her lips. How had she forgotten how much sheer fun Dylan could be?
“Is that what they teach you at girl’s camp?” he complained. “Fighting dirty?”
“Awww, you big baby.” Pursing her lips in a pout, Stacey leaned forward. She patted his chest sympathetically with her hand that wasn’t holding her pajama bottoms. “You’re the one picking fights with me. Maybe next time you’ll…ahhhh!”
Suddenly, she was airborne. Her pajama bottoms, so hard-won, went flying. The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back amid a pile of pillows with her hands anchored over her head in Dylan’s fists. The heat from his body seared into her skin.
Straddling her, he leaned over and smiled. “Gotcha.”
Her eyes widened. His strong thighs hemmed in her hips on both sides, his hands held her arms immobile, and his chest nearly touched hers because he leaned so close. Worse, she realized as a brush of unexpectedly cool air whisked over her belly, her T-shirt had ridden up past her thighs. It felt as if it was puddled someplace around her navel. This was a dangerous situation. Very dangerous.
And to be immediately gotten out of.
Stacey wiggled experimentally beneath him. Dylan’s gaze went straight to her breasts. She felt suddenly aware of their jiggling, happily bra-less state beneath her T-shirt. She froze. Unfortunately, her chest didn’t. Instead of cooperating with her mind, her body went right ahead and responded to his attention. Her nipples puckered, pushing against her shirt in a way she would have immediately covered—if she’d had the use of her arms.
“Play with fire and you might get burned.” Dylan’s gaze roved lower. “Or maybe that’s me getting burned. God, you’re gorgeous.”
Gorgeous? Wow, nobody had ever called her…no, she wasn’t falling for this. Remembering her theory that Dylan only wanted her to sleep with him and repair his studly dating record, Stacey hardened her resolve and stared back at him. “Let go of me.”
Dylan eased his hold on her hands long enough to caress her fingers and smile. He looked so boyish, so openhearted, that she wanted to throw caution to the wind and abandon her suspicions. Lulled by his smile, she sank a little deeper against the mattress. When his answer came, his voice was just another soothing lure, easing her against the tangled sheets and further into her tangled emotions.
“Are you sure?” He slid his fingers up, down, in between hers, gliding over each sensitive fingertip in turn.
Shivering, she tried to get a hold of herself. For Pete’s sake, only their fingertips were touching. That wasn’t enough to make her tremble, to make her want him, like this. Yet when Dylan looked down at her again, Stacey felt his gaze touch her like the softest of caresses. She wanted to sigh beneath it.
“Ummm…” Of course she was sure. Wasn’t she?
Her moment’s indecision cost her the choice. His hands tightened on her wrists and pushed them into the plump pillow beneath. Her breath caught.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure! I’m sure.”
“Sure of what?” Dylan’s head lowered, and his stubbled jaw whisked past her cheek. Stacey couldn’t move, couldn’t think, as his mouth found her earlobe, nibbled gently, then kissed below it. “Sure of this?” he asked, moving his lips against her neck. “You only have to tell me what you want, Stacey, and I’ll give it to you. Do you want this?”
He kissed her neck, her jaw, brought his hand low to cradle her head and hold her still as he sucked the place where her neck and jaw met, doing things with his mouth and tongue and teeth she’d never dreamed could feel so good. “Do you want this? Because I swear I’ll stop if you ask me to.”
Please don’t make me stop his body said as his hand tightened in her hair. Love me. Let me love you. Smiling, Dylan looked deeply into her eyes and stroked his thumb across her cheek. “You make me crazy. God, I should have never let you go.”
Let her go. No, she didn’t want that. Stacey knew that much, despite the warning bells in her brain telling her that was exactly what she ought to be asking for.
No, what she wanted was to arch against him, to tangle her legs with his and feel his hairy calves tickle hers, to stroke his back and feel him shudder beneath her touch. She wanted to feel him kiss her again, to let him take her mouth, her heart, her soul, and make her his.
“Please.” She dared to bring her hands to his arms and grasp the finely wrought, muscular support she found there. “Please…”
She felt languid yet taut as a strung wire, sleepy yet more alive than she’d been in months. Looking into his eyes, Stacey dug her fingertips on his arms and levered herself closer. Her gaze drifted to his lips. Kiss me, she thought. I need you to kiss me. Dylan’s weight shifted as he moved to comply, reading her desires in her eyes or her mouth or maybe her plaintive cry. Please…
His lips neared hers. A thud sounded at the door. Someone knocking. The sound roused Ginger. She barked—just once, but it was enough to make Stacey aware of her situation again. She tightened her hold on Dylan at the sound, realized he’d already released her hands and it was she—she—who’d practically attacked him yet again, and the spell was broken. Another knock came. Dylan’s mouth brushed hers…and Stacey bolted from the bed.
“No!” Shaking, she yanked down her T-shirt and leaped onto the carpet just as Dylan’s head thunked onto the mattress. There was an odd popping sound. Something powdery and sweet-smelling puffed up around his head.
“Ahhh! My eyes!” Yelling, Dylan scrambled upright, swabbing at his eyes with both fists. White powder drifted like a cloud in the air above him, then gradually sifted back down on his head like an exceptionally even-spaced—and exceptionally bad—case of dandruff.
Her aromatherapy powder. Stacey snatched the broken paper sachet from the indentation in the mattress where Dylan had landed just as another knock came at the door.
“Room service!” someone called. Ginger snuffled at the bottom edge of the door then pranced in front of it, eager for some human company that might pay attention to her. She cocked her head when nobody moved and gave a blowsy doggie sneeze instead. Hey, somebody’s here!
Dylan coughed loudly to cover the sound, his gaze darting toward Ginger. “Shhh!”
“Room service!” came a suspicious-sounding voice from the hallway. “Mr. and Mrs. Parker?”
“You broke it!” Stacey waggled the smashed and empty sachet toward Dylan.
For some reason, the sight of it made her want to weep. It was a foolish reaction, she knew, but no less true. Geez, she was a mess, her emotions too close to the surface to be trusted. Blinking hard, she waved the paper at him as though he could repair it somehow—make it whole again.
He grabbed the sachet with one hand and peered at it, temporarily abandoning his attempts to wipe his f
ace clean. “Gingerbread Dreams?” he asked, reading it.
“It’s aromatherapy, Christmas style.” She crossed her arms. “It’s supposed to be relaxing.” She’d needed it last night after her encounters with Dylan, but he was the last person on earth she’d admit it to. “I use those sachets sometimes to wind down at night. I must have forgotten it was beneath the pillow.”
Another knock came, along with a more urgent, “Room service!”
“Just a minute!” Dylan called toward the door of the honeymoon suite, sounding surprisingly polite for somebody who was wearing boxer shorts, an even dusting of ginger-scented powder, and nothing else.
“Wind down, huh?” he asked as he headed to the door, brushing drifts of Gingerbread Dreams from his head and shoulders as he went. He ushered Ginger into hiding in the suite’s bathroom with a push to her wagging rump and closed the door. “No wonder I feel so calm right now.”
He grinned and nodded toward the bed. “Better get in bed, snookums. Otherwise, you’ll give the room service guy an eyeful.”
Joking. He was actually joking about being the victim of yet another of her accidental disasters. Stacey couldn’t believe it. Did nothing get Dylan rattled?
Only you, a part of her whispered. Ignoring it, she dove for cover, hefted an armload of black silk comforter, and made it into bed just as a uniformed hotel employee wheeled his room service cart into the honeymoon suite.
“Good morning, Mrs. Parker, Mr. Parker.” He sniffed, wrinkling his nose at the conspicuously ginger scented air, then parked his cart and turned to address them. The poor man nearly jumped a foot at his first sight of Dylan’s powder-whitened face.
“Aromatherapy accident,” Dylan said solemnly. “Dangerous stuff.”
“I’m sure.” The hotel employee peered at the amazing whiteness of Dylan’s face. He’d seen stranger things, Stacey supposed, during his tenure at the hotel. “Would you like me to send up someone from our spa to help you?”
