by Judith Bowen
Zoey’d be freezing her sweet little butt out there over the garage, though. Should he check on her? Invite her to stay in the house? Hell, no. Leave things be. He didn’t trust himself around Zoey. He couldn’t make up his mind about her. And he definitely couldn’t ignore her, either.
As he was toweling dry, he decided to call the power company anyway, and went, one careful step after another, into the kitchen to use the wall phone, getting the operator to connect him in the dark. The crews had already been alerted—wasted trip, and he was freezing his own butt off now.
Oh well, he’d done what he could. He made his way back down the hall, slowly, reaching out to touch the wall from time to time, to remind himself of where he was.
His room was pitch-black, not even any reflection off the snow with the curtains closed. It had to be two, three in the morning.
He dropped his towel by the door and moved cautiously forward and felt for the head of the bed. Ah!
He patted the pillow, to get his bearings, then slowly eased himself into bed. Oh, man! It had been a long, long day. He pulled the quilt over, then froze. Didn’t feel right. He pulled the quilt again, very carefully. Something was preventing the sheet and blankets from moving freely. Had one of the dogs jumped up? Better not, that was a big no-no with Marty. ’Course, she’d be in Kelowna by now.
He reached out one hand.
Holy shit! Someone was in his bed.
Cautiously, he moved his hand up, then down. Whoever was there was warm—alive, at least—and— He felt a stirring in his groin. Soft, warm…a breast.
A woman.
He felt like one of the three bears who’d come home from a tough trek in the woods to find Goldilocks not in his chair, not at his table eating his porridge—but in his bed.
Zoey. It had to be.
Regretfully he removed his hand from where he’d inadvertently placed it and held his breath as she stirred a little. She was sound asleep. Should he wake her up? Take the high road and send her home?
He took a deep, shaky breath. No way. This was no accident. She was here because she wanted to be here.
Maybe this had turned into his lucky day, after all.
SHE WAS DOZING on an inflatable of some kind, drifting far from land. The air was warm, the sea was warm and blue. She was comfortable and happy. When she put her face over the side, she could see the fish smiling up at her, swimming up and kissing her toes and her fingers that trailed in the water.
One came along, a huge, beautiful, iridescent jellyfish, and gently pushed her off the inflatable and she laughed as she sank deeper and deeper into the brilliant water, not fighting it. She could breathe! Just like the fish. They nibbled at her face and ears, tickled her nose, unbuttoned her pajama top….
Pajama top? Zoey opened her eyes. It was pitch dark. For a few seconds, she wondered where she was. Then she felt the fish again, nibbling at her skin, kissing her earlobe, breathing into her ear, touching her breast so wetly, so delightfully….
She moved slightly, realizing then that she wasn’t dreaming. That she was in bed, in someone’s bed, not hers, and that someone was touching her, kissing her gently. All she had to do was lie there and receive his kisses, receive his caresses, accept his lovemaking.
Ryan.
She remembered everything. She’d come to the house and climbed into Ryan’s bed. He wasn’t supposed to be here tonight; he was staying over in Prince George. The house had been dark and still. And warm. She’d fallen asleep, she had no idea for how long. It was dark, the velvety darkness cupping her eyes and blinding them.
She reached out in the direction of his face and felt the roughness of his jaw, unshaven. She caught a whiff of soap, sandalwood. She couldn’t make out his usual scent, his aftershave, the citrusy scent she always associated with him. His hair was slick and wet; his skin was faintly damp, damp and warm. He’d taken a shower. She ran her fingers lightly along his shoulder and arm and heard the quick intake of breath. The muscles beneath the skin were iron-hard, rigid, vibrating with tension. With restraint.
He wanted her.
He wanted her to touch him. As she wanted him to touch her. To keep touching her. Blindly, Zoey raised her face to his and let his mouth find hers in the dark. Hesitant, exploring. Exciting. His kiss made her senses tumble and whirl as no other kiss of his ever had done, not since she was seventeen. Perhaps they had truly recaptured the past—here, in the darkness. Finally.
Zoey felt a huge welling of relief. She’d longed for this. She’d longed for Ryan to finally see her for what she was—a warm, desirable, willing woman. She hadn’t expected him tonight but he’d come back! It couldn’t have been more perfect. It was fate.
He wanted her, he cared for her, as she’d always believed. He was making love to her now, this very instant. He wanted her. This couldn’t have been any better if she’d planned it.
Zoey’s pulse boomed as he kissed her, each kiss deeper, more intimate, hungrier, each stroke of his tongue hinting at what lay in store for her tonight, for them both…. She felt his hands, rough and urgent, on her breasts, teasing, stroking, driving her insane and then one hand going to her belly, below.
His head centered on her breast and she felt the tug of his teeth as he teased the sensitive flesh. She cried out and he put two fingers across her lips, silencing her. Desire, almost like pain, shot through her vitals, stabbing, insistent.
She wanted him…how she wanted him!
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes!”
But he did not reply. He kissed her again, now her mouth, now her breast, her ear, the soft skin beneath her jaw, teasing her, tormenting her with his caresses until she thought she’d lose her mind. Then she felt cold air rush over her heated skin as he moved back, fumbled. She heard a drawer open, tearing plastic, knew what he was doing.
He bent over her, took her hands in his and kissed them. One, then the other. He held her hands steady in one of his and paused. As though uncertain—after all this!—and she heard herself begging for completion. Begging him to join with her….
He pushed into her and she arched against him and cried out again as he filled her, more, more and more, until they were merged. Yes! She felt wet on her cheeks. Her own tears. Joy. Ecstasy.
Her heart beat like a bird’s, in ten-time, a hundred-time. He pushed against her, rocked against her, thrust powerfully in response to her faint, broken cries. She heard his breath come harsh in her ear. As though he were in pain, or too moved by the pleasure, as she was, to contain it.
Then she was climaxing, crying out. He seized her mouth with his, quieting her again. Was someone in the house, besides them? The thought struck sudden terror into her heart—as if she were some teenager, caught necking with her boyfriend on the family room sofa when the parents came home early.
But she was sure they were alone. And they were adults. They took responsibility for coming together like this. Partners, lovers. Whatever they chose to be with each other.
He caught her cries, swallowing her pleasure, then groaned himself, the sound muffled as he pressed his mouth against her neck, as his body shuddered. She wrapped her arms around him, weeping. Unable to stop herself. It was too much. Too much happiness.
They lay like that for a long time. Finally Zoey’s heart rate returned to something approaching normal. He moved first, dealing with the condom, then stretching out beside her and pulling her into his arms with a deep sigh. He wiped her cheeks with one hand, drying her tears.
“I—” she began, needing to say something now. His arm tightened around her shoulders. “I—I was so afraid,” she whispered. “I wanted this. I wanted you to know what could happen between us—” She’d come to his bed for one practical reason—because she was cold and she’d assumed he was away in Prince George. But it had occurred to her more than once that if something like this could happen between them, then they’d know, wouldn’t they? Both of them…
His arm tightened around her again, reassuring, comforting. He stroked he
r hair, her face, soothing her. “Shh.”
She pressed her open hand against his chest. She couldn’t stop touching him. She put her arms around him, as far as she could and held on tightly. He was so solid, so warm, so…perfect. He bent his head and kissed her hair. Smoothed it with one hand, kissed it again. Then he moved, repositioning himself, gathering her closer, dropping his head to kiss her face, her cheek, her nose. Softly. To bite the lobe of her ear, ever so gently.
Incredibly, Zoey felt desire again. Fierce, sudden, hot. She closed her eyes in the darkness, willing herself to be sensible. To go to sleep.
Instead, she raised her mouth to him and held his head in both hands as he took what she offered so eagerly. And this time, when he entered her, he went slowly, slowly, bringing her to glory over and over, before finally collapsing against her, taking his own reward. Zoey felt boneless and incandescent, like the jellyfish in her dreams. She felt warm, happy, powerful and, most of all, loved.
Well-loved.
She fell asleep in his arms and dreamed of nothing.
WHEN SHE AWOKE, it was day. Light streamed around the edges of the half-closed curtains. She stretched, her body feeling lazy and relaxed, deeply, totally satisfied. Her muscles ached, her skin tingled, her mind was clear and steady, focussed: he loved her. She believed what the body knew. He loved her. That was all that mattered.
She felt him move behind her, draw closer, one hand on the curve of her bare hip, his other hand cupping the crown of her head. He felt warm and large, and she snuggled against him, nestling her bottom into his hips. She was happy; she couldn’t possibly be happier. She closed her eyes in anticipatory delight.
“Good morning, babe.” He kissed her cheek.
Who said that? Zoey’s eyes snapped open and she twisted her head and looked into his eyes.
And screamed.
She was in bed with the wrong man!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CAMERON DONNELLY.
“Omigod! What—what are you doing here?” She sat up and clutched the sheet to her chest. Her pajama top hung wide open!
“This is my bed. I sleep here. Mostly.” He’d leaned back a little when she’d screamed. “I could ask you the same question.” His face was right beside her shoulder.
Zoey scrambled to the side of the bed and leaped out before she realized she had no pajama bottoms on.
She was practically naked!
She sat back down and pulled the top sheet free, then stood up, wrapping the end of it around her. She had to think—think! This was a catastrophe, a nightmare, a disaster.
“Where’s Ryan?”
“I don’t know,” he answered calmly. “Not here.”
Zoey tried madly to piece events together. The facts stared her straight in the face. She’d let herself into an empty house and climbed into the wrong man’s bed. Like some kind of directionally-challenged Goldilocks!
Worse, she’d made love with him. More than once. And liked it!
Of course, she hadn’t known it was Cameron. She’d thought it was Ryan. She’d never, ever have responded that way if she hadn’t thought it was Ryan. There couldn’t be any question—
But, seriously, how could a woman make such a stupid error? If someone had told her a story like that, she’d have laughed. If Jamie Chinchilla ever came up with something like that in one of her books, she’d tell her to take it out. It was preposterous! You couldn’t make love with the wrong man—you’d know.
She recollected vaguely that she had noticed the absence of the scent Ryan always wore, the woodsy-citrusy aftershave, but she’d attributed that little omission to a recent shower. By rights, it should have tipped her off. But why? The idea had never crossed her mind that she might be in the wrong bed. Now that she thought about it, she’d jumped to a lot of conclusions.
“Where’s Ryan’s room?”
He waved a hand lazily toward the door. “Across the hall.”
“But Lissy told me where his room was! When I got her clothes for her, when I gave her a bath after we were stuck in the ditch.” Zoey gnawed her lower lip. What had Lissy said, exactly?
“You’re not blaming a kid for this, are you?” he asked, raising one eyebrow, crossing his arms across his bare chest. An attractive, well-muscled chest, with a light dusting of hair.
Was he stark naked under the sheet? Her glance fell on the crumpled white towel by the open doorway—yes, he was stark naked. The tatters of packaging from several condoms lay on the bedside table….
Several? Omigod. How many times had they made love? She couldn’t remember. This was a nightmare!
“You—you must have known! You must’ve known it was a mistake. You—you took advantage of me!”
He laughed. He actually laughed.
“Advantage of you? Hell, no. I guess I just thought Cam Donnelly, this is your lucky night,” he drawled. “And it was,” he added, with a broad smile.
“You can wipe that look off your face,” she yelled, pulling at the sheet. He hung on, maybe to preserve his own modesty, nearly causing her to lose her balance. She let go of the sheet, picked up a pillow and threw it at him. He tossed it to one side and his gaze slid down, reminding her that she’d lost her cover. Thank heavens her pajama top was relatively long.
“So, Goldilocks, why did you get into my bed, then?”
“I was cold. The electricity was off. It was freezing in my place. I—I thought no one was home here.” Everything should have made sense. She was thoroughly confused. “Ryan was supposed to go to Prince George—he did, didn’t he?”
“As far as I know, he did.”
“And—and I thought I’d sleep here because I knew where his room was and I knew he wasn’t coming back.”
Zoey took the opportunity to snatch at the sheet and tried to button her pajama top with one hand.
“Never mind,” he said. “Go ahead and use two hands. I’ve seen it all.”
He hadn’t seen a thing. Nor had she; it had been pitch dark.
“Liar!” She picked up another pillow, one that had fallen to the floor during the night, and threw it at him. He knocked it away and laughed and then grabbed her wrist and pulled her down onto the bed.
In an instant, he’d rolled her underneath him and was smiling down into her shocked face.
“Get off me!” She struggled to get her hands free. He held one and the other was trapped between their bodies.
He kissed her cheek, her chin…. “That’s not what you said last night,” he murmured, smiling.
How—how crude!
She yelled, “Off! I’d never get into your bed, not in a million years—”
“You did. And it was only about, let’s see—” he made a great show of mental calculation “—just under four weeks after you got here, not a million years. Frankly, I didn’t think it would take that long.”
“I hate you!”
His mouth descended on hers, working its unique and soul-melting magic, and to her horror she stopped fighting and began to respond. She couldn’t help it, he did something to her. Something exquisite. The feel, the taste, it brought back the night in horrifying, terrifying, wonderful detail.
Finally, he ended the kiss, at his leisure.
“Now,” he said in a low voice, kissing her nose, “tell me again that you hate me, Zoey Phillips.”
“I hate you,” she said, but it lacked conviction. Even she could tell.
He laughed softly. “You don’t. You know very well that I could make love with you again, right now, and you’d be only too happy to oblige. You’d be begging for more, just like last night. I don’t hate you at all, and neither do you hate me.”
Her eyes filled with tears. He was right. She was shocked, she was angry…but she didn’t hate him. He’d outmaneuvered her, that was all. He’d tricked her. She couldn’t forgive him for that. She turned her head away and he turned it back, gripping her chin in his fingers.
“Listen to me, Zoey,” he said, his voice surprisingly earnest. “It ha
ppened. Okay? This is one thing that is not a figment of your imagination. No one needs to know, just you and me. You do what you have to do, but let’s be honest at least.” His voice lowered to a sexy whisper. “It was good between us, Zoey—damn good. And you know it.”
She nodded. She could hardly see him, her eyes were so blurred by tears. It was true. She’d been in another world last night. A beautiful world. She’d actually believed she was in love—that she was making love with a man who cared for her, maybe even loved her, too.
The man who was supposed to love her—Ryan. Not this man, whom she’d decided weeks ago she didn’t even like very much.
“I hate to see you cry,” he said and awkwardly wiped at her tears with the side of his thumb. “But you need to know the truth. You’re a willful, stubborn, beautiful, wonderful, sexy woman. A strong, feisty, stand-up lady any man would be proud to call his partner. But you’re in bed with me, not my brother. You got yourself into this little screw-up and you’re going to have to get yourself out—”
“I—I thought you wanted me and Ryan to get together.” She blinked hard, trying to see his face clearly.
“I did. Once. But I never dreamed you’d go this far.”
“It was a mistake, dammit! I just wanted to warm up. I thought he was away!”
“Besides—” His gaze lowered to her mouth, and she caught her breath. “I changed my mind about you and Ryan a while ago. That first day it snowed. I realized it wasn’t going to work, couldn’t work.” His eyes flared fire, which astonished her. “It was plain as day to me that the entire romance plan was one-sided.”
“Me?” Her voice was tiny. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to hear him say it.
“Yes, Zoey. You. I blame myself.”
“Why?”
“I never should’ve encouraged you.”
Again—taking the blame for something that had nothing to do with him. “I made up my own mind,” she said. “All by myself.”
