Terrific. He was completely trashed.
Her fantasy went up in a puff of smoke.
Though the movement cost her a great deal, she jerked her head away. “It’s Calla,” she said firmly. Swallowing her pride when his face remained dazed, she added, “Calla Tucker.”
“Calla,” he murmured and she swore she got a buzz from his breath as he leaned toward her. “I missed you.”
“Do you dream of me?” she couldn’t help asking.
“Always.”
His mouth moved across her cheek toward her lips, and she closed her eyes as need washed over her. With an exquisite gentleness she’d never imagined him capable of, he cupped her jaw in his palm and laid his lips over hers.
He slid his tongue into her mouth, stroking, enticing...promising. She gave in return. For a single moment in time, she enjoyed his single-focused attention and passion. Still, she wanted more.
But not like this.
She pulled away when he would have let the kiss go on. She scooted her chair back to extend the distance.
His striking eyes were muddled. He was troubled and confused. She wouldn’t let him stay there.
“I had cake,” she blurted, “but I had to trade it to find you.”
A light shone from within. “Cake?”
“From Shelby and Trevor’s wedding. Remember? You were supposed to be there.”
“Yeah, she’s nice, and she can cook. I was at the hospital. Sorry.”
She tensed. “Hospital?”
“Last night anyway.” He cocked his head, looking lost. “Or maybe this morning.”
“What happened?” Her gaze flew over him, searching for wounds. “How were you hurt?”
He turned, revealing a white bandage on the back of his head. “Knocked out.”
“When?”
“Last night.” Again, he angled his head as if remembering required a great deal of thought. “Or maybe this morning.”
She was fairly certain that a man who’d sustained a head wound in the past twenty-four hours hadn’t been prescribed alcohol. Snatching his half-full tumbler before he could take another sip, she grabbed his hand. “You should be home in bed, not here.”
“Bed?” He grinned. “If you say so...”
Her carnal and practical sides were officially at war. She should reject him; she should comfort him. She wanted him; she hated what he was doing to himself.
She’d seen him have a beer or a glass of whiskey, but she’d never imagined him so out of control, leaving himself so vulnerable. So susceptible to despair.
“Bed to sleep,” she said to him. “You have to rest.”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
“Yes, well, I imagine that glorious moment isn’t too far away.” She tugged him to a shaky stand, then guided him to the bar. “We need a cab,” she said to the bartender.
Clearly, he didn’t like a woman taking control in his manly establishment as he cast a glance at Devin, then back at her. “He seems fine to me.”
“I’ll have—” Devin’s head drooped and only Calla holding him up kept him from collapsing to the floor.
“Sure.” Calla grunted under the weight propping up Devin. “He’s fine. On the other hand, I know a really good lawyer....”
The bartender held her gaze, unblinking, and she had long enough to consider how she’d escape the bar with a half-conscious Devin without help. Considering the barkeep’s hard, dark brown stare, she quickly amended her worry to without permission.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, picking up the phone receiver behind the bar. After a brief conversation, he turned to her. “Cab’ll be here in a minute.”
“Great. Thanks. But it’ll take me at least ten to drag him to the door.” She gave him her best beauty queen smile. “Any chance you could give me a hand?”
With an ill-tempered sigh, he rounded the bar and shouldered half of Devin’s weight. Together, they partly walked, partly dragged him to the door.
Bleary-eyed, Devin’s head swayed from Calla to the bartender. “Babe, you’re really hot, but I’m not doin’ a three-way with another dude.”
Oh, good grief.
“I’ll try to contain my disappointment,” she said dryly.
Once their odd trio stumbled their way through the open door and onto the sidewalk, a cab was waiting at the curb. With the bartender’s help, Calla managed to tuck Devin into the taxi. From her tasseled bag—a dead match to her dress—she dug out twenty bucks and handed her helper the money.
“His bill was fifty,” he growled.
“Of course it was.” Reaching back in her bag, she came up with two more twenties, which she handed him before he ambled back inside the bar.
She dearly hoped the cabbie took credit cards. Plus, she was picking Devin’s pocket the moment she got him horizontal. And that was all she was doing. Well, after groping his firm-looking butt.
Damn. She was back in fantasyland.
Though, with her flowers, cake and taffeta, she looked more suited to a game of Candyland, while Devin looked as if he was in the midst of escaping Call of Duty, the Hellfire and Brimstone version.
“I live on West 22nd Street,” Devin mumbled when she climbed inside the car. He dropped his head into her lap. “Near the museum.”
“I know.” Unable to resist running her fingers through Devin’s silky hair, she gave the cabbie the exact address. “How do you afford to live there on a detective’s salary, by the way?”
“My landlord gives a break to cops.” His hand slid down her dress. “How long is this thing?” Basically answering his own question, she felt him reach the hem and start gliding his fingers up, under the the taffeta this time.
While trying not to focus on the fact that several dreams she’d spent months dwelling on were currently coming true, she realized a big flaw in her plan.
How was she going to get him horizontal to grope him? And, worse, how was she going to get him from the cab to the elevator? Though in a nice neighborhood, Devin’s apartment didn’t lean toward a doorman. She was out of cash to bribe the cabbie with.
She could call her friends, but two of them were on their way to their honeymoon in Switzerland and the other two—if she knew Victoria and her boyfriend, Jared, well enough—were already celebrating on their own by now.
She asked the cabbie to head to her apartment instead of Devin’s. At least there she was pretty sure she could find a neighbor to help.
“Your place?” Devin asked. “How big is the bed?”
“Big enough.”
The tips of Devin’s fingers brushed her panties. “Whoa, Detective,” she said, clamping her thighs together. “We barely know each other. Let’s commit a few misdemeanors before we move on to felonies.”
“Calla,” he breathed. “I know you.”
Closing her eyes, she swallowed. What had she done to deserve this torture? How long had she dreamed of him touching her, wanting her?
“Already did felony assault,” Devin mumbled.
“You— What?”
He ran his hand across her upper thigh. “Glad you dumped that other guy. We can have a good time all on our own.”
And yet she had the feeling he’d pass out long before her “good time” was fully realized. “Felony assault?”
“Some guy. Didn’t hit him. He hit me.” His fingers dug briefly into her skin. “He can’t come to bed with us, either.”
She patted his back. “Fine. You, me, bed. Felony assault?”
“Shoulda been. No score, though.”
“What score?”
“Yankees lost. Lost twenty bucks on those bums.”
“Devin, please.” She grabbed his hand as it again inched toward the juncture of her thighs. “Focus. Who hit you?”
“Somebody hit me?” He lifted his head, which he laid against her breast. “Had to be me, I guess. The Yankees sure aren’t gettin’ enough. They’d need a damn GPS to find the ball. How ’bout a little TLC?”
As his lips mov
ed against her neck, she fought back the tide of desire.
This was getting her nowhere. Drunk and concussed people didn’t have coherent conversations. She needed to get him home and into bed. She should probably call the hospital and find out what the doctor had actually told him to do to care for his injury, since she couldn’t imagine bellying up to the bar was listed on the discharge papers.
Still, she had one question left that she was positive he could answer. “The sign above the door at the pub, what does it mean?”
“I would prefer whiskey.”
Of course he did.
2
DEVIN ROLLED OVER, and his head throbbed in retaliation.
“I’m supposed to be dead,” he groaned.
His mouth felt as though somebody had filled it full of cotton. His body was stiff; his energy level was depleted by the rolling. And had he mentioned the head-throbbing?
Then he smelled her.
Calla. So full of hope and brightness.
Her warm vanilla scent surrounded him, comforting even though he didn’t deserve solace or sympathy. Maybe he had something to live for, after all.
Flashes of the night before, however, returned in a wave of panic and humiliation. Snippets of conversation about cake, three-ways and hits. Whether those were mob hits or his continual focus on the Yankees’ lousy batting average, he wasn’t sure. Him kissing her, shoving his hand beneath her skirt.
Please, oh, please, tell me I didn’t actually do that.
Course the Almighty wasn’t listening as a wave of nausea turned his stomach. Not that he deserved mercy regardless.
He chanced opening his eyes, surprised when no further pain assaulted him. The room was dark, with only a strip of light shining under the door and a star-shaped night-light plugged into the wall to his right.
Hold everything.
This wasn’t his apartment, and he certainly wasn’t in his bed. Squinting, he could make out the white-and-pink rose-laden comforter covering him. Beneath the sheet—also pink—he was naked.
Oh, man. Oh, no. Please. No.
Guilt shot through every cell in his body. Surely he hadn’t had sex with her. He wouldn’t have taken advantage of her that way. Not even he could have done that.
Fear drove him from the bed. Each movement caused his stomach to roll and his head to pound, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. He was in the midst of figuring out what he could wear when he saw his clothes neatly folded on the dresser.
He wasn’t sure what that level of care said, but knew he shouldn’t think about the implications too long.
And yet, the dread that he’d given into his baser needs with Calla when he’d promised himself not to go near her was nearly overwhelmed by the anxiety that she was, even now, planning their wedding. Both scenarios gave him the motivation to stumble into the bathroom, splash water on his face and hair, rinse with the mouthwash he found beneath the sink, get dressed then crack the bedroom door.
Immediately, he smelled bacon.
Surprisingly, his stomach whimpered with need. If he could get his hands on that bacon, a gallon of coffee and four or ten aspirin, he might make it through the day.
With a confidence he didn’t feel, he strode through the living room to the bar-high counter bordering the kitchen.
Wearing a robe the color of cotton candy, she stood in front of the stove. Her tanned and toned legs peaked from beneath the robe’s hem. Her long blond hair was piled on top of her head in a messy mass that turned him on in a big way.
But then wasn’t everything associated with her arousing?
“Bacon?” he managed to croak.
She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I thought I heard water running. Pretty fast shower.”
“I didn’t take a shower.”
The smile turned to a scowl. “Why not? I put out fresh soap and shampoo. Not my girly stuff, either.”
“I’m probably in your way.”
“You’re not. Don’t you want bacon?” When he nodded, she added, “Breakfast will take a few more minutes. Plenty of time for a shower.”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“It’s Sunday. Wanna take a shower or tell me about last night?”
He headed back to the bedroom. In the shower, he acknowledged the hot, powerful spray from overhead cleared much of his confusion.
One, sex between him and Calla was still imaginary. A realization that was both good and bad.
Two, his head didn’t hurt just because he’d overindulged in whiskey. He’d been whacked on the back of the head. Reaching behind him, he found a bandage and smooth skin around the edges. Hell. Somebody’d shaved a section of his head. He wasn’t vain about stuff like that but still...a bald spot?
Not only did he not have game, his game was on strike.
For the shaving and bandage, he recalled a hospital nurse. For the assault he drew a blank.
He shook his head, which did nothing but increase the incessant pounding.
Bracing his forehead against the tiled shower stall, he fought to push through the clouds clogging his memory, but the deluge of water only made him wonder if he was supposed to get his bandage wet, and, if he did, would he die of an antibiotic-resistant bacterial infection or simply start leaking brain fluid that would swirl down the drain?
And, if so, would that please happen now?
Until one of those glorious moments occurred, he might as well make the woman who promised to feed him happy. He reached for the mini hotel shampoo she’d obviously set out for him, but was distracted by the large bottles belonging to her. Leaning close, he inhaled vanilla and sugar and his head immediately stopped pounding.
Contentment washed over him, even as hunger to be near her ran rampant. She’d tempted him for months, even though he knew they couldn’t be together. She was too bright and pure, and he wasn’t about to drag her into his crappy life and past.
He resisted the urge to cover himself in her scent and washed quickly with the hotel-size green tea products. Once he’d dressed and headed toward the kitchen a second time, he acknowleged she’d been right. The shower had steadied him.
Course a lot of his memory was muddled, and that was going to be a problem. From past experience, he knew she was relentless when she was after something. He sure didn’t think she’d let him get away with a free breakfast and hot shower.
As he walked from the bedroom toward the kitchen, she was dishing scrambled eggs onto a plate already groaning with bacon. His stomach grumbled in response.
“How do you take your coffee?” she asked in a cheerful, if low volume, voice.
His pounding head appreciated the care. Why was she so good to him when he didn’t deserve to be in the same room with her? “Black, thanks.”
He sat on one of the two stools pushed up against the bar bracketing the kitchen on two sides. She handed him a heavy-looking mug, though he imagined her cupboards were full of dainty teacups. A quick scan of the counter proved his guess—a cream scallop-edged cup with a bouquet of pink roses decorating the side sat beside the stove.
As he took the first sip of coffee, their gazes locked. Weak as he was, he quickly looked away. He didn’t need to complicate his already tangled life with his confusing feelings for her.
The silence lingered until she set a filled plate on the bar before him. Maybe he could slink away, after all.
But he’d barely taken his first bite when she slid onto the stool next to him and asked, “So, wanna tell me about last night?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Very.”
She pushed a small glass filled with orange juice toward him. “This will help.”
Shrugging, he drank the juice in a quick swallow.
As soon as he set the empty glass on the bar, she pushed another one in his line of vision. This one held tomato juice, complete with celery stalk artistically leaning against the side.
He curled his lip. “I don’t like—”
“Drink it.”
As he often found in her presence, he did as she ordered, though he would swear he hadn’t made a conscious decision to do so.
Surprisingly, the juice wasn’t bland, watery tomatoes. The drink had a spicy kick, as if she’d made a Bloody Mary without the shot of vodka. Though he had a feeling, based on the determined look on her face, that he could use the added buzz.
“The vitamins in oranges, tomatoes and celery are good for you,” she said.
He also had the feeling she’d told him that before. Not surprising. This wasn’t his first ride around the block with hangovers. “Goody. You know how I like to take care of myself.”
“Eat the celery.” When he started to argue, she added, “Think of the celery as a carrot for the bacon reward.”
He chomped the stalk in two bites, then grabbed two slices of bacon from the plate before she could come up with some other healthy barrier to his fat-laden breakfast.
His obedience bought him silence, as she said nothing while he inhaled the food.
“You’re not eating?” he asked when he paused long enough to notice she wasn’t.
“I had a spinach omelet earlier.”
In his opinion, the only place for something green in eggs was in children’s stories that rhyme. But also knowing she’d go back to the subject of last night, he commented, “You’ve got a nice place.”
“Thanks. Because of all my pageant winnings, I went to college on a full scholarship, so my parents gave me the money they’d been saving for school.”
“Pageant? Like bikini contest?” He could certainly imagine her figure earning piles of cash.
“No, like Miss America. You know, evening gowns, crowns and sashes, questions about world peace.”
She was a beauty queen; he was a master marksman. If ever two people were less compatible, he couldn’t imagine who, when or where. “You have a lot of roses in here.”
“When your name is a flower, you have to go with it.”
“So why not lilies?”
“Too obvious. You’re not going to divert my attention from asking about last night, by the way.”
“I figured it was worth a shot.”
“How about if we start with an easy question? Who hit you over the head?”
Undone by Moonlight Page 2
