JAMI DAVENPORT
WHO’S BEEN SLEEPING IN MY BED?
Evergreen Dynasty Series 2
Copyright © 2014 by Cedrona Enterprises
2nd Edition, originally published in 2008
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This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Breaking and entering has never been one of Harlee Davis’s sins, but that’s about to change when she falls asleep in a stranger’s bed while seeking refuge from the storm raging outside and the one created by her screwed-up life.
When Jake Reynolds returns home late at night, the last thing he expects is a curvy blond Goldilocks warming his sheets. Instead of throwing the intruder out on her fine ass, he hires her to organize his disorganized construction office. When his wealthy family meets the polyester siren posing as Jake's assistant, they fear he's slipped back into his bad boy ways.
After Harlee discovers that Jake plans to demolish the very camp she's been entrusted to preserve, she mounts a crusade. They wage a war of wills battling their conflicting interests on a professional level and too much interest on a sexual level, and one of them stands to lose everything in a game where there may not be a winner.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Who’s Been Sleeping in My Bed? was first published in 2008. While I’ve made minor edits, the book remains basically the same as the original version.
Chapter 1—Goldilocks and the One Bear
Breaking and entering had never been one of Harlee Davis’s sins.
Unfortunately, that was about to change.
Harlee yanked on the bathroom window of the old farmhouse. It opened a few stingy inches then dug in its stubborn heels and refused to budge. She swiped at the water running down her face and muttered some choice words for the obstinate window. How could she have been so stupid as to lose the house key Rose had given her?
All around her, the rain fell in sheets and soaked every scrap of polyester and denim on her body. Her hair hung like a wet, tattered flag and plastered her face. Water dripped from her nose faster than from a leaky faucet. When she shifted her weight, her shoes squished. Harlee bit back a sob and shivered with misery. She considered returning to the relative protection of the covered porch, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything. This was not the time to surrender to self-pity.
With a strength born of desperation, Harlee grabbed the bottom of the window and heaved with all her might. The contrary thing shot upward. The momentum knocked Harlee from her precarious perch on a clay flowerpot into the spiny embrace of a large rhododendron.
“Oh, f…” Harlee stopped herself just in time. Rose hated it when she used the “F” word, in fact, hated it when she swore, so she’d better start watching her mouth now. “Fudge,” she corrected, pleased with the improvement.
Harlee freed herself from the rhodie’s clutches and rebalanced herself on the pot. She grasped the top of the window frame and swung both legs through the window then squirmed and squeezed her hips and boobs through the small opening. Her butt slid down the wall and wedged in the toilet. Obviously, a man had used it last; the seat was up.
Thank heavens, she was a small person, or she’d be stuck until the spring thaw. She could see the headlines now: “Body of Dumb Blonde Found in Bathroom after Fatal Toilet Plugging Accident.”
Harlee almost laughed. After all, her life had just been flushed down the toilet. Her body might as well follow.
Wrenching her butt from the toilet’s porcelain jaws, she hauled herself to her feet.
“Hello?” she called out then froze and listened.
No burglar alarm pierced the stormy night. Ravenous guard dogs didn’t emerge to drag her to their den. Nor did a dozen police cars screech into the driveway, with sirens blasting. So maybe she did have an overactive imagination, but this wasn’t something she did every day or any day for that matter.
Harlee felt her way down the dark hall. She found the light switch just where she remembered it and flipped it on. Nothing happened. Wonderful. No power. What else could go wrong on a night like this?
She sniffed. The place smelled musty, as if it’d been closed up for a while. Maybe Rose had gone south for the winter as she’d often threatened to do.
Fumbling her way to the front entrance, Harlee twisted the dead bolt and opened the door. She dragged her bag inside then made her way upstairs in the dark, tripping once over a chair that wasn’t where she remembered it. The second door on the right led to her old room. She located it with only a stubbed toe to show for her troubles.
It was late, and she held her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. Her three-day cross-country trek had sucked big time. A single girl didn’t dare sleep on a bus where the majority of the male passengers made her mother’s ex-boyfriends look good. A real bed safe from groping hands would be a welcome blessing.
A sudden flash of lightning illuminated that familiar old brass bed, still flanked by two nightstands. Discarding her wet clothes, she climbed into bed and burrowed under the large handmade quilt. Thunder crashed as loud as a bowling alley on league night. Lightning sliced through the pervasive darkness, painting sinister shadows on the ceiling and walls. Rain pounded against the window like an insistent door-to-door salesman. Wind combed through the cedar trees outside, causing a constant soft roar.
The windows rattled and something banged. Were those shadows really shadows? Was that just the rain and wind making all that noise? Was there a reason Rose wasn’t home to greet her? All sorts of grisly scenes played through Harlee’s mind like old black-and-white horror films.
She yanked the blanket over her head and fought down her fears, labeling them as unreasonable. Rose wasn’t one to live by convention. Just because she wasn’t here to greet Harlee didn’t mean a thing. Tomorrow morning, she’d probably find a note explaining Rose’s absence.
Shutting her eyes, she willed herself to sleep. After what seemed like a lifetime, exhaustion claimed her. Her eyes grew heavy. The rain on the roof drowned out the creaks and groans of the old house, and she dozed off.
* * * *
It really was a dark and stormy night.
Wouldn’t you know it? A building contractor never took care of the repairs on his own place. Never time for it. It seemed to be one of those unwritten rules, like a preacher’s kids are the wildest ones in school and shrinks have screwed-up lives. Yeah, take care of business before personal. That was the way this crazy world operated.
Jake rubbed the back of his neck and yawned. He’d driven like a possessed man to catch the last Washington State ferry bound for the San Juan Islands. Between staying too late in Seattle and the lousy traffic caused by this deluge, he’d boarded the ferry without a second to spare.
Ferry travel to the islands in November was never a predictable ride. Crossing Rosario Strait had been nasty. The storm had pitched and tossed the large vessel like a toy boat in a Jacuzzi tub. He’d never been a man prone to seasickness, but he’d come close tonight. Finally, the ferry plowed through Thatcher Pass into the relative safety of the islands. Just in time or he’d have tossed his hastily eaten McDonald’s cuisine.
After that harrowing experience, Jake longed to climb between the sheets and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. Funny, he never slept well in his Seattle apartment, but he sure slept well on Orcas Island, regardless of the weather.
He flipped the light switch. No power. Great. Wonderful. Leaving his bags inside the back door, Jake slogged through the mud to his pickup and returned with a flashlight and a cooler full of food. He set the cooler on the kitchen floor. It’d keep for the night. He’d unpack in the morning. Tonight, he had an appointment with a brass bed that he intended to keep.
Grabbing his valet bag, he trudged up the stairs. Damn, it was cold in this old house. The dampness sneaked through every crack and permeated the walls. It seeped under his skin and into his bones. First thing in the morning, he’d build a toasty fire. Then he’d watch football and do nothing for the rest of the day, assuming the power came back on.
Yeah, right, Get real. He sighed. He couldn’t afford to slack. Not with work piled as high as Mount Rainier in his construction office over the three weeks he’d been gone. He hated that voice of responsibility. In his younger years, he’d been deaf to it. Now, the older he got, the louder it shouted.
Jake stripped to his Calvin Klein boxers—a gift from his mother who believed even underwear must sport a designer label. Turning off the flashlight, he laid it on the closest nightstand and braced himself for the feel of the icy sheets on his bare body. But the sheets weren’t cold. They radiated warmth. His leg touched skin.
What the fuck? Jake froze.
Someone was in his bed, and he doubted it was Goldilocks.
Taking shallow breaths, he evaluated his options, wondering how big this guy was, if he had a weapon, or even worse, an accomplice.
Thunder vibrated the house and lightning lit up the room. The figure in the bed stirred.
Jake’s eyes caught a quick movement. He spun away from the lamp that whizzed past his head. It glanced off his shoulder. Pain shot down his arm and his fingers tingled.
Damn. Double damn.
Springing into action, Jake tore the lamp from the intruder’s grasp and hurtled it across the room. It hit the opposite wall with a sickening thud and splintering of glass.
His short temper detonated at the same time his street fighting instincts kicked into gear. “That’s it, asshole!” He’d send this guy flying to the neighboring island, and it wouldn’t be on a seaplane.
His assailant let out a high-pitched war cry and lunged at him, raking fingernails across his chest. Jake yelped in surprise and pain and grappled for control over those dangerous, flailing arms. His hands squeezed something soft and warm and—
Shit.
His intruder wasn’t a he, but a she. And she fought with the fierceness of two men. She kneed him with vicious intent, narrowly missing his groin. Enough of that crap. Female or not, nobody messed with his manhood. Flinging the crazy woman onto her back, Jake threw a leg over her body and straddled her. He pinned her arms to her sides and anchored his ass on her thighs.
“Stop it! Do you hear me? Stop it!” he roared, but she didn’t seem to hear or care.
“Let me go, you bastard!” Her outraged shrieks assaulted his eardrums. Her chest heaved from exertion and anger. She pitched and bucked in a frantic attempt to unseat him. At the least he’d have whiplash, but he held on for all he was worth.
His long-repressed wild side poked its head out of hiding, noting at the most inappropriate of times that she’d be a little spitfire in bed with all that energy and passion. Too bad she’d be in jail before the night ended.
“Damn it! You’re going to be sorry.” He bent down to be heard over her enraged screams and violent thrashing. Her long hair whipped his face, and he jerked away from her. A colorful stream of obscenities erupted from her lips. This wildcat called him names he’d never heard before, and he thought he’d heard everything. His proper mother would be horrified if she heard the little witch insulting his ancestors and her beloved son—okay, maybe not-so-beloved son.
“Listen! Damn it! Listen! Stop right now, or I might have to hurt you.” Even in his bad-boy, barroom-brawl days, he didn’t hit someone smaller than him, and never a woman. But then, the she-wolf didn’t know that.
Jake gripped her arms tighter and wrapped his legs around hers to stop her battering.
“Let go.” she growled.
“Like hell! So you can beat on me some more? Forget it, lady. I’m not your personal punching bag.”
“I’m going to have you arrested!”
Her brashness irritated him. “You’re going to have me arrested? You’re the one trespassing.”
“I am not.” Despite her declaration, her thrashing lost intensity, and little by little, she wore down. Finally, she offered only a token resistance.
“Don’t move another muscle.” The serious threat in his voice must have penetrated her demented brain. She stilled, except for her heaving chest. Jake grabbed both her hands in one of his and held them over her head. He leaned forward. His crotch grazed her breasts, and he froze.
Her nipples tickled his underwear like an erotic massage. She had to be topless. Prodding himself into action, Jake groped for the flashlight, and flicked it on. Then he glanced down. She was…incredible. Her ample breasts rose and fell between his legs with each labored breath. Jake bit his lower lip to contain a groan.
Against his better judgment, he released her hands and pushed his hips backward until he sat on her thighs. Not that there’d been anything wrong with his former position, but this one did afford a guy a better view. Jake’s decent side was disgusted by his gawking, but his bad boy side didn’t give a shit.
“Pervert.” She crossed her arms over her big breasts in an attempt at modesty. It was way too late for that.
Driven by his inner devil, he slid his flashlight over her body, past a slender waist and shapely hips. She wore functional white cotton panties and nothing else. What a damn shame. Such a sexy package concealed in such a plain wrapper. The sheet still covered her legs, but he bet they were as fit as the rest of her. The woman worked out or did physical labor.
Jake lifted his eyes. Her long, sun-bleached hair fanned out on the pillow and framed her pixie-like face. Her golden skin indicated that she’d recently resided in a much sunnier climate, no Pacific Northwest bottle tan for this girl.
The clock radio on the opposite nightstand lit, attracting Jake’s attention and indicating that the power was restored. He leaned over and turned on the surviving lamp then shifted his gaze back to Goldie. He made a major error by looking into her eyes. They sucked the breath out of his lungs as they burned into him with a hot blue flame. In one second flat, they had him spinning. Their color reminded him of a—What was that rock called? Oh, yeah, a sapphire.
Jake mentally slapped himself. Get a grip. This woman was a thief. She’d broken into his house and helped herself to his bed. It happened all the time, especially on an island like this where the majority of the residences were second homes. Well, she’d picked the wrong guy’s house. He wouldn’t let her get away with this, even though she happened to be as gorgeous and curvy as a film siren, a la Marilyn Monroe.
Only this Marilyn looked ready to spit in his face.
“Don’t you dare,” he warned.
“I’m calling the police!”
Jake shot her the look he’d perfected to stare down two-hundred-fifty-pound linebackers in his college football days. “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my house?” he spat with as much venom as he could muster. But mustering venom with those sapphire eyes boring into his was not an easy task.
“Your house? How dare you talk to me like that! This isn’t your house. Let me go!” She blasted him with indignant rage, as if she had a right to be offended. Pretty gutsy for someone in the position she was in—literally.
As if she read his mind, she darted a glance up and down his body, naked except for his boxers. Those startled eyes settled on his face. She didn’t look so crazed now but worried and defiant. He’d tie her up and call the police. Or he’d tie her up, and— Okay, never mind. He forced his sex-deprived mind—or was that depraved—out of the gutter and back to the roadside.
“This is my house.”
She snorted and shifted underneath him. “Get off of me, you big lug. This house belongs to Rose. She’d never sell it. Never.”
Who's Been Sleeping in My Bed? Page 1
