In Bed with the Wild One & In Bed with the Pirate

by Julie Kistler

  He squinted at her face in the dim room. Did that soft, out-of-focus expression mean that she had a platonic sleepover in mind? Or was that more of a sly, come-hither look?

  It didn’t matter. It suddenly seemed to him that whatever she intended, he could, if he wanted to, take advantage of her as easily as walking across the room. He knew that. With every bone in his body. Every aching, bruised, vulnerable bone in his body.

  All he had to do was get in that bed, cuddle up, strip off her teeny-weeny little T-shirt, and make love to her until the sun came up. It was what his body wanted. And it was there for the taking.

  But, damn it all to hell, Emily was the last woman on earth he could possibly take advantage of. He just couldn’t do it.

  “Oh, come on.” She dropped her head back down to her pillow, but she patted the open side of the bed. In a voice muffled by sleep and her pillowcase, she mumbled, “You said you were trying to make sure I was safe. Don’t you think I’d be safer if you were here?”

  As long as he behaved himself, she had a point. He had to admit it. Damn it, she actually had a point.

  In The Wild One, all he did was worry about whether Emily was all right. But in Pollyanna, with her literally at his fingertips, he might be able to relax. Or at least that was what he told himself.

  A small, nagging voice chided, Yeah, you’re really going to be able to relax here, sidled up next to her. But he ignored it.

  “I’ll keep my pants on,” he muttered.

  The bottom line was that it was very late, they were all alone, and Tyler could better protect her if he was right there with her. Besides, what harm could it do? She was already making soft, snoozy little noises, lost in sweet dreams, smiling to herself and hugging her pillow.

  He’d never been all that noble, but he swore he would start now. So he found himself bunking down right next to her, bunching up the bedclothes between them so nothing was actually touching anything else, and then just lying there, watching Emily sleep.

  “Mmm…” She made a contented little moan, her lips curving with pleasure.

  Tyler gritted his teeth, stiff as a board on his side of the damn bed, drowning in ruffles and frills. This room, this bed, were so cutie-pie he could spit. He snatched a pint-size, heart-shaped pillow out from under him and pitched it across the room.

  Why was she making those noises? What in God’s name was she dreaming about, anyway?

  “Mmm, Tyler…” she whispered. “That feels so good. Right there.”

  She was dreaming about him?

  At that moment, he was holding himself so rigid he could have bounced a dime off his abs. This platonic bodyguard stuff was insane, preposterous, and probably going to cause him permanent bodily harm.

  “I’m never going to make it through a whole night like this,” he said darkly. Good thing it was already well into morning. What would surely turn out to be the longest morning in history.

  THERE WAS SOMETHING breathing in her ear. The puffs of air were warm and rhythmic, and they tickled. “Mmph?” she mumbled, brushing at it.

  But it wouldn’t go away. And she couldn’t move away, not with that hard, heavy, muscled arm thrown over her chest, the hand brushing her T-shirt, gently cupping her breast. And an even heavier leg nestled between hers.

  She slid her foot up the pant leg. Jeans. Soft jeans. Hard man underneath.

  Oh, my god.

  What was she doing with a man in her bed?

  Tyler. It had to be Tyler.

  She sneaked a peek over her shoulder. His eyes were closed, his lips parted slightly, and the sharp angles of his cheekbones, his jaw, his elegant nose, seemed softer in sleep. He looked so drop-dead gorgeous it took her breath away.

  She’d never woken up to anything this fabulous before, not even Christmas morning.

  But when had he gotten into bed with her? When had she let him? What exactly happened last night?

  Frantic, holding herself stock-still so she wouldn’t wake him, Emily carefully eased his hand off her breast and set it a few inches lower where it could get into less trouble. At the moment, however, pretty much everywhere was a danger zone. All she was wearing was a thin T-shirt and a lousy pair of bikini underpants. She tried to look on the bright side—at least she was wearing something.

  Her brain racing, she tried to pull together some coherent memory of what she’d done, what they’d done. The Flesh Pit—yes, she remembered that. The altercation with the pin-striped, knife-wielding guy—okay, yeah, that was clear. And then what?

  A kiss in the park. Yummy. Scary, but yummy. Tyler asking questions. Her magic, refillable wineglass.

  “Oh, my head,” she groaned. It felt like someone had wrapped her in wool and then started pounding hammers on her temples—which made it even harder to think.

  The sad truth was she had no recollection whatsoever of how she’d gotten back to the B and B or what Tyler was doing in her bed, although that didn’t take much imagination. She’d already come on to him in as many ways as she knew how, so she’d probably just attacked the poor guy. Jumbled images of him naked, slithering around the chrome-and-leather bed in The Wild One, suddenly filled her mind, making her even more sure she was right.

  But that didn’t work. They were wrapped up in her bed, not his.

  “Oh, no. Maybe we did it both places,” she murmured with growing horror. “I’m a slut. I slept with the man of my dreams—twice—and I don’t even remember!”

  See what happened when you started to act like Sukie Sommersby? Wasn’t that what she wanted, to wake up with a handsome stranger in the middle of a moral quagmire, just like Sukie?

  Not so fun when it really happened, was it?

  Meanwhile, her head hurt like blazes and his hand had crept back to her breast again. “Maybe I’m dreaming.”

  Right. And that ridge of solid male flesh pressing against the front of his jeans and the back of her bottom was just her imagination?

  Keep your eyes shut and don’t move. Let him wake up first and deal with it.

  It was a plan. Emily squeezed her eyes shut and settled back into him. And the fact that it felt wonderful and natural and as if she was born to fit right there was of no consequence.

  Absolutely none.

  HE COULD HEAR HER HEARTBEAT. Erratic, racing, alive, it sounded like a beacon in the misty gray morning.

  Her skin was so soft, her hair silky and smooth as he nuzzled her neck and her ear. His fingers glided under the edge of her T-shirt, teasing, testing, and his knee slid up between her thighs. She was warm, relaxed, sweetly yielding. Now this was what he called a great way to wake up.

  Somewhere nearby, he could smell coffee brewing and bread baking. Mmm…he breathed in the delicious mingled aromas of steaming espresso and blueberry muffins and Emily in the morning.

  What?

  Tyler jerked awake, tumbling backward and off the side of the Pollyanna bed. Once again, he tripped on her lingerie, and he bent and lunged for it.

  “Damn it, Emily!” he shouted. “Could you keep your damn bra off the floor?”

  She blinked, wide-awake, staring at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Your underwear is on the floor again. It’s a hazard.” He flung it at her and turned on his heel.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “But, Tyler,” she tried, clasping ruffled sheets to her front as she tripped out of the bed after him. “Can you at least tell me what we did last night? You know, you and me? Did we—I have to know—did we do it?”

  That was all he needed—Emily overcome with guilt and amnesia and who knew what else. He practically leaped through the back wall of the armoire and into his room, this time banging his bare foot on the trophy he’d left in the middle of the floor last night. He found a particularly colorful curse to throw at the trophy as he pitched it out of his way.

  Behind him, he could hear Emily rustling around, trying to find clothes, he supposed. Great. Now she’d be popping through the armoire and
complicating his life even more than it already was. He thought of taking a cold shower so he could forget everything that had just happened, but he was afraid Emily would hop right in with him.

  “What I need,” he said suddenly, “is to get out of this freaky place and get a really strong cup of coffee. Maybe two or three.”

  First he shut and latched the secret panels to keep her out for a little while longer. Then, with one hand firm against the door of the armoire, he shucked his clothes and pulled on clean ones. It wasn’t easy undressing and re-dressing with one hand, but he just didn’t trust her.

  And then he paced to his window, wrenched it open and scrambled out over the sill. If Sluggo could do it, he could, too. Besides, it was quicker and more direct this way, instead of navigating through the house where people like Kate and Verna might want explanations.

  So he stretched over to the drain pipe, got a fairly secure footing between that and a trellis full of clematis, and methodically climbed down the side of the house. As he dropped to the sidewalk, he heard another window scrape open above his head.

  “Tyler!” Emily cried. “Wait! I want to come with you.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” he muttered, picking up his pace. “Oh, no, you don’t.”

  EMILY WATCHED HIM DISAPPEAR into the foggy morning, feeling every bit as frustrated and annoyed as he looked.

  If she could only see where he was going, she could get dressed on the double and follow. But the last she saw was a glimpse of his dark head whipping around a corner and out of view. There was nothing she could do.

  She lumped herself down onto the edge of the bed, trying to focus. “Okay, so we didn’t make love. Because if we did, first, that is something neither I nor my body would forget, and second, he wouldn’t be so cranky.”

  Yes, she felt that was a persuasive line of reasoning. The more pressing question was whether that conclusion was a relief or a disappointment.

  “It’s a relief,” she snapped. “Okay, so it’s time I admit I really, really want to sleep with him. But not while I’m unconscious!”

  No, she wanted to savor every second.

  “But what a guy,” she said wistfully, changing her train of thought and jumping to her feet as she leaped to the next conclusion. “There I was, sloshed to the gills, eminently seducible, and he didn’t go for it. What a great guy.”

  Or should she be insulted? Maybe he wasn’t attracted to her at all.

  She raised a weak hand to push her bangs off her forehead. “Life is so confusing when you throw away the rule book.”

  Her nose picked up the scent of freshly baked blueberry muffins, and she decided food might help her brain work better. It couldn’t make it work any worse.

  She vaguely recalled Kate giving breakfast instructions when she’d checked in. So she pulled open her door, hoping she remembered right, gratified to find she did. There was a silver tray with a basket of muffins, strawberry preserves, a pot of coffee, cream, sugar and a pretty china cup.

  “Heaven,” Emily announced, taking the lid off the coffeepot and inhaling deeply. “Absolute heaven.”

  As she pulled herself up to the wicker tea table, munching away, she plotted her next move. Now that Tyler had stomped off into the fog, she had all the time in the world to plan and ponder and get it right this time. If only she could remember more of what had happened.

  Emily drank her coffee, ate a muffin and a half, and then marched herself into a long, extremely hot bath. As the water sluiced into the claw-footed tub, with steam rising around her, she found that there were bits and pieces of conversation hovering at the fringes of her conscious mind.

  “I think we agreed that we would be partners,” she said slowly. “And that he would include me on the deal from here on. Plus he was worried that the guy with the knife was still after us, which would explain why he stayed with me last night.”

  But not why he would run off at the first light of dawn.

  Still she distinctly remembered something like I saved your adorable butt, Tyler O’Toole, and now you owe me, so you have to take me on as a partner.

  No, that wasn’t it. All she’d gotten out of that was dinner—on her credit card.

  Something after that. Later, much later. In the morning, you will take me with you, right? Promise?

  And she could swear he said yes. She had this fuzzy, half-baked recollection of telling him that they were in it together, and that he shouldn’t worry, because…

  Clunk. It came back in one fell swoop. “Because I would make sure he wasn’t out on the street, that Fat Mike wouldn’t lay a hand on him, that Slab would show up for court on Monday, and that he could pay Jozette back every dime he owed her.”

  Emily sat up straight in the bathtub, sloshing water onto the floor. “Did I really say all that? Oh, my God. I did. I even mentioned the Rainbow Rest-O-Rant. He knows.” She sank deeper into the water, trying to drown her humiliation. “He knows I followed him from Chicago. He thinks I’m a stalker again.”

  She had to find him. She had to explain. Reaching for the towel, she made rapid plans to track him down and make him listen to reason. But she stopped in mid-plan.

  “Hey, wait a minute. If he thinks I’m a stalker, why did he sleep next to me like my guardian angel all night?”

  That didn’t make any sense at all. But then, Tyler seemed to be operating a few peas short of a pod, anyway. He was a guy, which made the workings of his mind mysterious enough. On top of that, he had some strange profession that he refused to talk about, but it involved hookers and strippers and hoodlums. He had very loyal friends like Jozette the waitress and Kate the innkeeper who fed him and let him stay over. He had a fondness for underdogs. And he didn’t have any money whatsoever.

  Except for being uncommonly good-looking, he didn’t add up to anything she could make heads or tails of.

  Emily took her time finishing her bath, using all the little bottles and soaps so kindly laid out as part of the hospitality at Beau’s B and B. But by the time she was clean and brushed and ready to go, she still hadn’t really come up with her next move.

  And then it hit her.

  The Flesh Pit. No matter what he thought of her, whether he’d decided she was a nut or an annoyance or a babe in the woods who needed to be protected, sooner or later, he would be back at The Flesh Pit.

  “I’ve read enough mysteries in my time,” she said out loud, “to know that the sleuth always goes back to the place where he last saw his target.”

  Slab was his target. Slab had been lying on the floor at Shanda’s apartment above The Flesh Pit the last time they saw him. And Tyler would be heading back there for clues as soon as he got his head together and got back on course.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m right!” Emily shook a fist in the air. “I am so right!”

  And this time she wasn’t going to stand out like any sore thumb at the strip joint, either. This time she had the proper—or improper—wardrobe, baby.

  Quickly Emily found the shopping bag that held her purchases from last night. The new underwear was going to come in handy, plus she sifted through the other items she’d bought from the lady in the alley. Perfect.

  All that was left in the bag was…a big honker of a knife. “I forgot all about that,” she said, sinking to her knees, dangling the thing from her fingertips. What was she going to do with Mack’s knife?

  Where she was going, venturing back into the lion’s den, aka The Flesh Pit, a weapon might actually come in handy. But where could she hide it on her person so she could take it with her? And if she did hide it, could she get arrested for being in possession of a concealed weapon?

  With a certain amount of distaste, she wrapped it in a washcloth and stuck it down in the bottom of her purse. And then she was on to happier tasks—like dressing up in her new clothes.

  Finally, decked out in a tie-dyed halter top, a denim miniskirt embroidered with flowers, and the cutest pair of monkey-and-palm-tree wedgie sandals in the Bay Area, she was ready.<
br />
  It might not be Mata Hari. Not even Wonder Woman.

  But Emily Chaplin was ready for anything.

  7

  EMILY HAD HER HAND on the doorknob, ready to step out of Beau’s B and B, when she got caught.

  “Emily? Good heavens, is that you?”

  She turned back to see Kate emerging from the kitchen, balancing a tray with someone else’s breakfast. Dressed as uniquely as ever, Kate wore a silky white poet’s shirt with billowy sleeves, a pair of sapphire blue leggings, and a deeply fringed purple vest.

  “Yes, it’s me.” Self-conscious, Emily held her arm and the shoulder strap of her purse in front of the neon swirls on her halter top. “My baggage never arrived, so I bought some more things last night. Different things. Different from the khakis-and-white-shirt look, I mean. What do you think?”

  “I think you look like someone else.” Kate’s gaze swept up and down her. “Someone with a very creative fashion sense.”

  Translated, that statement probably meant Emily looked like a goon. Well, she wasn’t dressed any more weirdly than Kate, Emily thought defiantly. Okay, so maybe she was showing more skin. But her outfit was no more bizarre or eccentric than three-quarters of the inhabitants of North Beach.

  “I was in the mood to change my look.”

  Kate raised an eyebrow. “I can see that. Where did you find that outfit, anyway?”

  “There was this woman with a table in an alley…”

  Now she was undoubtedly going to get lectured about the folly of buying from con artists or thieves or something. She was so tired of everyone telling her what to do, when, and with whom. She was an adult, and if she wanted to do business with people who had studs in their lips and noses and hung out in alleys, she could darn well do it.

  “Oh,” Kate said, breaking into a smile. “I know her. She does beautiful work. You should see what she can do with silk. I bought a hand-painted scarf from her a few months ago that was to die for.”