This wasn’t her bed.
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Books by Diane Perishing
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Copyright
This wasn’t her bed.
Get a grip, Carla told herself. She closed her eyes, counted to three, then angled around so she could see him.
“Oh,” she said aloud, as several things struck her at the same moment.
One: Not only had she never been in this room before, but she was naked—and she never slept naked.
Two: The man next to her in the bed was the drop-dead gorgeous incredible lover from the dream she’d been having. Which meant...
Three: It hadn’t been a dream!
Dear Reader,
It’s month two of our special fifteenth anniversary celebration, and that means more great reading for you. Just look what’s in store.
Amnesia! It’s one of the most popular plot twists around, and well it should be. All of us have probably wished, just for a minute, that we could start over again, be somebody else...fall in love all over again as if it were the first time. For three of our heroines this month, whether they want it or not, the chance is theirs. Start with Sharon Sala’s Roman’s Heart, the latest in her fabulous trilogy, THE JUSTICE WAY Then check out The Mercenary and the Marriage Vow by Doreen Roberts. This book carries our new TRY TO REMEMBER flash—just so you won’t forget about it! And then, sporting our MEN IN BLUE flash (because the hero’s the kind of cop we could all fall in love with), there’s While She Was Sleeping by Diane Pershing.
Of course, we have three other great books this month, too. Be sure to pick up Beverly Barton’s Emily and the Stranger, and don’t worry. Though this book isn’t one of them, Beverly’s extremely popular heroes, THE PROJECTORS, will be coming your way again soon. Kylie Brant is back with Friday’s Child, a FAMILIES ARE FOREVER title. Not only will the hero and heroine win your heart, wait ’til you meet little Chloe. Finally, welcome new author Sharon Mignerey, who makes her debut with Cassidy’s Courtship.
And, of course, don’t forget to come back next month for more of the best and most excitingly romantic reading around, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Leslie Wainger
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator
* * *
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., PO. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
* * *
WHILE SHE WAS SLEEPING
DIANE PERSHING
Published by Silhouette Books
America’s Publisher of Contemporary Romance
Books by Diane Perishing
Silhouette Intimate Moments
While She Was Sleeping #863
Silhouette Yours Truly
First Date: Honeymoon
Third Date’s the Charm
DIANE PERISHING cannot remember a time when she didn’t have her nose buried in a book. As a child she would cheat the bedtime curfew by snuggling under the covers with her teddy bear, a flashlight and a forbidden (read “grown-up”) novel. Her mother warned her that she would ruin her eyes, but so far, they still work. Diane has had many careers-singer, actress, film critic, disc jockey, TV writer, to name a few. Currently she divides her time between writing romances and doing voice-overs (you can hear her as Poison Ivy on the “Batman” cartoon). She lives in Los Angeles, and promises she is only slightly affected. Her two children, Morgan Rose and Ben, have just completed college, and Diane looks forward to writing and acting until she expires, or people stop hiring her, whichever comes first. She loves to hear from readers, so please write to her at P.O. Box 67424, Los Angeles, CA 90067.
To the Monday group—the other Diane P., Jamie, both
Karens and Shannon. They made me do it.
And to Captain John Wehner, Manhattan Beach Police
Department (Retired). One of the good guys.
Chapter 1
Sunday Morning
The sound of gulls crying and the smell of the ocean registered before she was fully awake. Daylight and its glare awaited her behind her closed eyes. No, she thought, she didn’t want to deal with it. Not yet.
Not after a night of fabulous dreams like the ones she’d had. Hot, thoroughly wanton dreams in which she’d been made love to by a gorgeous, muscular, thoroughly sexy, perfect lover. And not just once or twice, but several times and in several sensational ways. Her body thrummed as she mentally went over each and every time.
Especially the last time. The best time. She sighed aloud, keeping her eyes shut so she could replay it without any distractions.
It had been slower, much, much slower. And far more personal. After the intense, acrobatic, brain-burning first few times, after their bodies had strained and sweated with seemingly insatiable hunger, that final time had been surprisingly gentle. Tender, even. For what felt like an eternity, he’d played and licked and stroked her till she’d nearly risen off the bed at her body’s intense reaction.
How had her dream lover found the strength? she wondered, smiling to herself. Surely even a superhero couldn’t have stamina like that, could he? She sighed again. No, he couldn’t. Which was why that kind of lovemaking could only have happened in a dream, could only have been an invention of her imagination. Ah, well.
But she wasn’t really disappointed. After all, how lucky could one ordinary working girl get? To take part in a once-in-a-lifetime nocturnal fantasy, in which her mind was being granted all the sensations of reality without any of the respon-sibilities.
The entire encounter had been...life-altering. His hands had played over her and molded her as though they’d created her out of clay, as though nothing and no one else existed. In his arms, she’d been the most important woman in the world, the original Earth Woman. The fate of mankind hinged on their coupling....
She smiled once more. Okay, now she was getting a bit carried away, but still it had been sheer, unadulterated pleasure. She could die now, she knew, and not feel cheated of life experience.
Nearby, a bird squawked loudly, and another joined in. Reality awaited just outside the window. She turned onto her side—maybe she could put off getting up for a few moments more. If she concentrated hard enough, she could go back to sleep...and dream again.
A small twinge of guilt momentarily spoiled her train of thought. Richard. That look he used to get on his face that was part disapproving grown-up and part hurt puppy, the one that always made her want to shake him and say, “Cut it out,” which always led to her feeling ungenerous and insensitive.
Richard.... Why was he, that awful man, intruding on her dream? How dare he? Mentally swiping him away, she ordered her mind to restart the dream.
But it was too late. The night had slipped away and now it was morning. Time to open her eyes and start her day. She tried to raise her lids, but they felt as though during the night, someone had coated them with shellac. She grinned; should she use that as an excuse to turn over onto her stomach? Yes. Hugging the pillow, she tried to bury her head more deeply in the deliciously soft goose feathers and down stuffing.
Hold it... Her pillows weren’t the goose-feathers type because Richard was allergic to feathers. Oh, that’s right, she reminded herself, curling onto her side again. She was no lo
nger married to Richard, so she could have an entire goose and several goslings in bed with her and he couldn’t do a thing about it.
The image made her laugh softly, which was odd. She was not one of those women who woke up with a chuckle. She hated mornings, hated the fuzzy, foul taste in her mouth and the fact that neither her muscles nor her brain functioned too well for a while. But on this morning, smiling, even chuckling, was what was happening.
It was the dream, she thought, rubbing at the stickiness around her lids and opening her eyes. What a way to start the day. Sighing happily, she reached over to the bed table for her glasses.
There was no bed table.
She squinted—her nearsightedness made her dependent on her glasses, but sometimes, by squeezing her eye muscles, she was able to sharpen the focus.
It didn’t help. Next to the bed there were no glasses and no night table, only a blank wall. Her gaze darted around the broad expanse of a room, on its far wall what appeared to be the outline of a floor-to-ceiling window, with daylight streaming around the edges of some kind of window covering.
But not her window. Her window was high and narrow, above the bed. She didn’t have a window on the opposite wall.
Her heartbeat accelerated as the first ripple of fear sliced through her. Her breathing quickened, her hands turned to ice; as always, her first reaction to being thrown off balance was to give in to panic.
She’d tried to change that pattern, especially in this last difficult year, when she’d tried to change so much else about herself. There’d been no miracles, but there had been some progress. All right, then, she told herself, it was time to utilize the tools she’d learned.
Closing her eyes, she forced herself to inhale and exhale slowly, several times. There was a reasonable explanation for this...this strange room, she assured herself. There had to be. Her mind scurried around for that explanation. She was always a little slow on the uptake in the morning, so even if she thought she was awake, maybe this was the end of her dream, that moment between sleep and waking when imaginary occurrences still seemed real. Yes. That made sense.
After another deep breath, she opened her eyes again.
Same room.
She was not dreaming. She was not in her cozy bedroom in her cozy one-bedroom apartment. She was in a much larger room, one with an enormous window and no bed table. She was in a strange bed with strange pillows. She was...where?
The mattress groaned slightly as something—someone?—behind her shifted. All the panic symptoms returned full force. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover the sound of the scream that threatened to come out. With her heart thumping loudly in her ears, she tried to draw air into her lungs. Paralyzed with fear, that’s what she was. Paralyzed.
A sleepy clearing of the throat, a male throat, sounded in her ear, followed by the sensation of warm breath on the side of her neck.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, instinctively trying not to draw attention to herself so she could avoid trouble. Move, she told herself. Do something. But even as she gave her body instructions, her terror kept her frozen, glued to the bedsheets. Blue-and white-striped bedsheets. Definitely not her bedsheets.
A long, well-muscled forearm slung itself over her waist; the hand at the end of the forearm slowly moved up on the sheet to cup one of her breasts possessively. The man’s skin tone was olive and the fingers long, both sturdy and artistic at the same time. As though in a trance, she watched the hand’s movement, the gentle, slow massaging of her breast. Her nipple tightened with fear. Then a sudden surge of moisture between her legs informed her that fear was not the only reaction she was having to this intimate touch.
The owner of the hand made a low grunt of satisfaction in the back of his throat, then she heard the deep, even breathing of a man sleeping contentedly, felt again the warm breath on the side of her neck.
Something was familiar about his embrace, about the touch of those long fingers. Her own breathing slowed momentarily, as though some signal of trustworthiness had passed itself from him to her. Yes, familiar. And the association wasn’t negative, somehow. Thank God for small blessings.
But...who was he? As her brain whirled with all these new sensations and questions, she squeezed her eyes shut, wishing it all away.
Get a grip, she told herself. Stare the truth in the face this time, instead of giving your imagination all the power. Another careful lesson of the past year took hold. Clenching her hands tightly, she counted to three, opened her eyes, then angled her head around so she could see him.
“Oh,” she said aloud as several things struck her at the same moment: One—Not only had she never been in this room before, but she was naked, and she never slept naked.
Two—The man next to her in the bed was the drop-dead gorgeous incredible lover from the dream she’d been having. Which meant...
Three—It hadn’t been a dream.
Now, she moved.
As though shot from a cannon, she scrambled out from under the man’s embrace and tumbled off the side of the bed and onto a wooden floor. She barely noticed the resulting pain in her rump because her heartbeat was again escalating furiously. Thump. Thump. Thump. As adrenaline whipped through her bloodstream, she stared up at him. Without her glasses, his outline was fuzzy, but she knew his face and body by heart. He was the kind of guy who in real life had never given her the time of day—tall, rugged, with jet-black hair and a tanned muscular body with a couple of intriguing scars.
More of her “dream” came back to her in quick flashes. Something about a bar and noise and music and feeling cold. About glittering green eyes staring at her with suspicion. Walking near boats and water and smells of the ocean. More clearly now—images of her kneeling on the floor, watching the man sleep and wanting to touch him, of needing him frantically. Throwing herself at him, practically begging him to make love to her, something she’d never done in her life.
Oh, yes, it was coming back to her now, all too well. The poor man, he hadn’t even wanted to. He’d tried to turn her down, tried to push her away, but she’d persisted.
Shame at such aggressiveness made her want to die. It had to have been a dream, she told herself desperately. This was totally out of character for her. She wouldn’t, couldn’t—No, she’d never been in a situation like this.
As though he sensed her staring at him, the man opened his eyes, stretched his arms over his head, smiled lazily and said, “Good morning, Amanda.”
Amanda?
She bit down on her lip, but still a sound somewhere between a moan and a scream escaped. Then she scrambled to her feet, grabbed the folded blanket at the foot of the bed, wrapped it around herself and took off, scurrying through the first door she saw. Finding herself in a bathroom, she slammed the door shut and locked it. She sank onto the tile floor, her back against the door, her bare skin protected by the soft material of the blanket.
Her head was a whirl of sensations and thoughts and fears, pounding with a kind of foggy pain; her mouth felt as dry as the floor of a sawdust factory, and she knew her heart couldn’t keep going for a record number of beats per minute without serious results.
Hugging herself. she rocked back and forth while all kinds of questions popped in and out of her brain. Where had she been? How had she wound up in that man’s bed? Who was he? What in God’s name had happened to her?
Help, she said silently. Please, help.
“Hey, Amanda? Are you okay?”
She felt the pressure of the man’s knocking on the wooden door at her back; her immediate reaction was to escape, so she scooted around to the far wall to sit under a towel rack. A navy blue bath sheet draped over her eyes. She grabbed it by the edge and buried her face in it. It smelled faintly of bleach and she inhaled it gratefully. Clean, familiar bleach. Clean clothes and linens. Civilization, at least.
He knocked some more, impatiently this time.
“Amanda? Let me in.” His voice was low with morning huskiness. “Are you all right?”
She couldn’t answer; she had no words. The panic, like bile, clogged her throat and rendered her speechless. She didn’t think she could stop shaking long enough to get words out. Dear God, what was happening?
Think, she told herself. You have a brain, use it.
But her mind was too busy sorting and discarding images like a videotape on fast forward. The pictures were too vague to bring into focus, and her quivering body wasn’t helping her concentration.
“Hey, it’s a little late for modesty,” she heard him say with amused sarcasm, “don’t you agree? I mean, after last night?”
Last night, she repeated silently. The dream. No, not a dream. Reality. Hot bodies, out of control. Her body out of control, brazenly fired with desire.
She had actually done all that.
“Oh, God,” she groaned out loud.
“Amanda? Come on now. I’ll make some coffee. Okay?”
And why did he keep calling her Amanda?
“That’s not my name.” It came out in a weak croak.
“What? I didn’t hear you.”
She clenched her hands around the towel and made herself speak up. “My name is not Amanda. It’s Carly.”
She sensed him pausing to consider this. What was he thinking? Probably that she was crazy. Not that she could blame him. She probably was crazy. Only, she was usually pretty rational, so her descent into insanity had to be a very recent development.
“Well, whatever your name is,” he said finally, “I’m about to make coffee. How do you take it? Black or with cream? That is, if I have any.” This last part was said from a slight distance, as though he was walking away from the door.
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