by Lisa Plumley
He smiled. Actually smiled, first thing in the morning. The only time her ex-husband had ever smiled first thing in the morning was when they'd ... no, never mind. The morning quickies Charlie had insisted on every Sunday definitely did not bear remembering.
"You're supposed to be sleeping on the loveseat, remember?" she asked, clutching the blankets to her chin. "We agreed!"
What had she put on to sleep in last night? She couldn't remember. Was it her faded oversize Arizona Wildcats T-shirt or her more respectable, if boring and scratchy, flannel pajamas?
More importantly, what was Dylan wearing under that blanket?
"I did sleep on the loveseat," he said, angling one elbow onto the pillow and propping his head in his hand.
The sunlight shining in through the honeymoon suite windows captured the good-natured gleam in his eye and burnished his dark tousled hair with lighter-colored highlights. Why, Stacey thought grumpily, couldn't Dylan have awakened looking like an ogre and smelling just as bad? And what was he wearing, anyway? He'd only pulled the sheet up waist-high, and she couldn't catch a glimpse of anything beneath it.
She bet he slept in the nude.
"But I've been up for a while," he went on, oblivious to her wonderings. "I had to smuggle Ginger out for a walk," Dylan said with a smiling glance toward the dog sprawled, snoring faintly, near the honeymoon suite door.
"I can see it wore her out."
"No more than last night did." When they'd returned to their room, they'd found Ginger surrounded by colorful pieces of shredded Las Vegas attractions brochures, chewing up the M-Z section of the yellow pages. Obviously, they'd tasted better than the ordinary dog food and water Dylan had left for her.
"Anyway," Dylan said, "I stopped and ordered breakfast from room service while I was downstairs, and I thought it would look more honeymoon-ish if both sides of the bed looked slept in when the food arrived."
"Oh." So much for her plans to go out for breakfast at one of the restaurants nearby, Stacey thought. How typically Dylan, to decide for her what she wanted to eat.
She'd just have to try and put a good face on it, for the sake of the honeymoon ruse. But first, she needed to get out of bed. And to do that, she had be dressed.
Trying to seem casual about it, Stacey stuck her hand beneath the blanket and touched her shirt. At the feel of the thin washed cotton in her hand, she remembered: she'd compromised last night, and worn her Wildcats T-shirt plus her flannel pajama bottoms.
Too bad the latter were lumped someplace at the foot of the bed, discarded in the middle of the night when it had gotten too hot to sleep with them on. She was sleeping in a T-shirt and panties. Nothing special, except she'd never actually worn such a getup in the company of Dylan.
And she didn't intend to now.
"Breakfast, huh?" Stacey asked. Trying not to jiggle the mattress, she fished around with her foot, hoping to hook her pajama bottoms. "Sounds good."
"Mmmm-hmmm." He didn't sound like he was contemplating scrambled eggs. "I figured you'd rather sleep in than wrestle with the room service menu. I don't know what you usually have for breakfast, but," Dylan said, giving her an innuendo-loaded grin, "I think you'll enjoy what I ordered. It's special."
Thump—thump. Her heart turned over at the purr in his voice, and the sleepy, let's-stay-in-bed look in his eyes didn't help her composure much, either. She had to get out of that bed before her body got the better of her brain and convinced her to attack Dylan again like she had atop the Atmosphere tower last night. Biting her lip, Stacey dug her toes into a promising lump and then realized it was part of the sheet. Rats.
"This is nice, isn't it?" Dylan asked, grabbing hold of the headboard for an anchor and yawning as he stretched. His toes popped out from beneath the sheet at the end of the bed. The muscles in his arms flexed, then relaxed again. He resumed his propped-on-the-pillows stance and smiled at her. "Being together like this, I mean."
Stacey's gaze dipped from his dark-stubbled jaw to the broad expanse of his shoulders and muscular chest, then she made herself return his smile. "Yeah, uh, nice."
Find those pajama bottoms! her brain yelled. She wiggled and scooted sideways, still searching with her toes. How could being in bed with a man discombobulate her so much? It wasn't as though she hadn't spent four years sleeping next to a male person every night. Well, almost every night. Except for when Charlie had been working overtime, or out of town, or ...
Face it. He hadn't been Dylan. And it wasn't just sculpted chest muscles or gorgeous green eyes or cute rumpled hair she was talking about, either. Charlie would never have put himself out to help her with something like the honeymoon ruse. Period. Dylan would—was—and if his help with the police and the taxi driver yesterday was any indication, she knew he'd stick by her to the end, too. Even if she made him mad.
Maybe, just maybe, she could trust him a little.
A very teeny-tiny little.
But it was a start. Heartened at the thought, Stacey let herself relax a bit, still probing the bottom of the mattress with her foot in the hopes of finding the rest of her clothes. "So, what's on the agenda for tod—aaaay!"
She'd scooted too far backwards. The mattress dipped with her weight and she went with it, straight off the edge. Clutching fistfuls of the blanket, Stacey landed on the floor with half of the covers twisted around her. A pillow bounced onto her head, then dropped onto the carpet. She frowned at it. Cool move, Stacey. Way to look sophisticated.
Way to hide her T-shirt and panties getup. Aaack! She flung part of the blanket over her exposed legs just as Dylan leaned over the edge of the bed. His arm moved. His hand, filled with something he'd picked up from the mattress, appeared over the side of the bed. He grinned and held whatever it was aloft.
Her pajama bottoms.
"Looking for these?"
"Give those back!" Holding the blanket plastered against her hips for a shield, Stacey leaned up and grabbed for the pajamas.
Dylan raised them higher. "Say please."
"What? No!" She snatched, missed, and scowled. Ginger, apparently awakened by all the excitement, bounded over with her tail wagging, and barked at Dylan.
"Shhhh!" they said. Ignoring them both, the dog put her paws up on the mattress. Her tail swished, narrowly missing Stacey's nose. She hauled her from the mattress and the dog plunked down beside her.
"Figures," Dylan said. "As usual, she's on your side."
"She's on the right side," Stacey told him, leaning over to pet her. Ginger licked her chin, nicely showing some doggie allegiance. "Now give me those pajamas."
"Make me," he said, laughing.
She grabbed the pillow from the floor, and his grin faded.
"Oh, no, you don't." Backing up on his knees, he held up his arms to ward off the pillow. "I have to warn you," Dylan said from between his elbows, "you don't know who you're messing with here."
"Oh, yeah? Who?"
"Pillow fight champion of Camp Wigwam, that's who," he shot back, his fingers inching toward one of the remaining pillows. "Two years running."
"Oooh, I'm scared." Stacey grinned, releasing her blanket long enough to yank down her big T-shirt. Grabbing her pillow, she twirled it by its corner and tried to look menacing. "I've got you beat by a year. Three year champ, Camp Weehawken."
"Camp Weehawken's a bunch of girls," he said, draping her pajama bottoms over the headboard like a pirate flying his flag on a stolen ship.
Or a matador inciting the bull to charge. Except Stacey felt more mulish than bullish. "I'm going to get those anyway," she told him, raising an eyebrow with mock regret. "So you might as well surrender."
"Never. Besides, I've got more ammunition than you do." Turning partway, Dylan picked up his pillow and passed it from hand to hand, treating her to a pirate's roguish grin and a revealing view of his sleeping attire, too. He was wearing, she saw, a pair of green striped boxer shorts. And nothing else.
The broad planes of his chest narrowed into a tight stomach
that had to cost him a thousand crunches a day. Between passes of the pillow Stacey glimpsed narrow hips and the finely-muscled strength of his thighs as her gaze skimmed lower, followed the crisp green-and-white stripes of his boxers, then shot upward again. Mercy, but the man kept some kind of body hidden beneath those sloppy T-shirts and baggy shorts of his! She'd never have guessed, never have thought to ...
To wallop him with a pillow. Stay focused, she ordered herself. His attempts at distraction wouldn't work on the likes of her.
"But I've got better aim," she said, squinting up at him with her best Dirty Harry impression to hide the fact that he had distracted her, at least for a nanosecond. "Hand over my pajamas."
Her cover-up came too late. He'd already caught her all but counting the pinstripes on his underwear.
"Do you like what you see?" Dylan asked, smoothly as though she'd never spoken between ogling him and making her demand. How come he always seemed to guess what she was thinking? Stacey sure as heck never noticed him ogling her. Suddenly, the notion made her feel sort of miffed.
Oh, no, it didn't. That was ridiculous. What did she care what Dylan thought of her? She had no intention of cozying up to him again and risk having the honeymoon suite charade exposed because her attention was someplace else.
"I see my clothes draped over the headboard like panty raid souvenirs," she said, twirling her pillow overhead. "Hand them over."
"Come and get 'em."
"Bully."
"Chicken."
She hurled her pillow. It flew into Dylan's face with a satisfying thwap! and slid into his lap. Too late, Stacey realized she'd let go of it. Rats! Now she was defenseless. She'd only meant to whack him once, just to show she meant business.
"Looks like you'll be the one surrendering," he informed her, grinning at the pillow and then at her. He lowered his pillowcase-covered ammunition—and lowered his voice. "I promise to be lenient in my terms," Dylan rumbled, raising goosebumps along her arms with the seductive tone his words carried. "Amnesty's granted for a kiss."
"You wish. I'm not giving up," Stacey said, casting about for another weapon. Her gaze lit on her other pillow, tilting precariously at the edge of the mattress. Biting her lip, she snaked her hand toward it.
Dylan snatched it back. "Uh, uh, uh. That's mine." He pretended to think about it, then said, "I guess you could always take off your T-shirt and wallop me with it, for lack of a more lethal weapon." He waggled his eyebrows with overplayed lasciviousness. "On the other hand, that might be most lethal of all. What do you say?"
"I say you're out of there," Stacey said. She grabbed hold of the part of the silk sheet still remaining on the bed and tugged. He was kneeling on top of it; all she had to do was pull, and Dylan would come tumbling onto the floor too, minus a couple degrees of smugness and his pillow stockpile. She wrenched harder. Nothing budged except her—Dylan had captured the sheet's other end and started pulling.
"Hey!" She kept hanging on and her backside bumped across the carpet. Beside her, Ginger scrambled out of the way, breathing blasts of doggie breath into her face as she went. "Hey!"
"All's fair in love and war."
Tug-of-war she wasn't a champion at. But where brute strength couldn't take her, Stacey figured as she pulled, cunning would. Sneaking a glance at Dylan, she saw he'd added both hands to his sheet-pulling efforts. Perfect.
She let go. Just as she'd hoped, Dylan flopped onto the bed, thrown backward by the force of his own strength turned against him. With a yell of triumph, Stacey scrambled onto the mattress and trampled on her hands and knees over the sheets, atop Dylan, and over to the bedpost, then yanked her pajama bottoms free.
She whirled them overhead like a cowboy's lasso. "Woo-hoo!" she crowed, putting her hands on her hips and settling back onto her heels. "Don't mess with the Weehawken champ."
Laughing, Dylan raised his arms and tee'd his hands together to make a 'time out' signal. "You win," he groaned. "I'm no match for your stealth."
He struggled up onto his elbows and peered down the length of his body at her on the bed next to him. They were so close their hips nearly touched, but Stacey felt too triumphant to care. She grinned hugely, feeling carefree, with laughter still tugging at her lips. How had she forgotten how much sheer fun Dylan could be?
"Is that what they teach you at girl's camp?" he complained, "to fight dirty?"
"Awww, you big baby." Pursing her lips in a pout, Stacey leaned forward and patted his chest sympathetically with her hand that wasn't holding her pajama bottoms. "You're the one picking fights with me. Maybe next time you'll ...ahhhh!"
Suddenly, she was airborne. Her pajama bottoms, so hard-won, went flying. The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back amidst a pile of pillows with her hands anchored over her head in Dylan's fists. The heat from his body seared into her skin. Straddling her, he leaned over and smiled. "Gotcha."
Stacey's eyes widened. His strong thighs hemmed in her hips on both sides, his hands held her arms immobile, and his chest nearly touched hers because he leaned so close. Worse, she realized as a brush of cool, hotel-air-conditioned air whisked over her belly—her T-shirt had ridden up past her thighs. It felt like it was puddled someplace around her navel. This was a dangerous situation.
Very dangerous.
And to be immediately gotten out of.
Stacey wiggled experimentally beneath him. Dylan's gaze went straight to her breasts, and she felt suddenly aware of their jiggling, happily bra-less state beneath her T-shirt. She froze. Unfortunately, her chest didn't. Instead of cooperating with her mind, her body went right ahead and responded to his attention. Her nipples puckered, pushing against her shirt in a way she would have immediately covered—if she'd had the use of her arms.
"Play with fire and you might get burned," Dylan murmured, his gaze roving lower. "Or maybe that's me getting burned. God, you're gorgeous."
Gorgeous? Wow, nobody had ever called her ... no, she wasn't falling for this. Remembering her theory that Dylan only wanted her to sleep with him and repair his studly dating record, Stacey hardened her resolve and stared back at him. "Let go of me."
Dylan eased his hold on her hands long enough to caress her fingers and smile. He looked so boyish, so openhearted, that she wanted to throw caution to the wind and abandon her suspicions. Lulled by his smile, she sank a little deeper into the mattress. When his answer came, his voice was just another soothing lure, easing her against the tangled sheets and further into her tangled emotions.
"Are you sure?" he asked, sliding his fingers up, down, in between hers, gliding over each sensitive fingertip in turn. Shivering, she tried to get a hold of herself. For Pete's sake, only their fingertips were touching. That wasn't enough to make her tremble, to make her want him, like this. Yet when Dylan looked down at her again, Stacey felt his gaze touch her like the softest of caresses, and she wanted to sigh beneath it.
"Ummm ..." Of course she was sure. Wasn't she?
Her moment's indecision cost her the choice. His hands tightened on her wrists, pushed them into the plump pillow beneath, and her breath caught. "Yes, yes, I'm sure!" she cried. "I'm sure."
"Sure of what?" Dylan murmured. His head lowered, and his stubbled jaw whisked past her cheek. Stacey couldn't move, couldn't think, as his mouth found her earlobe, nibbled gently, then kissed below it. "Sure of this?" he asked, moving his lips against her neck. "You only have to tell me what you want, Stacey, and I'll give it to you. Do you want this?"
He kissed her neck, her jaw, brought his hand low to cradle her head and hold her still as he suckled the place where her neck and jaw met, doing things with his mouth and tongue and teeth she'd never dreamed could feel so good. "Do you want this?" he whispered. "Because I swear I'll stop if you ask me to."
Please don't make me stop his body said as his hand tightened in her hair. Love me. Let me love you. Smiling, Dylan looked deeply into her eyes and stroked his thumb across her cheek. "You make me crazy," he said. "God, I should've n
ever let you go."
Let her go. No, she didn't want that. Stacey knew that much, despite the warning bells in her brain telling her that was exactly what she ought to be asking for. No, what she wanted was to arch against him, to tangle her legs with his and feel his hairy calves tickle hers, to stroke his back and feel him shudder beneath her touch. She wanted to feel him kiss her again, to let him take her mouth, her heart, her soul, and make her his.
"Please," she whispered, daring to bring her hands to his arms and grasp the finely-wrought, muscular support she found there. "Please ..."
She felt languid yet taut as a strung wire, sleepy yet more alive than she'd been in months. Looking into his eyes, Stacey dug her fingertips into his arms and levered herself closer, and her gaze drifted to his lips. Kiss me, she thought. I need you to kiss me. Dylan's weight shifted as he moved to comply, reading her desires in her eyes or her mouth or maybe her plaintive cry. Please ...
His lips neared hers. A thud sounded at the door—someone knocking. The sound roused Ginger. She barked, just once, but it was enough to make Stacey aware of her situation again. She tightened her hold on Dylan at the sound, realized he'd already released her hands and it was she—she—who'd practically attacked him yet again, and the spell was broken. Another knock came. Dylan's mouth brushed hers ... and Stacey bolted from the bed.
"No!" Shaking, she yanked down her T-shirt and leapt onto the carpet just as Dylan's head thunked into the mattress. There was an odd popping sound, then something powdery and sweet-smelling puffed up around his head.
"Ahhh! My eyes!" Yelling, Dylan scrambled upright, swabbing at his eyes with both fists. White powder drifted like a cloud into the air above him, then gradually sifted back down onto his head like an exceptionally even-spaced—and exceptionally bad—case of dandruff.
Her aromatherapy powder. Stacey snatched the broken paper sachet from the indentation in the mattress where Dylan had landed just as another knock came at the door.
