front of his face—more felt than seen, since it was so dark. He must have hung up more things than he’d remembered, because the closet was more full than he’d expected. Of course, it could just seem that way because he was coming in from this side angle.
He pushed past his things, noting the soft, delicate scent in the air. Whoever had rented this place before him must have left behind some sachet or air freshener—his clothes sure didn’t smell like the flowery stuff that filled his every breath.
Reaching the doors that led to his new bedroom, he saw one was slightly ajar, and that the room beyond was well-lit. Strange. He didn’t remember putting a bulb in the new lamp he’d picked up for his bedside table.
He had just put up his hand to push the door the rest of the way open, when he heard a voice.
“Soft and pretty, sultry and sexy or hot and raunchy?”
He froze. That voice had come from his bedroom, and he knew damn well he hadn’t even hooked up a TV or radio, much less left it turned on.
“What’s it going to take to turn you on?”
Sexy voices of strange women standing in my bedroom would be his first answer. Though, why said strange woman would be in his bedroom, he had no idea. Had a pair of guests crept inside, thinking to slip into what had been an empty unit until earlier today, to grab a midparty quickie?
“Do you like what you see?” she purred.
He waited for a male voice to answer, but heard nothing. Miss Purrs-A-Lot was either talking to herself, or the guy she was with had been struck mute while he tried to decide between pretty, sexy or raunchy.
Frankly, so had Xander. All he could wonder was if there was an option D, for “all of the above.”
Well, he’d also been struck mute by the realization that he was playing the role of voyeur in this sexy drama.
“I somehow suspect you’ll like pretty and soft, not sexy,” she said, her voice a little less throaty, a little less wicked. In fact, she sounded almost … disappointed. Which lent credence to his theory that she was entirely alone.
He rubbed his forehead, racking his brain to figure this out. A voice was coming from his bedroom. A female voice. A throaty, attractive female voice. A throaty, attractive female voice talking about something very sexy. To herself.
Wondering if he’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in a male fantasyland, or was being set up for some kind of X-rated Punk’d episode, he pushed the door open another inch and looked into the room. He couldn’t see far, because his line of sight was blocked by the woman staring at her reflection in the mirror on the other—closed—closet door. Yep. She had definitely been talking to herself; to her reflection, anyway.
Then he realized … it was her. The redhead whose eyes, he now saw, were so blue they looked violet. The one in the green dress. Only, now, she wasn’t wearing that green dress. She was—holy shit—nearly naked.
The long strands of her red hair had fallen forward over her soft, bare shoulders, covering much of a lacy black bra. And covering the curves that bra was covering.
Too bad.
No, it’s not, jackass. Because he didn’t know if his heart could have taken seeing what he suspected was an utterly perfect pair of breasts. Just spying the rest of her body was enough to rob him of breath. And coherent thought.
The hair played peek-a-boo with the bra. But below that was nothing but smooth, soft-looking, pale, feminine skin. Miles and miles of it.
Her bare midriff drew his eyes downward, to the indentation of her small waist, then the flare of her hips. Those hips were covered by two thin straps of silky fabric—dark green, lacy—that descended into a V of shimmery material that covered her groin. Long, supple legs went on forever, or to the floor, ending in a pair of sexy, spike-heeled black shoes.
“So I guess a thong might be overdoing it,” she said.
A thong could never overdo it in his book.
“Too bad. This thing doesn’t look too shabby,” she said with a sigh. She turned, glancing at her reflection, checking out the rear view.
Oh, man, what a view. The strip-of-fabric-pretending-to-be-underwear slid between two delectable cheeks, and Xander nearly choked, sure he’d never seen a more perfect ass.
Suddenly realizing what he was doing—playing Peeping Tom—he slammed his eyes shut. Sure, the woman had decided to come into his bedroom to do her lingerie assessment, for some weird reason, but that didn’t mean he should stand here in the dark like some perv, squirming to catch a peek.
He tried to figure out what to do. How did one handle this type of situation? Should he go back the way he’d come, hoping she wouldn’t hear him, then go tell his landlady that some chick with a great ass and a Godiva complex was trespassing in his place? Or maybe he ought to get out there and confront her before her boyfriend showed up to decide whether he liked her thong? He hadn’t even slept in his brand-new bed himself yet; he sure didn’t want another couple christening it.
Especially not if the other couple was that woman and any other man on the planet than himself.
He could have answered one question for her—yes, oh, hell, yes on her current underwear. If the guy was straight and breathing, he’d like the damn thong. In fact, as for himself, well, he couldn’t think about much except how much he wanted to tug that shiny green fabric out from between those luscious curves. With his teeth.
You gotta get out of here.
Yeah. Pronto.
Even though the lighting was low in the closet, and he couldn’t see well, he knew he’d have to at least open his eyes to make sure he didn’t poke himself in the face with a hanger. So he risked a peek, opening just the left one. He hadn’t turned away from the crack in the door, so he got a full-on image of what she was up to.
She was up to dropping her panties.
“Whoa, stop right there!” he barked, not even having made the decision to reveal himself. Instinct just propelled him out into the bedroom.
She let out a little scream, and he opened his mouth to tell her he wasn’t some kind of attacker. But before he could speak, and before she could dive for her clothes or dart for the door, his foot caught the edge of the dresser, and he fell flat on the floor, landing right at her sexy feet.
And looking up at a most interesting view.
2
LOOKING DOWN AT the incredibly gorgeous, hot, sexy, shirtless man lying at her feet, Mimi at first thought she’d had one too many glasses of wine and was seeing things. But considering she’d only had one, she doubted she was intoxicated.
Her second thought was that she was about to be attacked.
She grabbed a vase off her dresser. It was a heavy, leaded crystal thing, that would probably crack the pervert’s skull open. She came close—so incredibly close—to dropping it on his head, when a voice whispered in her mind, He’s Mr. Hot. He was at the party. Anna knows him.
It
