his body immediately battered by the wild wind. It howled eerily in the night and the snow seemed to be moving in all directions—up, down, sideways. Not that he could see much of it in front of his face, and he suddenly realized why.
There were no lights on. Not anywhere.
Blackout. Wonderful.
Fortunately the building was well-insulated and plenty warm. He had a couple of extra blankets for the fold-out; he’d be fine overnight, and hopefully the power would be back on in the morning.
Hunching against the wind that tried to knock him back with every step, he made his way through the wet snow to the entrance, finding the doors locked. He had a master key, and used it to get in. Emergency reflective lights cast a little illumination in the lobby, and he cautiously made his way to the security desk, knowing a few industrial-strength flashlights were stored back there. Grabbing one, he headed for the stairs, trudging back up six flights, mere hours after he’d raced down them. Going up definitely took longer.
By the time he got to his floor, he was ready for sleep. It looked like he might be snowed in for a couple of days, so he’d have plenty of time to work. Right now, he was weary—physically and emotionally—and just wanted to call it a night.
Once inside his office, in familiar territory, he turned off the flashlight. Hopefully the power would be on tomorrow, but if not, he wanted to conserve the battery. Stretching, he stripped off his wet coat and kicked off his shoes, then walked across the office to the small, private sitting area.
Ross moved cautiously; it was even darker in this corner, since there were no windows. He still managed to bump into the edge of the fold-out, and muttered a curse. Then, glad the day was over, and that it couldn’t get any crazier, he lifted the covers and climbed into the bed.
A noise split the silence. A low sigh.
What the hell?
The sound surprised him into utter wakefulness. Carefully reaching out, he patted the other side of the bed…and felt a body under the covers.
“Ross?” asked a soft, sleep-filled woman’s voice.
A familiar woman’s voice.
“Lucy?” he whispered, shocked.
Could it really be her? He knew that voice, and could now smell the sweet cinnamon-tinged scent she always wore.
She mumbled something and shifted, scooting closer as if drawn to his warmth. His eyes had adjusted a little, and he was able to make out her beautiful face. The creamy skin, the strand of dark hair lying across her cheek, the perfect mouth drawn into a tiny frown.
And she’d said his name in her sleep.
His heart pounded as he realized it was real. Lucy Fleming was asleep in his bed, in his office, in a building that was supposed to be deserted. It made absolutely no sense, was probably the last thing he’d ever have expected to happen. Considering how determined she’d been to get away without even talking to him earlier, climbing into this bed and finding the real live Santa Claus seemed more likely.
He frantically thought of the scenarios that might have landed her here. She had to have come back sometime after the building closed—when he’d left at seven-thirty, everybody had been gone except the guard. Why she’d returned, he had no idea. Maybe she’d forgotten something? Whatever the reason, Chip had to have let her in, probably recognizing her from this afternoon.
Beyond that…what? Had she offered to stay in the building when he was taken away by ambulance? That sounded incredibly far-fetched, and the officer who’d called hadn’t mentioned it.
The doors. Shit. When the locking mechanism was engaged, they couldn’t be opened, even from the inside, without a key. If Chip had gone out to help the motorist, he must have locked up behind him.
“You got locked in,” he murmured, suddenly understanding.
And she had no way to call for help. The building was notorious for its poor cell phone reception even in the best weather, and the phone system fed off the power, so regular phones wouldn’t have worked. The internet would be out, of course, plus all the computers in the building were password protected.
He could almost picture Lucy banging on the doors, trying to get someone’s attention. But with the dark night, the swirling snow and the lack of people venturing out, it must have seemed like a hopeless proposition. She’d have known she was stuck here until at least morning.
So, like Goldilocks, she’d found a bed and crawled into it.
He was glad he hadn’t followed his first instinct, leaped to his feet and bellowed, “Who’s that sleeping in my bed?”
Lucy Fleming is who’s sleeping in my bed.
A smile tugged at his mouth. What were the odds? Six years ago tonight she’d slept in his bed, too.
Remembering everything about that night—seeing the parallels—he had to laugh softly. If he were a more new age kind of guy, he might see fate having a hand in this. But being a realist, he knew the fault lay with a blizzard, a blackout and a strong security system.
That didn’t, however, mean he wasn’t thankful as hell for it, as long as Chip was going to be okay. Because, trapped as she was with him in this building, it wasn’t going to be easy for Lucy to walk out of his life again.
He could hardly wait until morning to see just how much snow had fallen. How long they were going to be stuck here.
And what Lucy would have to say about it.
LUCY WAS HAVING the nicest dream. In that state between asleep and awake, she somehow knew it was a dream, but didn’t want to give it up.
She was lying on a beach, cradled by soft, sugar-white sand. The turquoise waters of the Caribbean lapped in gentle waves, caressing her bare feet, the crash of the surf steady and hypnotic. Above, the sun shone bright in a robin’s egg blue sky. Occasionally a puffy white cloud would drift across it, providing a hint of shade, but mostly she just felt warm and content.
Except her nose. That was really cold.
Actually, so were her cheeks. She lifted a hand, pressing her fingers against her face, wondering how her skin could be so cold when she was lying in such deliciously warm sunshine.
Beside her, a man groaned, as if he, too, was loving the feel of the sun, and the island breeze blowing across his skin. The sound was intriguing, and she moved closer. He was hot against her, big and powerful, with sweat-slickened muscles that she traced with her fingertips. She kept her eyes closed, not needing to see his face, somehow sensing she already knew who it was.
Or, maybe a little afraid she wouldn’t see the face she wanted to see.
“Mmm,” she moaned as she pressed her cheek against his chest. Languorous heat slid over her; she was lulled by his rhythmic exhalations, and by the sound of his steadily thudding heart.
Wait. Too scratchy. He should be bare-chested.
She waited for the dream to change, waited for the feel of slick, male skin against her face. Instead her cheeks just got colder, and the texture against her jaw scratchier. Not smooth,
