what she was feeling right now had more to do with hormones than emotions, but that didn’t make the need any less compelling. She was a scientist. It was her job to accumulate and analyze data, to establish conclusions only after careful and thorough research. But from the first moment she’d set eyes on Michael Courtland, she’d wanted him. Nothing else seemed to matter.
His hands slid up her back, his touch burning even through the cotton barrier of her T-shirt. She wanted those hands on her bare skin; she wanted her hands on him. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, the slide of naked flesh against naked flesh as their bodies moved together in the primitive rhythm of mating.
The need pulsing through her veins was foreign to her, this kind of behavior completely out of character. She knew that regrets and recriminations would follow, but hopefully not until much, much later.
When the elevator dinged to announce their arrival on the eighth floor, Shannon was trembling with a desire unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. She led the way down the hall, her fingers shaking as she removed the keycard from her purse. She turned to the door, fumbled when Michael’s teeth closed gently over her earlobe.
Somehow she managed to jam the card into the slot and push the door open. She didn’t bother with the lights but drew him into the dark room, not stopping until the backs of her legs came into contact with the mattress, then pulled him down onto the bed with her.
His hands slid under her shirt, deftly finding and unfastening the clasp at the front of her bra. He pushed the satin aside and cupped her breasts in his palms, a low groan of satisfaction rumbling deep in his throat. His thumbs stroked over the aching tips, shooting spears of fiery heat from the peaks to the very center of her being. A soft whimper sounded from somewhere deep inside.
He dragged his lips from hers to rain kisses along her jaw, down her throat. His teeth nipped, his tongue soothed, and all the while his hands continued their delicious torment. Then he pushed the shirt up and found one throbbing nipple with his mouth. He suckled, hotly, hungrily, until she nearly screamed out with pleasure in response to his ardent caress.
She wanted him inside her. She wanted to feel him pressing into her, filling her, fulfilling her. This was desire in its most primitive form—raw, powerful, inescapable. But she didn’t want to escape. She only wanted.
She was hot, burning with hunger for him, and grateful for the air-conditioning that offered respite from the sultry heat flowing into the room. The warm breeze wafted across her skin again and a chill skittered down her spine, raising goose bumps on her flesh and turning the heat that coursed through her blood to ice.
Sensing her abrupt withdrawal, Michael raised his head. “What’s the matter?”
Shannon pushed herself into sitting position, crossed her arms over her naked breasts, her gaze fixed on the patio door.
The open patio door.
“Someone’s been in my room.”
Those few words, spoken with quiet conviction and an edge of panic, effectively shattered the moment.
Mike slid off the bed, away from Shannon, and took a deep breath—as if distance and oxygen might somehow manage to control the hormones raging in his blood. Not likely, when just looking at her made him hot, when he’d been subconsciously dreaming of this night since he’d first set eyes on her. But he disregarded the unfulfilled needs of his body to focus on the implications of her statement. “Did you say that someone’s been in your room?”
She nodded, refastening her bra and tugging her shirt back into position before leaning over to switch on the bedside lamp.
He frowned as he glanced around at the tidy space that was almost a carbon-copy of his own. “How do you know?”
“The door’s open.” She raised a hand, gestured to the curtain that fluttered gently in the summer breeze.
“Housekeeping probably just forgot to close it when they made up your room.”
“No.” She slid farther back on the bed to lean against the headboard, crossing her arms over her chest. “Someone else was here.”
“How do you know?”
“My room was already made up when I came in to change before dinner. I pulled the curtains myself.”
“Maybe the maid brought fresh towels or something.”
“Maybe.” But she sounded doubtful.
“Why don’t you call the manager?” he suggested. “He might know if housekeeping or maintenance had any reason to be in here.”
“Oh. Okay.” She exhaled a shaky breath and reached for the phone.
As she dialed, he crossed the room to examine the door and its frame. He inspected both the inside and out, relieved to find no proof of tampering.
Outside on the balcony there was a plastic table flanked by two loungers. A beach towel was draped over one of the chairs, an empty Dr Pepper can on the ground beside it.
He glanced over the railing, down to the swimming pool eight floors below. He considered the distance, shook his head. It was unlikely—if not impossible—for someone to gain entry by climbing up to the balcony.
Remembering some of the tasks he’d been required to perform in Ranger training, he revised his opinion. But while scaling the building might be possible, it couldn’t be done without someone noticing. Even at this time of night, there were dozens of guests in and around the water.
He turned back to the open door and glanced up.
It would be much easier to access the eighth floor of a ten-story building by climbing down. But the absence of any evidence of forced entry convinced Mike that scenario was equally unlikely.
Shannon was ending her call when he stepped back inside. He closed the door tight and flipped the lock into place.
“He said he has no record of the hotel staff accessing my room during the time I was out,” she told him. “But he thinks that’s probably what happened.”
Mike could tell by her tone that she remained unconvinced.
She wandered through the room looking around, into the bathroom and back again.
“Something isn’t right,” she insisted.
He wasn’t prepared to ignore her instincts. Not when her safety was the reason he’d come down to Florida in the first place. But he needed facts to back up those instincts. “Is anything missing?”
“Not that I can tell. But…”
“But what?”
She looked away, her cheeks flushing with color. “My sister likes to joke about my organization,” she admitted. “I have a specific way of doing things, a structure to my life that I never deviate from.”
Her blush deepened, and he knew she was thinking about her behavior with him tonight—which was something he was trying not to think about.
“Almost never,” she amended. “And that’s how I know someone’s been here. Someone moved my book—it was on
