what big feet you have, my dear.
Ellen knelt to inspect them, staring at the well-worn shoes as if they might actually launch into dialogue to explain who they belonged to. But in keeping with the theme of solving mysteries, Ellen had already divined two telling clues.
One, that slightly gamey aroma suggested their owner wore them frequently without socks, and two, her new roommate was a man.
Why on earth would Miss Q ensconce her in a one-bed suite with a…
An awful, awful thought struck her when she remembered Mr. Muscle-Butt from the convention. Surely Lennon wouldn’t have colluded with Miss Q when she’d known Ellen wasn’t interested.
I want you to have fun while you’re visiting.
Staring at those shoes, Ellen wished they could talk, because she needed to know if she’d been set up again.
The shower spray shut off, and a quick glance revealed the bathroom door wide open. Whoever was in there—and she desperately hoped it wasn’t who she thought it was—would step out of the shower—naked—and see her.
Ellen had this wild urge to drop the shoes and race out of Félicie Allée, not stopping until she hit the highway. But she just knelt there, shoes in hand, panicked, like a squirrel staring down a two-ton SUV.
The shower door skidded across the track and a hand—definitely male—reached out to grab a towel from a nearby rack.
Then her roommate stepped from the shower.
One gorgeously muscular leg appeared at a time, silky dark hairs shimmering with water, dripping onto the mat. He unwittingly flashed her glimpses of flexing thighs, toned abs and strong biceps as he wrapped the towel around his waist to cover a very nice butt.
He shook his jet-black hair—not waist-length hair that needed more cream rinse than her own, but neatly short hair—sent more droplets flying and turned toward her….
Ellen’s breath and her heartbeat collided.
It wasn’t Mr. Muscle-Butt.
It was him.
3
The Garden Suite
ELLEN HADN’T SEEN HIM in three months, yet her soul drank in the sight of this tall, athletic man as though she’d thirsted for this glimpse. His broad shoulders, the silky hairs nestled in that strong chest, the rippled lines of his stomach.
Though he enjoyed sports—he was an avid ice hockey player—Christopher Sinclair spent an equal amount of time indoors and outdoors. His skin flushed healthily, neither pale nor tanned, a combination that made him look so incredible in a tux that he’d have been an easy contender for Vittorio’s cover model prize.
If she actually believed heroes existed anywhere except in her authors’ stories, Ellen might just be convinced Christopher was one. At least looking at him didn’t break the rules, which was a good thing since his polished good looks and striking coloring—black, black hair and blue, blue eyes—still tied her in knots. His piercing gaze had an amazing ability to sear through her.
His gaze seared through her right now.
She let her eyes flutter closed in self-defense and forced herself to breathe, to stand, to whisper. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re my roommate.”
The very idea was appalling, ludicrous; exactly the type of surprise Miss Q might spring on her. But Lennon?
She couldn’t reason this through, couldn’t get past the fact that he was standing just a few feet away—practically naked—clear across the country from where she’d left him.
What was he doing here?
Someone needed to explain they were over. Finished. She forced herself to face him, found him staring at…her hair.
Suddenly she remembered the feel of his hands skimming along her scalp as clearly as if he’d just touched her. She remembered how he’d threaded his fingers through the long strands when they’d kissed, how he’d fanned it out over the pillows, over their naked skin on the night they’d made love. How he’d suddenly flipped her on top of him when she’d least expected it, cocooning them inside the drape of her hair, shutting out all stimuli, he’d said, to create a place where only the two of them existed.
In a last-ditch attempt to exorcise this man from her system and obey the rules she’d never break again, Ellen had cut her hair, refashioned her appearance as a cathartic exercise to transform herself into a new woman who wasn’t hung up on Christopher Sinclair. It had been working.
Until she stared into those too-blue eyes…
All she could do was stand there, unable to breathe, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
And hoping, damn it. Hoping he liked what he saw.
All she could see was surprise. She knew she should say something, do something to take control of the moment, to stop this horrible vulnerability that was bridging the distance she’d worked so hard to put between this man and her emotions.
This man was against all the rules.
She should send him packing. Couldn’t. And Christopher remained silent, moving toward her. Then he reached out….
Ellen watched as he threaded his fingers into her hair, just like he’d done so long ago, tipped her face toward his.
He took in her hair, his eyes caressing her with a look of such tenderness, as if he’d waited forever to see her.
And just like that, the months melted away, along with any will to resist him.
His mouth came down on hers, hard.
Ellen had the fleeting thought that even he seemed surprised by the intensity between them, the sudden rush of longing that swelled in their first exchange of shared breaths. But that was before his grip tightened. He tilted her head and held her firmly, revealing without words just how much he approved of her hair, how much he approved of her. In the process making a total lie out of her belief that any haircut would exorcise him from her system.
Without asking permission, without so much as a question about whether she wanted his kiss, he flaunted every rule of civilized behavior by plunging his tongue into her mouth as if he had the right to kiss her.
Experience told her she should shove him back. Experience told her that being with him would end in disaster. Experience told her to slap his face.
She kissed him, instead.
Reason scattered. How could she remember the rules when her tension liquefied into a heat that flooded her like a wave, warmed her blood and made her pulse with awareness and awakening.
Ellen recognized this sensation, grew amazed that she’d survived so long without it, that she’d convinced herself this dizzying rush she only knew with Christopher hadn’t been real.
It was all too real.
How could she have forgotten this intensity,
