Perhaps the nurse had come in to check on her. Or could someone else have been in her room?
Ridiculous. She did not have a stalker, ghost or otherwise. It was just her overactive imagination.
The room smelled like smoke because she hadn’t showered since being pulled from the blaze. The masculine scent probably lingered from Detective Walsh’s visit.
Shivering in spite of the heat, she rolled to her side facing the door, but she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. She didn’t want to have another nightmare, to see ghosts or Natalie’s tormented expression, or hear her voice begging for help.
She wanted to turn the clock back and talk Natalie out of going to the Pink Martini.
And she wanted to see Detective Walsh again.
God, she was crazy.
But she would see him again, she thought with another frisson of panic. He’d ask questions. Want to know what she’d been doing at the club. Where she worked.
What if he looked into her past? What if he discovered the truth?
Her hands shook as she clutched the sheet to her chin. She’d have to be prepared. Answer curtly. Keep it to the point, focus on Natalie and what she’d seen at the bar.
Which had been nothing.
She’d tell him that, then he would leave and she would never have to see him again.
Then she would be safe.
And alone again just as she had always been.
Then she could explore this gift, if she really possessed one, and learn how to control it so she would never hurt anyone else again.
Determination gave her courage, and she finally relented to the fatigue draining her and fell asleep.
But when she awakened hours later, she was dreaming about the detective who had saved her from the burning building. This time he was making love to her, and she moaned in pleasure as he caressed her body with his hands, with his hungry kisses, and drove her into oblivion with the sweet lapping of his tongue across her nipples and inner thighs.
When she stirred awake, she saw him sitting in the chair beside her bed, quietly watching her. She could still feel the intense pounding of his body inside hers, the feel of his lips on her skin, the tremors of her orgasm from her dream. His eyes darkened as if he’d read her thoughts, knew the nature of her dreams.
The realization sent a flush to her face. In the next second, that flare of coldness settled back into his eyes, and she had the sudden urge to run from his scrutiny.
If he made her feel so rattled in her sleep, how would she react if he ever really touched her? And if he could turn cold in seconds flat, what would happen if he knew the truth about her?
BRADFORD STARED into Rosanna’s sleepy gaze, his body hard from watching her sleep and hearing those tiny moans she’d elicited. When she’d first begun to sigh and claw at the covers, he’d thought she was having a nightmare about the fire. Reasonably so and expected.
Then that glass of water had tipped over, and spilled and he’d wondered what the hell had happened. She hadn’t touched it and neither had he.
She must have bumped the table when she was twisting in the bed.
When he’d looked back at her, a slow smile had curved that delicate, pouty mouth, and she’d run her hands over her breasts and thighs. He’d realized then that her dreams were more gratuitous. Sexual maybe.
And those moans…they whispered of pleasure. Satisfaction. Arousal.
Which had excited the hell out of him.
Irritated at his body’s traitorous response, he stifled a growl, shifting to hide the painful erection pressing against the fly of his jeans. Dammit. He was here to interrogate her, not drool over her body.
A very voluptuous, sexy body, he noted, thanks to that damn hospital gown coming untied and riding down her shoulder to reveal the delicious curve of one breast.
She cleared her throat, looking shaken. “Detective, how long have you been there?”
Long enough to know she was having sexy dreams. Who had been her lover?
Mentally shaking himself for wondering, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from asking. He’d had no rest the night before. And seeing her, realizing how attracted to her he was, wasn’t helping his mood.
He had no time for his libido. Not now.
Not with her.
“A few minutes,” he said quietly, a little too gruffly for comfort. Then unable to help himself, he asked, “Were you having a nightmare?”
She jerked her gaze from his, but guilt and some other emotion he couldn’t define colored her face. Had he not been so affected by her, he would have laughed.
He knew better than to play this game.
She seemed to notice that her gown had slipped then, and retied it, then yanked the sheet up to her chin. “I did earlier,” she admitted in a somber voice.
The pain in her eyes sucker-punched him.
“I dreamed Natalie was calling me for help, but I was too late.”
He clasped his hands together to keep from reaching for her. “There was nothing you could do.”
Her soft sigh tore at him.
“If I’d only convinced her not to go to the club, she would be alive.”
“So it was her idea to go?”
She nodded. “I’m not really into the club scene, but she begged me to accompany her. I thought she’d be safer if she didn’t go alone. Has her family been notified?”
He nodded. “They’re on their way. Can you talk about what happened?”
She swallowed as if gathering courage. “We both went in, ordered drinks. Natalie met a guy and they went to dance.” She hesitated. “I watched from a corner table.”
“Anybody with you?”
She shook her head. “I turned down a couple of drunk guys then went to the bathroom. Like I told you before, the fire started while I was inside the ladies’ room.”
He twisted his mouth in thought. “Did you know the guys who asked you to dance?”
She shrugged. “No. And they certainly weren’t upset enough to get violent. I assume they moved onto the next girl.”
Something in her tone sounded self-deprecating, but he decided not to explore it. “What about Natalie? Did she have a boyfriend who might have seen her with this other man and gotten jealous?”
She shook her head again. “No boyfriend. She just moved back here a few weeks ago.”
