Good luck.”
“Thank you, Mr. Oliver.” She smiled, then turned on her heel, somewhat unsteadily, and headed toward the stairs. With her claustrophobia, she avoided elevators, and the long climb upward gave her time to anticipate Steve’s reaction. Maybe she should simply open the door and slide into bed with him. After all, this was her chance to let it all hang out, and to find out if Steve would continue to draw sexual boundaries for their marriage.
By the time she reached the eighth floor, her heart was pounding from nervousness and exertion. A blister was raising on her left heel, and her breasts were chafed. Being sexually assertive was hard work, and darned uncomfortable. She stopped to refresh her pink lipstick under the harsh light of a hallway fixture, and didn’t recognize herself in the compact mirror. Her angular face was a little blurry around the edges, a lingering effect of her wine buzz, she assumed. Blatant desire softened her blue eyes, intense apprehension colored her cheeks and rapid respiration flared her nostrils. One look at her face—plus the fact that she was trussed up like a pink bird—and even a fence post couldn’t mistake her intention.
Janine drew color onto her mouth with a shaky hand, then gave herself a pep talk while she located his room. Her knees were knocking as she inserted the electronic key, but the flashing green light seemed to say “go”: Go after what you want, go for the gusto, go for an all-nighter.
So, with a deep breath—as much as she could muster in the binding bustier—Janine pushed open the door, limped inside and closed the door behind her.
THE SQUEAK OF HINGES stirred Derek from his angelic musings, and the click of the door closing garnered one open eye. Steve’s conscience must have kicked in; apparently he was back earlier than he’d planned. Derek faced the wall opposite the door, and he didn’t feel inclined to move. Steve could take the floor. He felt grumpily entitled to a half night’s rest in an actual bed for making the darned trip south.
Suddenly the mattress moved, as if his buddy had sat down on the other side. Removing his shoes, Derek guessed. Indeed, he heard the rustle of him undressing. But then the weight of the body rolled close to him.
“Hey, honey,” a woman whispered a split second before a slim arm snaked around his waist. “Tonight’s the night.”
Whoever she was, she had burrowed under the covers with him. Shock and confusion paralyzed him and, for a moment, he convinced himself that he was still dreaming.
“I just can’t wait any longer,” the woman said, suddenly shifting her body weight on top of him. “I need to know now if we’re good together.”
Through his medicated fog, he realized the woman was straddling him. In the darkened room, he could make out only a brief silhouette. He opened his mouth to protest, but mere grunts emerged from his constricted throat. Small, cool hands ran over his chest and his next realization was that he was being kissed—soundly. Moist lips moved upon his while a wine-dipped tongue plundered his unsuspecting mouth. A curtain of fragrant hair swept down to brush both his cheeks. His body responded instantly, even as he strained to raise himself.
Everywhere he touched, a tempting curve fit his hand. Curiosity finally won out, and he skimmed his hands over the mystery woman’s body, letting the kiss happen. He’d nearly forgotten the rapture of warm, soft flesh pressed against him. He was midstroke into arching his erection against her when sanity and wakefulness returned. Extending his left hand to the side, he fumbled for the lamp switch. With a click, light flooded the room, blinding him.
He caught a glimpse of long, long blond hair and something pink before the woman drew away and screamed like a banshee. Derek caught her by the arms, strictly for self-defense, and as she tried to wrench from his grip, his vision cleared, if not his brain.
The woman was slender and dark-complexioned with wide eyes and so much hair it had to be a wig. And she was practically bursting out of some sexy getup he’d seen only in magazines that came in his brother’s mail. She floundered against him, flaming the fire of his straining arousal. It appeared the woman liked to struggle, but since that was a scene he did not get into, he released her to take the wind out of her sails.
She scrambled off the bed in one motion, and ran for the farthest corner, where she hovered like a spooked animal, arms laughingly crossed over her privates. Derek’s skin tingled from the scrape of her fingernails, but at least she had stopped screaming.
They stared at each other for several seconds, giving Derek time to size her up. She was around five-eight or-nine, although her black spike heels accounted for some of her height. Despite her stature, the first thing that came to mind was that she was elfin—petite, chiseled features and lean limbs, with stick-straight blond hair parted in the middle. The naughty outfit accentuated her amazing figure—her breasts were high, her waist slight, her hips rounded. Between the wig and the getup, she had to be a hooker the guys had bought for Steve.
“I thought this was Steve Larsen’s room,” she gasped, inching her way along the wall in the direction of the door, her gaze on a black raincoat draped over the foot of the bed.
She was a hooker who knew Steve well enough to recognize him, which didn’t surprise him. “This is Steve’s room,” he said, and she stopped. Pressing a finger against the pressure in his sinuses, he pushed himself to his feet. As silly as standing around in his boxers in front of the woman seemed, having a conversation with her while lying in bed seemed even more absurd, especially since she herself was in her skivvies.
“Stay right there!” She pointed a finger at him as if a laser beam might emerge from her fingernail at will. “Who are you?”
Derek put his hands on his hips, irritated to be awakened and not amused by the idea that the woman had come to Steve’s room for an eleventh-hour fling before his wedding. “Since Steve gave me his room for the night,” he asserted, “maybe you should tell me who you are.”
She shoved her hair out of her eyes, and her chest moved up and down in the pink thing that resembled a corset. She seemed very close to spilling over the underwire cups, and he felt his body start to respond again. The woman was one incredibly sexy female.
“I’m J-Janine Murphy, Steve’s fiancée. “
Derek swallowed and abruptly reined in his libido. He realized he’d been cynical in his assumption about the reason for this woman’s presence in Steve’s room—blame it on years of witnessing his brother’s shenanigans. Not many things surprised him these days, but her declaration shook him. This was the woman who’d snared Steve? So much for his theory of her being a missionary type. But he had to hand it to her—the woman’s costume made it clear she knew how to communicate on Steve’s level. Guilt zigzagged through his chest when he acknowledged he’d been affected by her himself—he, the man of steel, who prided himself on discretion and restraint.
He stared at his friend’s bride-to-be and realized this was about the most awkward predicament he’d ever landed himself in. And, he thought wryly, par for the course of his life lately—in a hotel room with a gorgeous half-naked woman, and she was totally, utterly and indubitably off limits. Derek’s dry laugh was meant to express his frustration at the accumulation of injustices of the past few months, but the woman was clearly offended.
“What’s so funny?”
He pursed his mouth. “Well, now…Janine…this is a bit awkward.” Picking up her coat, he slowly walked toward her, using the gesture of courtesy to help shield his appallingly determined arousal. “I’m Derek Stillman. Your best man.”
3
