wonder she could hardly breathe—all the pollens in Manitou Springs had probably found their way through that opening last night. Two months ago, when she’d rented this room, her dad had warned her about living in a stranger’s house. People will use your things without asking. People won’t respect the ten-to-six rule. The latter being one of her dad’s favorites as long as she could remember—the “ten-to-six” rule being that you turned down the noise from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. so people could sleep.
But she’d just chalked up his warnings to his worrisome nature.
Except for this morning. Somebody had sneaked into her room and opened her window. That went far beyond simply breaking the ten-to-six rule. That was breaking her fundamental, I need-to-breathe-it’s-allergy-season rule.
Although which of her roommates would open her window was a mystery. Georgio, who’s real name was George but “Georgio” better fit his flamboyant hair-dresser persona, owned the house. But his master bedroom and bath were at the far end of the house and he never entered her room unannounced. Which left the other paying renter, Sam, a sullen college student whose wardrobe consisted of jeans and Star Wars T-shirts and who seemed to subsist on cigarettes and coffee.
Not that Sam seemed like a stealthy window opener, but those Trekkie types sometimes did odd things. She once walked in while Sam and some of his buddies were mixing green Jell-O in the bathtub.
Her gaze shifted to a section of glistening metal below the window. Glistening, cylindrical brass that magically looped and curled.
My beloved bed!
Well, Sonja’s bed.
Blaine smiled lazily and stretched.
Wait. How’d my bed get into my tiny, cramped rent-a-room?
She frowned, vaguely recalling crawling into the bed after too many allergy pills. Well, no wonder I’m having a heck of a time waking up. She strained to remember exactly what happened last night. Images slowly materialized in her sluggish brain. Henry’s truck, Milly, a big leaf…
More images took shape in her mind. Not images exactly, but sensations.
Big, rough hands. Bare skin against bare skin. Roaming, skilled fingers…
A sleepy, and very masculine, groan interrupted her mental inventory.
Someone, no some man, was behind her, on the other side of the bed!
She stiffened, terrified she’d look over her shoulder and discover one of Sam’s Trekkie friends, wearing thick horn-rim glasses, a Jedi outfit and reeking of green Jell-O. God, had she done it with a Trekkie?
She squeezed shut her eyes. Please, Lord, I wanted to be Liv Tyler, not Princess Leia.
She stealthily eased herself off the bed, nearly falling when her foot lost traction on the slick satin-covered mattress. She caught herself, then wobbled to a standing position.
With great trepidation, she turned and looked at her mattress mate.
A guy’s long, muscular, tan body was sprawled naked across the white satin mattress.
Naked. She glanced around the room. Good. No Jedi or Vader gear. Better yet, no Jell-O.
She eased out a pent-up breath, coughing slightly in the process. This room…she eyed the plant, suddenly remembering exactly where she was. This is that traveling guy’s apartment. Where the bed had been misdelivered.
She tilted her head and checked him out. Was this the traveling man? What had Milly said his name was?
Blaine rubbed her itchy eyes as more hot, fuzzy memories of lusty sex coalesced in her mind. She dropped her hands and stared at the guy…the guy she’d…noooo, impossible. I’m a practical, hardworking rule follower—I’m the last person to have hot sex with a stranger!
That was the kind of thing her sister Sonja might have done, but never Blaine. No, Blaine was the one to whom Sonja made such confessions, not the one who committed the deeds. And Sonja had confessed some doozies to her big sis Blaine, who tried to listen with a straight face and an open mind while also amazed at what two people could do with too much time, and lust, on their hands.
And now Blaine had joined this too-much-time, overlusted segment of society.
She frowned. What exactly had they done?
More memories. Sweat-drenched bodies and a moment of pleasure so intense, so exquisite…
She wiped her suddenly shaky hand across her moist brow. Those memories were too real. They must have done exactly what she feared they’d done.
And it all happened on her wedding gift to her sister.
Blaine shut her eyes, giving her head a shake. Forget the bed, you have bigger issues to deal with. You don’t even know this guy’s history, much less his sexual history.
How many times had she counseled Sonja on this very subject. Badgered her about using protection.
Okay, I need to figure out who this guy is, make sure he’s…healthy, then get this damn bed moved.
Blaine did an inventory of her mystery lover. Thick brown hair that curled at his temples and neck.
She tugged mindlessly at her own shoulder-length hair. Wonder if he doesn’t have enough money for a haircut these days, either.
His eyes were closed, which accentuated the fringe of thick lashes that skirted his lids. Coarse brown stubble roughened the lower half of his face.
And what a face.
Square, solid, with a chin that jutted forward slightly even as he slept. As though on guard, ready to take life on the chin. A tough guy. Funny, though, how he slept with his hands clenched into tight balls, as though he were protecting something. What? From what she’d seen of his place, he owned next to nothing. Maybe he was protecting something deep inside himself. A secret.
Her gaze swept back over him. He was tall, if she judged the way his head touched one end of the mattress and his feet almost dangled off the other.
She perused him head to foot again, stopping in the middle…Maybe this was crass, but she wanted a good look for herself, ensure that he looked healthy before she woke him up and asked him if he was.
He looked good. Very good. Normal. No, better than normal, but that wasn’t what she was supposed to be checking.
She released a pent-up breath.
But she’d have to be blind not to notice.
Even asleep, with his body relaxed, he was big. Not that she was a size expert, unless intimate relationships with four different men—well, technically three—made one an expert. Which, at thirty years of age, was an embarrassing admission.
“What are you staring at?” asked a gruff, irritated male voice.
Donovan blinked at the naked woman, who slowly raised her head and stared, wide-eyed, her green eyes nearly translucent in a slant of bright yellow sunlight. It reminded him of the way sunlight filtered through the aquamarine waters in the Caribbean. The rays sliced
