by Anna Durand
Scoping out the room again, I comprehended a couple more facts. I was alone, and my clothes lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed.
On my knees, I scuttled across the bed with the sheet clutched to my chest and managed to get dressed while keeping the sheet over me. Once I was decent, I hurried to the bathroom to check for my bedmate and to make use of the toilet. Nobody there. A giant bathtub occupied a good portion of the room, and though I would've loved a nice hot soak, after satisfying nature's call I returned to the bed.
That's when I noticed something else.
On the table on my side of the bed — uh, the side I'd woken up on, that was — I spotted my phone and a piece of ivory-colored notepaper, folded in half. My phone I'd forgotten about, but luckily, it had survived impact with the floor when my one-night lover chucked my jeans. After checking for messages and finding only one text from Luke, asking how I'd liked the bar last night, I shoved the phone in my back pocket.
The ivory paper beckoned me.
I picked it up, revealing several twenty-dollar bills beneath it. I bit my lip, suddenly queasy. Money on the bedside table? Unwilling to jump to conclusions yet, I unfolded the fancy piece of paper. It seemed like linen, maybe.
The note, scrawled in a masculine hand, read, "Thank you for last night."
I stared at the sentence for a moment, not blinking or comprehending. Finally, I noticed the second sentence written at the bottom of the page —"Don't forget your money."
The twenty-dollar bills. They were rumpled, though someone had tried to iron them out so he could stack them in a tidy pile. The man I'd slept with last night had a fetish for order, I guessed. He wouldn't have let his cash get wrinkled, which meant these must be my bills, the ones I'd stashed in my bra. I picked up the money and counted it. One hundred dollars, exactly.
Relief flooded through me, sagging my shoulders. Well, at least he hadn't paid me for services rendered. He'd returned my cash.
I read the note again but couldn't figure out how to feel about it. No man had ever written me a thank-you note after sex.
Resigned to never understanding my onetime lover, I dropped the note on the table and tucked my cash in my bra. Then I hustled through the bedroom and out into the hallway. It dead-ended at the suite's primary door to my left and opened onto the living room to my right. Across the hall, I spied the unoccupied dining room.
I swerved right, stopping at the edge of the living area.
No one here either.
My shoulders slumped again. Had I really hoped he might still be here? He wouldn't write a note and then stick around to say good morning. He'd told me it would be one night only but skulking out in the pre-dawn hours without saying goodbye… Not cool.
I rubbed my eyes, rubbed my neck, rubbed my chest. So, I'd done it. I'd had a one-night stand. Time to move on.
Last night, I'd had little chance to absorb the full splendor of this huge suite, which I'd guessed measured four times the size of my little apartment back in Colorado Springs. With nothing else to do except slink out of the hotel, I decided to explore my surroundings before I left. I might never again find myself in a suite at a five-star hotel.
I'd already seen the sofa and the three upholstered chairs arrayed before it, but now I took note of a fireplace to the right of the furniture. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows admitted the sun's illumination. The crimson-upholstered pool table took up the left side of the room. Lamps and flowers adorned dark-wood tables in strategic locations.
Shuffling across the living room, I peered out the French doors at the terrace.
Nobody there.
Why did I keep looking for the jerk who'd taken off while I was sleeping? Figured the guy I picked for my first-ever fling would turn out to be a worm.
He hadn't seemed like a worm last night. He'd been so attentive, so concerned with my pleasure, so tender — and so damn hot. He'd woken me in the middle of the night for another round of powerfully sensual sex. Why would he do that if he intended to abandon me?
Oh yeah, I should've known. Hot guys who wanted anonymous sex had to be jackasses.
Lesson learned, check.
Maybe I could order up a whole bunch of room service, a four-course breakfast or whatever, and have it charged to his room. Or I could steal the towels. Or —
Ugh. Who was I kidding? I was no thief, and revenge wasn't my style.
I smoothed out my ComicCon T-shirt and combed my fingers through my hair. It stayed a tangled mess. The comb in my purse could undo the tangles — if I'd brought my purse, which I hadn't. Rats. With a last glance at the suite, I turned toward the hallway and the door at its end.
Acid churned in my stomach.
I supposed this was what they called a walk of shame. My first one. Yay, what a milestone.
The door to the suite pivoted inward.
My one-night lover marched inside, shut the door, and made it halfway down the hall before he noticed me. The Scotsman froze. He stared at me blankly for several seconds before he regained his manly composure and waltzed down the hall to stop an arm's length from me. His expression betrayed nothing.
The sun streaming in through the windows and glass doors glimmered in his eyes.
"You're still here," he said.
"Duh." I folded my arms over my breasts. "Did you forget your wallet and had to slither back here to get it?"
"No," he said slowly, eying me like he worried I had a hatchet hidden in my bra. "I thought you'd be asleep."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"I'm not disappointed. I —" He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. Scratching his neck, he adopted a pinched expression. "I am sorry for, ah…"
"Skulking out in the dead of night like a slimy worm?"
A big, sexy worm. But a worm nonetheless.
Sighing, he gave me a tight smile. "It wasn't the dead of night. I left at dawn."
"Are you expecting applause for waiting until sunrise?" I tapped the toe of my sneakers on the floor. "You could've, gee, maybe woken me up to say goodbye. And by the way, who leaves a thank-you note after sex? It's bizarre."
Kind of endearing, but yeah, bizarre.
Don't you go all gooey and forgive the hot Scottish worm. Not allowed, Emery.
Shoulders bunched, he averted his attention to the wood floor. "I'm afraid that's what I do. Find a partner for the evening and satisfy our mutual needs with an hour or so of uncomplicated sex."
"Uncomplicated?" I narrowed my gaze on him as the rest of what he'd said sunk into my brain. "Wait a minute. An hour? You stayed until dawn."
"Ah, yes." He winced, shoving his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "I hadn't intended to stay, but… Donnae know."
"Hmmm." I stalked to the nearest chair, the one he'd backed me up to last night when he stripped me naked. I flopped onto the cushioned crimson seat, my hands on the arms, and drummed my fingers. "With those other women, the ones you bang for an hour, do you say goodbye before you scurry off?"
"Yes." He meandered to the chair opposite mine, a striped armchair with wood trim, and settled his bulk onto it. Perched on the chair's edge, he wedged his elbows on his thighs and scrutinized the spiffy rug at his feet. "I indulge in the occasional fling with a stranger. I'm not interested in relationships anymore, but I have… needs."
"Uh-huh." I swung one leg up to cross it over the other. "You're a big old horndog, I get it. You prey on women you think are desperate and lonely."
"No." He spoke the word in a harsh tone, but his anger seemed more self-directed than aimed at me. He turned his head to the side. "I choose professional women."
A spike of cold lanced through me, and the leg raised on the other dropped to the floor. "You thought I was a hooker?"
His face blanked briefly but then amusement dimpled his cheeks — and he chuckled.
I huffed. "You think that's funny? Listen up, buddy, I am not for sale."
"You misunderstand."
He leaned back in his chair, smiling at me like I'd told a good joke. "I meant women who have successful careers, the kind who have no time for relationships and want what I want. A casual encounter with no strings and no future."
Oh. That kind of professional. I remembered now he'd talked about "professional" women last night, when I'd told him what I did for a living. Maybe I was still a bit touchy about the anonymous-sex-and-abandonment thing. Not that I wanted a relationship with this guy. I did not like players. They were trouble with a capital T and a flashing exclamation point.
I glanced down at my shirt. "If you like professional women, why'd you pick me last night? A geek in a ComicCon T-shirt."
"You aren't a geek."
"I am a proud geek, a computer programmer who loves fantasy and science fiction movies. I don't have a high-powered career. I love to dress up in sexy costumes for Halloween or just to go to the Renaissance fair." I clasped my hands on my lap, suddenly wondering why the hell I'd told him all that. "The point is, I'm no professional in search of a quick fling."
He gave me an appraising look. "Do you often follow strangers to their hotel rooms?"
"No, of course not." I slouched in my chair. "I've never had a one-night stand before. Certainly never had sex with an anonymous stranger. I like to have fun, be wild and crazy, but even I've got my limits."
Oversharing again, but I couldn't seem to shut my mouth. Anxiety did this to me, always had. I'd blab away until I'd expelled all the nervous energy.
He observed me for so long, without blinking, that my skin itched from the magnitude of his concentration. At last, he gusted out a breath, slapped his hands on his thighs, and heaved his body off the armchair. He strode to my chair, offering me a hand.
"Up," he said.
Seriously? Up? I frowned. "I'm not a dog, you know. I don't heel on command."
"I'm aware of that." He took hold of my right hand. "Please stand."
"Why?"
"Are you always this suspicious?"
I raised my eyebrows. "Only of men who won't tell me their names."
He knelt before me, his eyes at my level and his gaze steady, then held out his hand again — this time as if to shake mine. "Rory MacTaggart."
"Emery Granger." I slipped my cold palm into his warm one, and he gave mine a gentle shake, his long and sinewy fingers curling around my hand. A little shiver of awareness rippled through me, but I refused to allow another flashback to last night. So I cleared my throat. "Nice to meet you."
His luscious mouth formed a faint smile. "Nice to meet you too, Emery. You have a lovely name."
"Thanks." My hand enveloped by his, I swallowed against a disconcerting tightness in my throat and blurted out the next thing that popped into my brain. "Why were you wearing a kilt last night?"
Today, he wore gray slacks and a gray dress shirt that conformed to his sensual body. No matter what he wore, he looked classy and entirely lickable.
Rory gave a little half shrug, tipping his head to the side. "I like wearing kilts. They're quite comfortable, and they represent my heritage. Of which I am very proud."
I bit the inside of my lip, unable to prevent my gaze from wandering over his broad chest. "You look good in a kilt. But I like this businessman kind of stuff too."
He lifted my hand and touched his lips to my knuckles. "I know I said it would be one night but… May I see you again?"
I straightened in my chair, wishing to hell I'd brought my purse so I could comb out my hair. Did I want to see more of Rory? He wasn't my usual type, not being a geek — and I prayed he wasn't obsessed with Internet porn — but he must have some kind of problems. No man this hot and this charming could be playing with a full deck.
But dear God, I did want to see more of him. Badly. Something about him intrigued me, in ways I'd never experienced before. More than sex. More than his gorgeous bod. I wanted to know the man underneath the delectable surface. If we stuck to public places with lots of other people around… Then again, if he'd wanted to hurt me he could've done it while I slept.
And besides, I could always bolt at the first sign of nutso behavior.
His breaths whispered over my knuckles, sultry and inviting.
"Do you have plans for today?" I asked.
"Not yet."
What kind of wild child would I be if I shunned an opportunity to spend the day with an alluring and intriguing man?
"Okay then," I said. "Come sightseeing with me."
"Sightseeing?"
"Don't you have that in Scotland?" With one finger, I tickled his lips. "Sightseeing is when you go to various locations to stare at a bunch of old junk or to admire the scenery, or maybe to make fun of goofy little niche museums. It's corny and cheesy and all that jazz. Geeks like me live for it."
He released my hand, placing both of his on my knees. "All right. Let's go sightseeing."
"Awesome." I moved to get up and he rose too, stepping backward to give me room. I gave him a playful smile. "Hope you're ready to party hearty."
His restrained smile tightened his closed lips and sparkled in his mesmerizing eyes. "One question first."
"Shoot."
Rory waved a finger at my shirt. "What is ComicCon?"
Chapter Five
I kicked back on the sofa cross-legged and barefoot, tucked into the corner but angled toward my new… friend… companion… whatever. Rory sat straight and tall at the opposite end, facing forward with the soles of his shiny loafers planted on the rug. He held a plate of praline pancakes in one hand, while with his other hand he brandished a fork, intent on eating with dignity.
Me? I gobbled up my pancakes without worrying about mess or decorum. Rory monitored my progress with odd fascination while I hacked up the short stack, slathered the whole pile of bite-size chunks with an abundance of real maple syrup, and shoveled them into my mouth. The whipped cream on top smeared on my lips, but I licked it off with long glides of my tongue.
When syrup dribbled down my chin, he asked, sounding rather bemused, "Why do you eat this way?"
"Because I'm starving," I replied mid-chew. Swallowing, I swiped away the syrup on my chin with a cloth napkin. "Never got around to eating dinner last night. My flight was delayed, and after checking in at my motel and taking a cab to Pat O'Brien's, I barely had time to taste my first Hurricane before a certain foreigner seduced me."
Rory winced as if it were his fault I'd skipped dinner. Before I could assure him it wasn't, he asked, "What is a Hurricane?"
"The signature drink at Pat O'Brien's. It was invented there. Didn't anybody tell you?"
"I wasn't interested in the bar's history." He fidgeted at his end of the sofa, and his as-yet-untouched plate of pancakes wobbled. Steadying it with one hand, he said, "I walked into the main bar at Pat O'Brien's ten minutes before I approached you. I was looking for company, not a strange red cocktail."
"The Hurricane is yummy. You missed out." I scarfed down another mouthful of breakfast and swigged my glass of whole milk. What a bad girl I was, flouting the rules of healthy eating. I dabbed my mouth with the napkin. "By company, you mean you were on the hunt for a professional woman to screw."
"Uh, yes." He fidgeted again, and his plate almost tumbled off his lap. He caught it deftly before the pancakes could spill over the fancy-shmancy sofa on which we sat. "I saw no one who interested me. Then, as I was stepping out into the carriageway, I caught sight of a bonnie lass in the piano bar."
"What happened to her? She turn you down?"
He must've recognized the teasing tone of my voice, because his lips twitched upward at the corners, but only for a second. "Once I saw you, I lost interest in every other woman."
"Mm, I get it." Spearing a bite of pancake, I pointed at him with my fork. "You've got a fetish for geeks wearing ComicCon T-shirts and worn jeans, and who haven't showered or brushed their hair."
Hadn't brushed my teeth either, or shaved my legs, or put on makeup. While w
aiting for our breakfast to arrive, I'd taken a shower, shaved, detangled, and brushed both teeth and hair. Rory had called someone — a concierge, I guessed — and asked for "toiletries for a woman," which turned out to include everything I needed.
"I have a fetish for beautiful women with stunning smiles and even more stunning eyes." He swept his gaze over my body, his eyes alight with sizzling interest. "And a breathtaking body I couldnae wait to plunder."
"Plunder? You sound like a pirate." Though I joked with him, and I did find his language peculiar at times, I couldn't deny the response from my body. It softened and warmed at his compliments, and from the desire evident on his face. "Seriously, why pick me? You could've hooked up with any one of the hot little numbers strutting their stuff in that bar. I'm confused about why you'd pick me, the girl who'd just stumbled off an airliner. I hadn't even shaved my stubbly legs."
Why oh why did I tell him that? In his presence, I lost the ability to filter my thoughts before blurting them out.
He shrugged one shoulder. "Your legs seemed fine to me when I was fondling you from head to toe."
Oh, I remembered that with vivid detail. His hands, everywhere, mapping out my body with delicate, sensuous movements. And he hadn't noticed the light stubble on my legs? Sure, I'd shaved Thursday, but — Stop obsessing, woman, that's an order.
I gave up on worrying about his opinion of my girlie grooming, or lack thereof, since he didn't seem to give a hoot.
Rory began to eat the plate of pancakes balanced atop his thigh. With the precision and efficiency of a surgeon, he cut the short stack into square pieces of equal size, stacked them on one side of the plate, and poured a small puddle of syrup onto the other side of the plate. After that, he proceeded to consume the meal one bite at a time, dipping each piece into the syrup without dripping any of it. He tapped his fork on the plate to make sure no excess syrup clung to the bite, then he slid the fork into his mouth and withdrew it, empty, without getting one tiny speck of gooey liquid on his lips.