Get A Clue

by Jill Shalvis

  Their other guest. One sexy, irritating Cooper Scott, who was right now all cozy in her honeymoon suite.

  The moment Lariana cleared the doorway, Breanne locked the door. Then she stood there, looking around. Feeling alone. It occurred to her that if Edward hadn’t screwed up, Cooper wouldn’t even be here. She might be even more alone.

  She was glad she wasn’t, a fact she’d admit out loud only upon threat of death, and maybe not even then.

  Braving the bathroom, she brushed her teeth and moisturized her face. A silly thing to do while in the haunted house of terrors, but the routine made her feel better.

  Moving back into the bedroom, she glanced uneasily at the candles. There were five of them, three burning very low already. Would the other two last until daylight, and if not, what would she do?

  One thing was certain, the next time she traveled, she was leaving the sexy nighties at home and packing a flashlight. And chocolate. And alcohol.

  Lots of it.

  Even though the room had indeed warmed up nicely, she climbed into the bed still fully decked out in Cooper’s sweats. The bedding was lush, thick, and combined with the fire, she was cooking in less than two minutes. Swearing softly, she got out of the bed and went to her carry-on, pawing through it as if by some miracle she might find something else to wear. No such luck. She pulled out the siren-red teddy she’d gotten at her shower. See-through lace, high cut on the thighs, nearly nonexistent over the breasts, it hadn’t been made for sleeping, that was for sure. It’d been made for her groom to say, “Looks great, baby, now take it off.”

  And just like that, self-pity welled up hard and fast, swelling her heart, filling her throat so that she could hardly draw a breath. She’d managed to keep it all at bay for hours and hours, but now there was nothing distracting her but her own pathetic thoughts.

  Somehow she’d screwed everything up. Again. Truthfully? She’d blown just about every opportunity she’d ever been offered. With only so-so grades in high school—she’d thought grades didn’t matter, she had Barry, ha!—she’d ended up at a junior college, with no idea of what to do with herself. She’d made her way through a string of go-nowhere jobs, and also a string of go-nowhere men, including fiancé number two.

  And then Dean had come along.

  She’d found him smart and cool under pressure, two traits she greatly admired because she wished she had more of each. With a single smile he’d swept her off her feet, despite the warning voice deep inside that said he wasn’t the one, that said he didn’t love her the way she wanted to be loved, that said she’d only get hurt in the end.

  Her inner voice had been right. He hadn’t been the one, he hadn’t loved her the way she’d wanted to be loved, and she had gotten hurt.

  Or at least humiliated.

  Tossing aside the red lace, she reached for her Palm Pilot and made a new entry.

  To Do list:

  1. Live down expensive wedding that didn’t happen

  2. Find new job so you don’t have to ever face Dean again

  3. Hurry on #2 because you’re broke due to #1

  She read the words, then nodded and tossed the thing back in her bag. Now that she had a plan, maybe she could sleep. Sure, she’d have to face the mess that was her life in the morning, but not before then.

  Still too hot, she pulled out the second nightie, a creamy white silky camisole and short set, made of staggeringly expensive silk. The top had spaghetti straps and dipped low between the breasts, and the bottoms uncovered more than they covered, but they’d be soft against her skin, and wouldn’t itch.

  Double checking the lock on both the bedroom and bathroom doors was a small gesture that made her feel marginally better as she stripped out of the sweats, and then her still-damp tank and panties. She put on the silk pj’s that had been meant for show only, which was ridiculous when she thought about it. Surely women ended up being ditched on their honeymoons with some regularity. You’d think they’d make these things more practical.

  She slid back into bed. Given how badly her life had gone today, and the new and unknown path she’d be taking from this day forth, she’d figured she’d lie there forever, stressing and obsessing, but the minute her head hit the soft, giving pillow, she sighed again, and drifted off . . .

  She was standing at the back of the church wearing her gorgeous wedding gown as she peeked in at the large, restless crowd waiting for her nuptials. They were beginning to murmur, wondering about the groom’s absence. Some pitied her, some merely nodded to each other, agreeing that she probably deserved what she’d gotten.

  Her father, tall and stern and serious, looked at his watch for the hundredth time. Her mother’s white, pinched face, strained with tension, forced a smile her way.

  Breanne forced one in return, because a Mooreland never allowed a situation to get the best of her.

  Even when that situation was seriously kicking her ass.

  He wasn’t going to show.

  Crying in the church wouldn’t do, so instead she turned tail, ran out of the church, and grabbed a cab. Mercifully, this was a dream, so it shifted forward then, in fast-forward past the horrendous plane ride, directly to the honeymoon house.

  Suddenly she was dressed in her red teddy, walking toward a lovely four-poster bed. Only this time, a man waited in it, and her heart surged joyfully. She wasn’t alone after all—she had a groom! How lovely of the house to come with a groom.

  He sat up with a sexy grin, reaching for her, his eyes hot and hungry, his hands warm and sure. Cooper.

  Cooper?

  Whoa. Laughing at herself, Breanne opened her eyes and came back to reality.

  Which was a dark face leering over her.

  She stared at it for one heart-stopping moment before it sank in. No longer dreaming. Someone was actually leaning over her. With a terrified gasp, she fell out of the bed and scrambled toward the door—

  And ran face-first into it.

  Hitting her butt on the floor, she shook off the daze and the pain, and leapt up again. Don’t look back. Fumbling, terror stuck in her throat, she yanked on the handle, belatedly realizing it was still locked. Somehow she managed to release it, then hauled the door open, heading down the hallway, her only thought being to get away—far, far away. She could have screamed and brought the staff running; logically she knew this, but there was no logic in her half-awake brain at the moment.

  Besides, she didn’t want Dante, with his beefy, scary mystique, or Shelly with her perpetual cheer. She didn’t want Patrick with his spooky walk, or Lariana’s quiet disdain—she’d had enough to last her a lifetime, thank you very much.

  All she wanted was comfort.

  The direction she ran for startled her almost as much as the scary face hanging over her bed had, but she’d face that later.

  She sprinted directly toward the double wooden doors at the end of the hallway and burst into the dark room of the honeymoon suite, where a possibly far bigger predator lay than the one she was running from.

  Cooper Scott.

  Without pausing, she took a flying leap onto the high mattress. As she landed, bouncing twice, Cooper sat straight up with a muttered, “What the hell?”

  Nearly sobbing with a relief she didn’t quite understand and didn’t want to, she launched herself at him, hitting him square in his gorgeous chest.

  “Oof,” he said, and caught her.

  Eight

  When climbing the ladder of life, don’t let boys look up your dress!

  —Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry

  Out of breath, Breanne burrowed in closer to a warm, strong Cooper as his arms came around her. “I was asleep—” she began.

  “Me, too.” He said this in a voice she hadn’t heard from him before, rough and husky and . . . sweet. “But this is better. Much better. What are you wearing?”

  “No, you don’t understand—” Her words choked off when he slid his hands down and cupped her butt, squeezing, kneading. “I got too hot. I loc
ked the door to strip—”

  “Mmm,” came from deep in his chest as he pressed his face to her throat. “I like the stripping part.”

  “And then I thought I was dreaming. Maybe I was dreaming—”

  “About me?” he asked hopefully, opening his mouth on her neck, sucking on a patch of skin.

  “Oh, my God.” She fisted her hands in his hair and pulled his head back. “You’re not listening!”

  “Sure I am. You stripped.”

  “Is every single penis-carrying human the same?”

  “Yeah.” He went back to work on her neck.

  Her eyes crossed with lust. “I’m having a crisis here!”

  “Sorry,” he said with dubious regret. “Go on.”

  “It’s just that I don’t know how he got in—”

  “Wait.” He tightened his grip on her and pulled back to see her face. “This isn’t about you coming here for a slumber party, is it?”

  “No!”

  “Damn.” He sighed, but sounding extremely alert now, he gave her one of those long, studying looks that did something funny to her belly. “Finish.”

  Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized he was once again shirtless, but as he was still holding her, that was only a bonus. “I saw a face leaning over me—” Just saying it brought it back. “Leering—” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I didn’t know what to do, so I—”

  “Jumped me.” He held onto her when she might have wriggled free, but truthfully, she didn’t want to get away.

  Even awkwardly sprawled over the top of him, she could feel the easy strength in his body, the delicious heat, and then there was the disconcerting fact that he smelled better than the most expensive chocolate, better than coffee on a freezing morning, better than anything she’d ever smelled, which was really damn unfair.

  The room had seemed pitch-black when she’d first entered in her blind panic, but her eyes had slowly adjusted. He had candles in a tray on the dresser, too, though there was only one left burning, just a small flicker of light in the huge room.

  He brushed her hair from her face. “Did you really see a face, or did you have a dream about a face?”

  “I really saw a face.” At least she thought so. “When I opened my eyes, someone was leaning over me.”

  His sharp gaze swiveled to the door, which she’d left wide open. “Wait here.”

  “What?” She scrambled to her knees when he set her aside and rose out of the bed, wearing . . . nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, staring, mouth open.

  Perfectly at home in his own skin, he walked to his bag on a chair and took out a pair of sweats.

  The man had the best ass she’d ever seen. She was still staring when he pulled on the sweats, and oh, baby, how they fit. Low on the hips, snug to his fabulous physique . . . if she hadn’t been so afraid, she might have pretended to be. “You can’t go! What if it gets you?”

  He glanced back at her, and even in the dark, with the grim mood hovering over them, she caught his vague and brief amusement. “Don’t worry, Princess. I can handle myself.”

  “But . . .”

  Without bothering to tie the sweats, he moved to the door, ready to defend her world.

  “Cooper? I’m sorry I called you a jerk earlier. You’re not.”

  A brief smile touched his lips. “Yeah, I am.” He nodded toward her. “Stay.”

  Right. Stay. Normally just the word would awaken every ornery, defensive bone she had, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Not when she’d slid beneath his blankets and yanked them up to her chin, absorbing the incredible body heat he’d left behind; not when she’d been struck dumb and mute by the incredible protective gesture he’d just given her, whether he’d meant to or not.

  Not when God knew what was out there, waiting.

  At that thought, she clutched his blankets closer, frozen to the spot. What had she sent him into? If something happened to him, she’d never forgive herself. She should go after him, she should . . . do as he said and stay because he seemed more than capable of taking care of himself, and, in fact, more than a little dangerous in his own right.

  Just the way he’d left the room, without drama or a need to show off, proved that.

  She’d grown up with testosterone all around her, but typically her relationships with her brothers had been about torture. That is, their torture of her. The few times she’d needed any sort of rescuing or protecting, she’d done it on her own.

  The men she’d been with had been more of the same. In the time she and Dean had been together, she’d rescued him quite a few times—from his boss, from other women, from his family.

  He’d not returned the favor even once.

  Which brought her back to her past decisions, and how she’d always made the wrong ones.

  But no more.

  It didn’t matter how attracted she was to Cooper. When he got back—if he got back—she’d thank him, and then go back to sleep.

  Temptation averted.

  If only she could avert her tendency to screw up just as easily.

  In another part of the house entirely, a shadow flattened against the wall as Cooper moved down the hallway.

  Sweat beading.

  Heart drumming.

  Too close, way too close. If he’d so much as turned his head—

  But he hadn’t. No one had. No one saw.

  No one ever did.

  In the suite, Breanne waited. And waited. Going more and more crazy as the minutes ticked by.

  Any time now, she thought. Any time now, Cooper would saunter back in, casually edgy, astonishingly sexy, laughing at her because he’d seen nothing. Yeah, any minute now.

  And when he did, she was going to grab him and never let go—screw going to sleep. She was going to thank him, even though she didn’t expect him to understand. She was going to—.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home.” Cooper swaggered back into the room, a vision in his sweat bottoms and nothing else, bringing life back into the place with just his presence.

  “What did you find?” she demanded.

  “Nothing.” He crossed the room until his knees bumped the mattress. The candlelight danced over his sinewy chest, over that flat, rippled belly she wanted to touch, over his powerful thighs . . . and the intriguing bulge between them that kept captivating her gaze and holding it against her will.

  “Nothing but a dark house,” he said softly, in a voice that suggested he knew where her thoughts had just gone and liked it.

  She forced her gaze up. “You went into my room?”

  “I went down to the great room. Didn’t see a thing.” He frowned. “Not even your stuff. You weren’t sleeping down there dressed like that,” he realized.

  She looked down at herself. The gossamer-thin silk clung to her breasts, just barely covering her nipples. Snatching the covers back up to her chin, she avoided his smirk that said it was too late—he’d already gotten an eyeful. “Lariana made me move upstairs to a bedroom,” she murmured.

  “And then you changed.”