"Okay, you're fine," she whispered to herself. "Probably you had too much to drink and you fell into a stupor in some guy's bed. Probably you were both too drunk to perform and nothing happened."
Comforting, but hardly realistic given the aftershocks still humming through her nervous system. Not to mention all those empty condom packets.
"Well," she continued, trying not to panic, "whatever you did, he did it, too. Whoever he is."
Quietly, carefully, trying not to fall into hysteria, she eased herself back into the bed all the way, craning her neck so she could see who was back there, breathing on her. He roiled away from her, freeing her, and she saw dark hair, a beautifully sculpted torso, broad shoulders… She could just make out the side of his face, but a picture fell into her muddled brain with a clunk. A picture of her half sister standing at the altar, beaming up at a face just like this one.
"Oh, my god!" she screamed, bolting upright, clutching the pillow to her front. "I slept with the groom!"
"The groom? Who? Wha…?" He jumped awake all at once, sitting up stark naked, staring at her. "I'm not the groom. I swear. But who are you?"
"Wait, wait, wait." Keeping an arm secure around her protective pillow, she lifted a weak hand to her brow, shoving back a wall of hair, wishing her head would stop pounding like that. The whole room seemed to be beating like a drum. Or was that just her heart? Why did it have to be so loud?
"Who are you? And why are you shouting?"
"I remember you now," Lucie ventured slowly. Breathe in. Breathe out. It could be worse. She remembered him. He wasn't the groom. He was handsome. He was nice. It could be a lot worse. If only he weren't quite so naked. She bent down over the edge, grabbed a sheet, and flung it back up on the bed. "If you don't mind, could you please, you know, cover up?"
His jaw clenched. But he took it. With a grim expression, he looped the fine linen over his lap. "Better?"
"Yes, thank you." Still unwilling to look directly at him, Lucie compulsively rubbed her finger over the intricate carvings in the dark wood post beside her. "As I said, I remember you. You're right—you're not the groom. You're the best man, Ian. You were supposed to have lip prints all over you from Feather. I was supposed to find Baker and have my one night of nookie. I think we got our wires crossed."
"Huh?"
Losing it, Lucie bridged the gap between them, took him by the shoulders, and shook him. Hard. "What the hell were we thinking? How did this happen? And how did it happen six times?"
Wincing, Ian peeled her hands off his shoulders. "You just dropped your pillow."
Her body flushed with hot color as she let loose with a particularly colorful curse word and smacked him with the full brunt of the stupid pillow. Then, with dignity, she reattached it to her front and stretched out her other hand behind her to find something more reliable. But there was nothing to find. The heavy coverlet was pooled on the floor, nowhere near her.
"Sit still," he said darkly, leaning over her, spreading out his sheet to cover her, too. "There. That ought to do it."
Delicately clasping it up to her neck, Lucie huddled on her side of the bed, not touching any of him.
"I just… I haven't got a clue how we ended up together," he said gingerly. But he extended a finger, gently lifting a tendril of her hair as he smiled encouragingly. "Do we know each other?"
"Well, actually, yes. After last night, I think it's fair to say we know each other intimately." She concentrated on bringing air into her lungs. Calmly. Slowly. No need to hyperventilate. Also no need for a mental slide show of the level of that intimacy. "But we did meet before that—you came to my table and you dragged me over to be in the family picture. Ring any bells?"
"Kind of," he murmured slowly. "But how did we get from there … to here?"
"I don't know. I really don't know. Baker gave me a key. Room 302. I came right here."
"But this is 203."
"Isn't that what I said? Oh. This is 203? Then he must be in 302. But why would his key work in your door?" She shook her head, grabbing her hair in one hand and twisting it into a knot just to get it out of her way. "I don't understand."
"The hair. I remember you now. Lucie, the sneezy redhead." He rammed a hand into his forehead. "Steffi's sister. Oh, lord. What have we done?"
That was the ten-million-dollar question, wasn't it?
* * *
Chapter 3
«^»
Ian's head felt like a bongo drum. He knew he had a massive hangover, but that wasn't the half of it.
He had just slept with Lucie Webster. And he was in big trouble.
For one thing, she was not at all his type. Sure, they'd hit it off big-time in the sack. But he could tell just by looking she was too bright, too interesting, too challenging, way too six-kids-and-a-house-in-the-suburbs. One glance at her and he saw his future stretching before him, full of lace curtains and hand-thrown pots, salt-and-pepper-shaker collections, New York Times crossword puzzles, and schmaltzy black-and-white movies on video. And that was a best-case scenario. Yechhhh.
She was also not the kind of woman who was satisfied with a one-nightstand, which was exactly why she wasn't the kind of woman he wanted. She had trust and respect and commitment written all over her.
As well as some bodacious curves. Ian, keep your mind on trust, respect and commitment—all the things you avoid with a vengeance.
Even worse than that, she came straight from the same grasping, social-climbing family as the petulant princess who'd just shackled his poor brother. For all he knew, this was the way Steffi got her foot in Kyle's door. And the last thing he needed was to step into the same quicksand that was trapping Kyle.
Ian tried to sort out how to get out of this mess with even a scrap of self-respect, but every time he tried to think, he kept getting this loud echo inside his brain. Boom, boom, boom. He vaguely remembered a bottle of Scotch with his name on it. That would explain the rock band in his head.
"Listen, can you call down to room service and get some coffee up here?" he asked in a very soft voice, trying to avoid the damn echo. It didn't work.
"No, I cannot call room service," the woman in his bed yelled. Well, maybe she didn't really yell. Maybe it only seemed like yelling. "If I call room service, they will know I'm here, won't they? I don't want anyone to know I'm here, and especially not some nice, wide-eyed kid who's going to roll his cart in here and then run back to Room Service Central to tell everyone that he saw you and me and six empty condom packages. Six!"
He was sorry he'd asked. "We could clean up the floor before he got here. Did you say six?" He didn't mean to smile. Lord knew, this was nothing to smile about. "Six, huh?"
"I'm glad that news cheers one of us up."
"I'm sorry," he offered before he knew what he was saying. He was sorry. It's just that apologizing wasn't necessarily the tactic he would have chosen if he'd had his wits about him. "Lucie, I don't know what to say. I wish I remembered more about what happened or what we did…"
But he did remember. All of a sudden, the memories came flooding back with startling detail. Good God.
His gaze rocketed over to her, skidded off, and landed somewhere on the foot of the bed. Could he really have…? Could she really have…? She sure didn't seem like the type. He wasn't sure he was the type. Good God. He actually felt like blushing. He hadn't blushed since he was twelve.
And right now, he had to be out of that bed and more than a few inches away from Lucie Webster. He was starting to sweat from the flashbacks.
"Okay, listen." He jumped out from under the sheet and deftly whipped the heavy side curtain from the bed around his flanks as he turned. "Probably we need to talk about this, but I think maybe a shower is what I need. Unless…" He gave her a short glance. "You first?"
"I am not going to get naked in your shower," she returned hotly, as if his shower was anymore intimate than what they'd already done. As if anything in the universe was more intimate than what they'd already done.
The shower. Oh, hell. Ian leaned his head against the hard wood of the bedpost. The shower was where they'd ended up during round six of their no-holds-barred wrestling match, unless he was very much mistaken. The kaleidoscope of pictures unfolding in his brain told him he was not mistaken.
There they all were, in blinding clarity. One was on the bed with her on top; two was half-off the bed with him behind; three was on the floor, sort of a continuation of two after they rested for a minute; four was back on the bed but he was on top, and five was on the desk.
And six … up against the wall of the shower, with the water on full blast
He squeezed his eyes closed but the pictures remained. His only hope of sanity was that Lucie didn't remember.
"All right," he said darkly, "then why don't you get dressed while I take a shower?" He'd just have to keep his eyes shut, point the other way and make the water really cold. Really cold.
"Why don't I leave? Like, immediately." Lucie scooted out the side of the bed in a wave of cream-colored linen wrapped toga-style. "I'll just get my clothes…" She kicked at the pile of tartans on the floor, frowning as she held up her skirt in one hand. "It's all ripped. All down the side. I guess I was in a … hurry." Looking even more dazed than before, she took a deep breath. "No buttons on my blouse, either. This is great. This is just great. I suppose I could tie the blouse on, but then what do I do below the waist? You don't have about ten safety pins, do you?"
"No." Was she crazy or was he? Safety pins?
"Great," she repeated, even crankier this time. "I have no clothes, not a stitch, and I'm stuck in a hotel room with Mr. Sleeps-With-Anything-That-Moves of Greater Chicagoland—"
"That's hardly fair," he put in, although it was difficult to argue while wearing half a bed curtain, while his mind and body still rocked with erotic aftershocks. "You don't know who I sleep with."
He stretched out a toe, trying to snag the bedspread. He also worked on kicking the empty condom wrappers under the bed, since they seemed to be bothering Lucie so much.
"I don't?" she asked angrily. "Aside from me, who happens to be a virtual stranger, you mean?"
She was busy wiggling into her panties while hanging onto her sheet, and the suggestive motions didn't do his temperature any good. Much better idea for him to play soccer with condom packages and ignore her.
"And why would I think you sleep around?" she went on. "Hmm … I wonder."
He held himself very still, hoping she wasn't going to mention anything about the floor or the shower or the energetic tango half-off the bed. God, that one was magnificent. Kinky, but magnificent.
"Maybe," she continued, "because I know your first choice of bedpartners last night was a bubble-headed bimbo with fake boobs. Men who lust after Feathers do not get high marks in the taste department in my book."
Oh, Feather. He'd forgotten about her. "You were hardly expecting to sleep solo yourself, sister," he shot back. Meanwhile, he'd managed to maneuver the brocade coverlet over far enough to grab it and wrap up a toga of his own. "Besides, you're the one who crawled in with me, not vice versa."
"You're right, I did not intend to sleep solo," she said smartly. "And you're also right that I did crawl in with you. But that was a mistake. I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but I ended up in the wrong room."
"Uh-huh. Convenient Maybe you just picked the first door at the top of the stairs."
"For your information, I planned things rather carefully," she insisted. "Yesterday was my birthday and I was trying to arrange a very simple little fling. But did I pick some stud ten years younger than me? No! A stranger? No! I chose a decent, normal guy with an IQ well above four. Not Feather McStupid!"
"Okay, that's not funny." But he started to laugh anyway. He couldn't help it. His senses were overloading and he had to break the tension somehow. Feather McStupid? It wasn't that clever; it just hit him the right way.
"So happy to keep you entertained."
He shrugged. "I said I was sorry."
"Yeah, about four times now, like I really believe any of them." Her shoulders slumped. "I don't want to ask you for any favors, but do you have any clothes you could lend me? I have a suitcase down in my car, but I can't get down there dressed like this." Her eyes were a luminous, misty green as she gazed at him, all woebegone and miserable. "I just really need to be out of here and not talking about this anymore. This whole you-and-me-last-night thing is just too much for me."
"I'm sorry," he offered, and this time he meant it. "I have a change of clothes, for me, I mean, but nothing that would fit you. Listen, why don't I run down to your car and get your suitcase? It's the least I can do."
And it would put some very healthy distance between them.
"Well, maybe."
He swept all the way around the bed, aiming for the closet on the far wall where he'd stashed his duffel bag. "I can throw on my jeans and get down there and back really quick. Just toss me your car keys."
"Oh, no."
Her tone was so dire he stopped in his tracks. See, this was why he knew he didn't want to tangle with women like Lucie. Way too complicated. You always had to ask probing questions and pick up cues and try to be sensitive to their moods. Like it was your end of the bargain for getting to do the hokey pokey all night.
And he meant all night, too. Six times. He hid a smile. By all rights, he ought to be in a coma.
But Lucie made another small moan of distress, and he knew that was his cue. He turned back to her. "What?"
Her eyes wide, Lucie brandished the small plaid purse she'd been carrying last night. "My keys aren't in here. Just this." She held up a tube of lipstick. "Poisonberry Smog, Feather's trademark color."
"And this means…?"
"Our purses. We were in the ladies' room, and I accidentally hit her and then everything fell on the floor and it was a big mess and I thought this was my purse because all I saw were condoms and the room key. To 203. I thought that's what Baker said. Room 203." Still carrying the tiny bag, she sat on the edge of the bed. "So I picked up the wrong plaid bag and all of this is my fault." Her gaze lifted. "I just realized… Where do you think Feather ended up?"
"Hold on. I'm still stuck back a few minutes. You hit Feather? Like, a catfight in the bathroom? Is that what we're talking?" Ian shook his head. "I miss all the good stuff."
But he didn't get a chance to ponder that thought. Someone rapped hard on the outside of the door, and then his brother's voice said roughly, "Ian? You in? I need to talk to you, man. I'm desperate."
Lucie stared at him, panic in her eyes. They could hear the sound of a key grinding in the lock. His brother was coming in and there was no time to stop him.
Hell. "Kyle, don't!" he started, but all the way across the room, the latch squeaked slightly, rotating. And the door itself began to slide open.
Without thinking, they both pitched back into the bed. Lucie went headfirst, flattening herself out and pulling her sheet up over her like a shroud. Ian was right behind her, scooting down under her sheet, too, shoving her down further into the bedclothes, then flapping his own bedspread out over both of them. When he drew up his knees, he hoped there was enough disarray and confusion on the bed to camouflage Lucie from his brother's prying eyes.
By that time, Kyle was all the way into the dimly lit room, nearly at the foot of the bed. Unshaven and wild-eyed, he looked about as lousy as Ian felt. "Thank God you're here. Get up, will you? I need you."
"What the hell are you doing?" Ian demanded from his sitting position.
Jesus. Lucie was breathing on his bare hip, with her head practically in his lap. How did that happen? He slipped a hand under the covers, covering her eyes like a blindfold.
To Kyle, he growled, "I can't believe you just barged into my room at the crack of dawn. Get out of here!"
"Crack of dawn? It's after ten." Kyle strode to the window, pulling the blinds with a loud clatter that brought instant pain to Ian's head and made Lucie bounce in his lap, put
ting her in an even more precarious place. Oh, man. Just don't touch anything. He was sweating again.
"Ten o'clock?" he echoed in a strained voice. "You've got to be kidding."
"Besides, the key was in the door." Kyle peered at the mess in the room, strolling over to poke at the discarded pile of clothing. "I assumed I wasn't interrupting anything." Lifting an eyebrow, Kyle also lifted first one kilt and then the other. "Guess I was wrong. Guess you had a better night than I did."
"Guess again."
Kyle sent him a tight smile. "So you've got somebody under there, huh? Feather, maybe?" He moseyed closer to the bed, hanging a hand over the footpost. "She feeling a little shy this morning?"
"It's not Feather, and it's none of your business," Ian muttered between clenched teeth.
"So why are you hiding? You haven't got anything I didn't see in the bathtub when I was three."
"Because I thought I could protect… Oh, never mind." He leapt out the side, leaving the coverlet over Lucie and smashing the bed curtains together behind him. Still glowering at his idiot brother, Ian stalked over to the closet and rummaged around for his jeans, which was what he should've done ages ago. "You better have a pretty good explanation for this, Kyle," he said savagely, hopping into one leg and then the other. "Blasting in my door like a storm trooper, refusing to leave when it should be pretty damn clear you're intruding—"
"Look, you shouldn't have been playing pick-up on my wedding night, anyway," Kyle complained. "It's gross. And whoever she is, she's fine in there." He paused. "But it isn't Feather, right? You swear?"
"Yes, I swear. What difference does it make?"
"I need to talk to you." He dropped his voice. "About my marriage. About maybe not having a marriage. So, is it safe? To talk in front of your, uh, you know…"
"What do you want me to do, send her out into the hall naked just so you can have my undivided attention? Jeez, Kyle, you gotta be kidding." Jan pulled a T-shirt on over his head and grabbed a few things out of his bag. He headed for the bathroom not far from the closet. "Let me brush my teeth and then you and I can go to your room."
JUST A LITTLE FLING Page 4