by Lisa Plumley
“Who’s asking?”
“Not me.”
Beneath his trench coat, Ginger wiggled. Stacey’s gaze went straight to the lump of coat covering the dog. Her eyebrows lifted.
“But you were thinking about it,” he said to distract her. “Admit it. You want me as much as I want you.”
She swung the hair dryer back and forth in front of her like a lion tamer tossing a whip from hand to hand. Her eyes told him Stacey would have found the analogy wholly appropriate. Something inside him ached at the thought.
“I want you to leave,” she said.
Dylan kicked the door closed with his foot.
Her eyes widened. She stepped backward, and a flush rose beneath the gaping neckline of her robe, tinting the cleavage he remembered so well a nice shade of pink. The heck with looking at the room. He liked watching her more.
She advanced toward him. “Get out of here.”
Dylan wasn’t sure if she realized exactly how menacingly she’d started whirling the hair dryer again. Probably not.
“Don’t you understand? Take a walk,” she went on.
Ginger’s tail popped from beneath his trench coat. It started wagging.
“Scram. I don’t wa—” Stacey snapped her mouth shut, staring at the fluffy, golden-colored tail beating against his hip. “What have you got under there?”
He lowered Ginger to the carpet and pulled off his coat. Free at last, the dog sneezed and trotted over to have a good sniff of their new companion. Her tail wagged so fast it made her whole hind end shake.
“You had to say the ‘W’ word, didn’t you?” Dylan asked.
“‘W’ word?” Stacey’s eyebrows dipped. Absently, she crouched beside his dog and patted her head.
With a blissful closing of her doggie eyes, Ginger rolled on her back. All four furry legs lolled in the air.
“Yeah, don’t say it a—”
“What do you…?” Her eyes brightened. “Oh, walk!”
Yip!
Ginger tried to scramble onto four paws. She thunked her muzzle on the carpet, looked vaguely confused, then made it upright. From tail to whiskers, her whole body quivered with undisguised canine glee. Walk—walk—walk.
Dylan shook his head. “Sorry, girl,” he told her. “Not right now.” Crossing his arms, he looked at Stacey. “I had enough trouble just smuggling her in here. What’d you have to go and do that for?”
“Sorry. I didn’t know.” She bent to the dog, crooning as she smoothed her hand over Ginger’s fur and scratched beneath her muzzle. “Sorry to get you all worked up for nothing,” she told the dog.
She glanced up at Dylan, her eyes clear, golden brown…and suspicious. “Whose is she?”
“What do you mean, ‘whose is she?’ She’s mine.” He crouched near the bathroom door and whistled. “Come here, Ginger.”
The damned traitorous dog rolled her eyes and licked Stacey’s hand. Not so much as a tail thump indicated she’d heard him.
“Ginger. Come.”
She sprawled heavily atop Stacey’s feet, nearly toppling her over. Stacey grinned for the first time—presumably at his failure to make even a dog listen to him—and went on petting her.
Dylan snapped his fingers. “Come.”
The dog yawned, stretching her muzzle wide. She plunked her head on the carpet and closed her eyes.
“Smart dog,” Stacey observed. “More women ought to try resisting you like that.”
“Ha, ha.”
She grinned. With a final crooning pat, she left Ginger in a contented heap and crossed the room toward him. Dylan watched her, mentally gauging his chances of being treated as kindly as the dog.
Judging by his reception so far, they were pretty bleak.
“Seriously,” Stacey said. “Who’d you borrow her from?”
“What do you mean, who’d I borrow her from? She’s mine.”
“Yours.” She snorted and glanced back at Ginger. “Right.”
“I’m hurt.” Dylan did his best to look it. “Why can’t I have a dog?”
She tightened the belt on her robe and scrutinized him through narrowed eyes. The hair dryer still poked from beneath her elbow, but Stacey hardly needed it. Her icy composure was all the defense required. Dylan practically felt himself shrink a couple of inches just standing there.
“You’re not the dog-owning type,” she said simply.
As though that actually explained anything, she rocked back on her heels and waited for him to answer. Bet you can’t, her expression said.
Bet I can, he thought.
Dylan stepped nearer, close enough to sense the candy-cane-scented dampness on her skin. Close enough to touch her. God, how he wanted to touch her.
“I’ve changed,” he said.
Her head came up, sending her ponytail swinging. “I don’t believe you.”
“I can convince you.” He pried the hair dryer from beneath her elbow and shoved it safely on the foyer table where he could keep an eye on it. “Let me convince you, Stacey. I’m not leaving until the weekend’s over. I promised Richard and Janie. So you might as well give me another try.”
Chapter Two
Give him another try.
It really was Dylan. No one else would have had the guts to make a statement like that, especially after all that had happened between them. Besides, it was just like him to barge into her honeymoon charade and try to take over.
Stacey glanced past his lean, jeans-clad hip at the blow-dryer, wishing she still had the semblance of protection it offered. She needed protection—against the hurt of getting involved again, against the loss of identity doing so had led to before. Against him.
Dylan Davis. A guy who could break your heart with one hand and still make you want him with the other.
“No way.” She shook her head, squinting up at him. “Huh-huh.”
Holding her head high, she stepped briskly past him to open the suite’s door. The faint spicy musk of the soap he used wafted to her as she passed. The memories it engendered made her stupid heart beat faster…even though experience had told her exactly how hopeless such a reaction really was. But she just couldn’t help it.
And that was all the more reason for Dylan to leave.
“I want you to go.” Stacey opened the door and nodded toward the opening. Her knees wobbled, but her robe hid the telltale motion from him. Thank God. “I don’t know how you knew I was here, and I don’t care. I just want you gone.”
“Why?”
With apparent casualness, Dylan stepped closer and propped one big hand on the wall beside her head. His shirttail, typically untucked, brushed across the front of her robe. She had to crane her neck upward to see him clearly. Even then, the masculine breadth of his shoulders and chest filled her vision.
Her gaze caught and held on his haphazardly buttoned shirt placket. One of the buttons had slipped partway from its buttonhole. She automatically began to stick it back where it belonged, to make him look more like the successful software engineer he was and less like a person who got dressed in the dark.
To take care of him, like the idiot she’d be if she let him back into her life again.
She shoved her hands in her robe pockets instead. He’d probably left it that way on purpose, knowing it would drive her nuts.
“‘Why?’” she repeated, squinting up at him. “‘Why?’ Maybe because you’re smothering me, that’s why.”
She meant it as a joke. The strangled laugh that came with it wrecked the punch line. Scowling, she pushed herself against the wall, wishing she could disappear into the stylish wallpaper.
What was Dylan doing looming over her, anyway? He couldn’t have proved her point better if he’d tried. Men never could leave well enough alone. They had to be in charge of everything. All the time.
After Charlie, she just wanted to be on her own for a while. Was that so wrong?
No, it wasn’t. And she’d be damned if she’d let Dylan Davis back her into a wall like this. Literall
y.
“You ought to stick with zippers,” she muttered, poking at his shirt placket as an excuse to move forward again. Coward, she told herself. “You look as if you got dressed wearing mittens.”
Dylan made a face. He tucked his chin to his chest to try to see what she was pointing at.
Too quickly, he stopped. “You look as if you’re trying to scare me away,” he said, tilting his head sideways to study her.
She felt like a bug under a microscope. Pinned.
“I can’t help it if you dress like an eight-year-old.” Hating the way her voice quavered when he came closer, Stacey gestured vaguely at his close-cropped, dark-haired head. “Look. Your hair’s all sticking up on one side, too.”
The pathetic thing was, on him it looked pretty cute. But there was no way she’d admit it.
“I left the top down on the Jeep. I wasted no time getting here.” Dylan scooped his hand under her chin and tilted her face upward. “Finding you.”
His hand felt warm and solid and two hundred percent as good as she remembered. Stacey wavered, her knees wobbling harder—and so far, he’d only touched her chin. She had to get him out of there.
She jerked her chin from his palm. “Look, you dumped me, okay? I’m over it. We didn’t click—”
“Oh, we clicked, all right—”
“And anyway, I’ve only been divorced from Charlie for a couple of—”
“Charlie was a jerk.”
“—months.” This wasn’t working. He wasn’t even listening to her. Just like her ex-husband. Retreat, she decided. Tossing her head, Stacey tried to step backwards.
The wall stopped her. Damn. She’d forgotten all about it.
Dylan cupped her cheek in his palm and lowered his gaze to her lips. “Scared?”
Oh, boy. She remembered that expression of his—remembered it too well. He planned to kiss her. Unfortunately, part of her craved exactly that.
“No. Smart,” she shot back. “You’ve got a wandering eye, Dylan. Sooner or later, your hands and heart would have followed. I don’t need the heartache. It’s just as well we ended it when we did.”
Actually, he’d ended it. But the illusion of a friendly, adult agreement strongly appealed to her pride. No point in whining.
Dylan’s expression sobered. His gaze slid upward from her lips to her eyes. While she should have been glad at that small sign of progress, Stacey couldn’t manage it.
“I’m not your worthless ex-husband. Give me a chance to prove it.”
“No.”
“Come on,” he coaxed. “It’s almost Christmastime. Consider it an early Christmas present?”
Oh, boy. Now he looked extra irresistible, like a kid on Christmas morning—all big, dreamy eyes and contagious eagerness.
“No.” She ducked beneath his upraised arm, diving for the open doorway. Anything to put a little distance between them. Something big and lumpy on the floor blocked her path. A towel, she supposed. Giving it a hearty kick and a stomp, Stacey headed into the hallway.
Behind her, Dylan yelped and grabbed his foot.
Geez, the woman was as dangerous as he remembered.
Clutching his toe, Dylan hopped to the doorway of the honeymoon suite. In the hallway, gilded by the light of a sconce behind her, Stacey glared at him with her arms folded across the front of her robe. Beside him, Ginger poked her muzzle between his knee and the doorjamb and stared out, too.
Then she trotted onto the red and beige harlequin-patterned carpet to join Stacey.
Rejected by his woman. Betrayed by his dog. It didn’t get much lower than this.
From down the hall came a faint ding. Dylan turned his head toward the sound, then realized it was the elevator stopping on their floor. Great. He looked at Ginger, busily scratching her ear, then toward the bank of elevators. If anybody spotted him with a dog in the hotel, they’d throw him out for sure.
He’d never get close to Stacey that way.
“Ginger. Come!”
Her tail thumped. Her paws didn’t. The mechanical swish of the elevator doors opening echoed down the hallway. Two elderly women carrying Fashion Show Mall shopping bags and a man in a bellman’s uniform got off. They clustered briefly in front of the mirrors opposite the elevators.
“Ginger, come on.” Dylan squatted in the doorway and snapped his fingers. The dog didn’t move. Hell. Standing, he reached for her collar.
With a toothy doggie grin, Ginger wagged her tail and shuffled closer to Stacey, just out of his reach. The movement earned her a pat on the head and a crooned, “Good dog.”
Down the hall, the two women pushed the elevator buttons again and got on the next car that stopped. But the bellman started down the hall toward the honeymoon suite.
Stacey turned her head, saw the bellman approach—and smiled. “You’re out of here,” she said to Dylan.
She was going to squeal on him. And since Ginger was stuck to her side like Velcro, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to get the dog out of sight before the bellman got there.
Unless it involved getting Stacey inside the room first.
“That’s what you think.” Leaning forward, Dylan grabbed Stacey’s elbow and hauled her up against him.
She whacked into his chest with a surprised whoosh of breath. He held both her arms, keeping her close, then glanced down. Predictably, Ginger trotted into the room. Success!
“Hey!” Stacey looked down at the dog wagging beside her, then up at Dylan. Her eyes widened.
Looking fiercely determined, she sucked in a big breath and got ready—ready to yell for the bellman, Dylan felt sure.
“Oh, no you don’t.” He pinned her arms to the wall and kicked the door closed. Before she could do so much as squeak, he brought his mouth down hard on hers.
At least it started out hard. The second their lips met, though, the kiss took on a softness all its own. His fingers tightened on the silkiness of her wrists, and his wits went walking. To heck with shutting her up. This was what he really needed. Moaning, Dylan pressed against her, demanded more…and got it.
Stacey’s bare foot slammed into his shin. Pain shimmied toward his ankle.
“Youch!” he bellowed, releasing her with a glare.
“Oww!” she echoed, glaring back at him. She raised her foot, wiggled her big toe, and scowled at his shins. “What are those made of, solid steel?”
“I’m supposed to apologize because you hurt yourself kicking me?” The ache in his shin flared along with the words. He wanted to rub it away, but he’d be damned if he’d show any weakness in front of her. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“That wasn’t just kicking. It was self-defense.”
“Yeah, just like the blow-dryer attack was on purpose.” Dylan shook his head. “That was kicking.”
Her robe billowing behind her, she flounced toward the door. She swung it open and stuck out her head. “Excuse me! Bellma—”
Dylan yanked her inside. “Look. Do you want to get us both kicked out of this place?”
“No. Just you.”
Stacey shook her arm from his grasp. The movement made her robe twist crookedly around her middle. Jerking it straight again, she tied the belt tight enough to make him wince.
“I’m serious, Dylan. Nothing you can say will make me give you another chance. Your timing stinks, and I’ve got a honeymoon charade to worry about. You’re not invited. Get it?”
“Are you sure?”
“Aaarrgh!” Stomping past him to the bathroom, she picked up the phone from the vanity. “Either quit manhandling me and get out of here,” she said, waggling the receiver toward him, “or I’m calling security.”
Dylan folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. Nice tub, he noticed, peering inside the pink marble room. Big enough for two. “Do you really want to do that?”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “What is it with you? Learn to take no for an answer.” Ducking her head, Stacey punched zero on the phone and raised it to her ear
.
Damn. He was blowing it again.
He lurched forward to pluck the receiver from her hand and felt himself skidding across the marble instead. Sudsy water squeaked beneath his shoes. Arms pinwheeling, he tried to keep his balance. Stacey’s surprised face flashed in front of him. A second later, he landed in a heap at her feet.
This was some kind of stellar impression he was making.
“Be—because,” he stammered, trying to look comfortable on the floor with water seeping into his jeans, “if you really want to carry off this honeymoon pretense for Janie, I can help you.”
She clicked off the phone. “How?”
Ice cold. Because he’d hurt her, Dylan knew, and regretted every moment since they’d split. He’d played his cards wrong, ducked out of the game just as it heated up—and all because of Janie’s cockamamie theory that Stacey wanted to keep things light after her divorce. No serious relationships.
Naturally, what had he done? Fallen in love with her. Their timing couldn’t have been worse. Dylan had figured he’d get over her if they spent some time apart. Instead, the distance had only made him realize he’d been an idiot to let her go.
He looked up at her. “I’ll be your husband.”
“My husband?” She couldn’t have heard him right. Stacey stared down at Dylan, tapping the phone against her shoulder. “What do you mean?”
It was so hard not to crouch down beside him and make sure he was okay. If anyone knew exactly how hard that marble floor was, it was Stacey. Her backside was intimately acquainted with it. Dylan’s descent had looked funny, but it must have hurt.
He shifted his weight and got to his feet, wincing at the effort. She doubted he realized it, though. Dylan was a classic tough guy. Too brawny to show any weakness to a mere woman.
The big baby.
“I mean, you’re supposed to be Janie. In the honeymoon suite, right?” He leaned on one foot as though favoring an injury and propped his hand on the vanity. Deftly, he slipped the phone from her grasp and replaced it in its stand.
Stacey frowned. “Are you…?”
Okay? she’d been about to ask.
No. He was the one who’d barged in, totally uninvited, and started bossing her around. She refused to feel sorry for him.