Who's Been Sleeping In My Bed?

by Jule McBride

  “Er…never mind.”

  She started dicing again, this time carrots. His mind raced, seeking ways to draw her out. If he could make her talk before he called the cops, he could offer more evidence of her wrongdoing. Did she realize he was Max Tremaine or not? “I got hung up at the airport,” he ventured, “so I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Her bubbly chuckle caught him off guard; it filled the kitchen, making him acutely conscious of the pungent scents, soft music and warm, cozy light. He tried to fight it, but his chest squeezed tight. So, this is what it’s Like to come home to a sexy woman cooking’ dinner in a well-lit kitchen. Too bad she’s a con artist.

  “Well, your schedule’s so busy.” Her voice brimmed with understanding. “Besides, my bread won’t be ready for another twenty minutes.”

  “Busy?” Just what did she think he’d been doing? Increasingly, he was sure she thought he was someone else, someone other than Max Tremaine. But who?

  His eyes flitted over the table again. Since someone was late, would another man show? Max could only hope that some bruiser wouldn’t come waltzing into the room anytime soon. Not that Max couldn’t hold his own in a fight. He’d only landed in that South American hospital because it had been six against one.

  His eyes trailed to a window above the sink, which held the faintest trace of the woman’s reflection. He searched for telltale signs of deceit, but her face was so angelically composed that she could have been humming a spiritual. “Anything I can do to help?” he said.

  “Why, not a thing.”

  For the first time, he noticed her breathy voice held a slight twang. Maybe from Tennessee or Kentucky, he thought. Or West Virginia. He was well traveled, with a knack for placing accents, but hers was tough to call.

  Well, he just wished she’d drop a hint as to why she was here. Had the guy who’d gotten her pregnant been the one to acquire the credit cards? And was this, his girlfriend.or wife?

  Max’s eyes shot to her left hand, and he hardly wanted to contemplate the relief he felt when he re alized she wore no ring. But if she’d written away for the cards, where was the father of her baby?

  Max mustered a casual tone. “Anyone else around?”

  She smiled. “Not a soul. But as soon as I shred this radicchio, I can show you around myself.”

  Max bit back a grunt of surprise. Was this stranger really going to show him around his own house?

  “I know how anxious-you are to unpack.”

  Somehow, he kept his voice even. “I really am.” Had she been expecting a houseguest she’d never met? A friend of a friend, maybe? Max’s eyebrows suddenly shot upward. Last time he was here, there’d only been one bed. Where did she intend to put him?

  “Have a nice trip?” she asked.

  Max remembered the gunfire and sirens and his month-long hospital stay. “Just dandy.”

  She merely nodded. “Would you rather have Boston or romaine lettuce with your radicchio?”

  The reasonableness of her tone set his teeth on edge. So did the fact that she was apparently the type who ate three-lettuce salads. “No plain old iceberg?”

  She smirked. “C’mon.”

  He found himself wishing she’d call him by a name. That way he’d know who he was supposed to be and what role he was supposed to be playing. “Boston’s fine.”

  During the following silence, Max took a good look around. Unfortunately, the more he looked, the more annoyed he felt. The layout of the cottage was simple—a circular downstairs with a living room, dining room and eat-in kitchen. Upstairs were two bedrooms, divided by a long hallway. A bath was right in the middle, directly opposite the stair landing.

  As simple as it was, Max barely recognized a thing. In fact, from his current vantage point, it was as if he’d entered a whole new dimension—an “alter” reality, where he had two identical kitchens that existed side by side. There was his kitchen, whichshould have had boot-size muddy footprints on the floor and a pizza box on the counter. Then there was her kitchen, with brand-new matching pot holders and dish towels.

  Not to mention three kinds of lettuce.

  When Max peered through a crack, toward what had once been a pantry, his eyes narrowed. Inside was the unmistakable glossy gleam of a brand-new washer and dryer. That meant there was another hefty stack of credit card bills lying around here somewhere. Not that Max couldn’t afford to pay them. But then, that wasn’t exactly the point.

  He sighed. Hell, maybe he was having a stressrelated breakdown. Maybe he was simply imagining this pregnant woman who seemed to be in his kitchen making him dinner. After all, such things happened to overly creative types who’d been stuck too long in war-torn countries.

  But no, this was reality.

  At least Max almost hoped so. There was no denying she was the most unusual woman he’d met in a while. And the most beautiful. Just looking at her lush, layered red hair made his fingers long to tangle themselves in the strands. He imagined tilting back her head, probing open those moist red lips with his own and.

  It occurred to him that if he played out this charade, he wouldn’t have to follow his editor’s advice and take time off. There was very definitely a human interest story in here. Even if it was only his human—not to mention very male—interest. As Max watched her rinse and dry her hands, he waited to see what in the world she’d do next. Turning around, she smiled—a full-wattage smile, exposing a row of straight white teeth. Her green eyes lit up with the same warmth she’d brought to his kitchen.

  Over the softly playing music, Max’s damnable stomach growled again.

  And she laughed—a cheerful, effervescent laugh. “Don’t worry,” she assured. “Ten more minutes and we’ll eat. I promise.”

  “Sounds too good to be true.”

  She sighed. “I hope you like everything.”

  Max’s eyes drifted over her. “Somehow, I’m sure I will.”

  Then the worst possible thing happened. The phone rang. Her head swiveled toward the wall extension and Max could swear her smile became a little strained. Was it his imagination or did indecision cross her features? He wasn’t sure. Because with a quick movement, she leaned and snatched the receiver.

  “Hello?” she said.

  He expected her to say, “Sorry, wrong number.”

  Instead, she said, “Yeah, this is Max.” And a genuine smile broke through her false one. “Of course I’m coming to the July fourth block party, Colleen.”

  Max choked out loud. Had this woman, who was calling herself Max, really gotten to know his neighbors? He’d traveled all over the world—he’d trudged through wars and monsoons and covered everything from Groundhog Day to Miss Georgia Peach contests: Max truly thought he’d seen and heard it all-until now.

  Ignoring his slack-jawed stare, the woman merely grinned. “Sure,” she continued. “I’ll be glad to bring my oil-and-vinegar bean salad and some charcoal. Melvin’s providing fireworks, right?”

  Max listened to the one-sided conversation with increasing stupefaction. Little Leaguer Timmy Rhys had broken a library window with a baseball, which had upset Mrs. Wold, but thankfully Timmy’s younger brother, Jeffie, was now fully recovered from his tonsillitis. Blake and Karen from down the block had decided against buying the Manhattan condo. And the local school board had offered Slade Dickerson early retirement, which his wife was insisting he take.

  Max felt reality slip another notch—and the full truth sank in. This pregnant lady wasn’t only using his name, she was living his life! No one was onto her game, either. In fact, it sounded as if his unwitting neighbors adored her.

  Well, she’d be awfully easy to adore. Max squelched the thought but couldn’t stop his eyes from tracing over her again. She was small-boned, probably as light as a feather when she wasn’t pregnant. Not that she didn’t look just fine this way. But who did she think he was? If she knew Max Tremaine wrote for the Times, she probably thought he was still in South America, since his hospital stay had been reported.

&
nbsp; Her sharp gasp cut into his reverie.

  “Are you kidding, Colleen?” Shooting him a quick, apologetic glance, she leaned toward the stove. As she turned down the heat on a burner, the phone cord stretched taut between her breasts, accentuating her ample cleavage.

  Max stared admiringly at her chest, and then his stomach growled again.

  “Not Dotty Jansen,” she continued. “Well, Dotty told me she was considering not returning to the precinct after maternity leave, but she’s been so intent on working. She’s only due a week later than I am, and she’s still wearing a uniform and speeding all over town in that cruiser.”

  Max’s lips parted in astonishment. When he’d bought the cottage, the Jansens had been a selling point. The Realtor said they lived in the brick house across the street and that Dotty was a cop. Had this stranger even fooled the police?

  “You think you saw someone lurking around my house?” she was saying now. “That’s the main reason you called?”

  Max’s body went utterly still. Everyone in the neighborhood thought this woman was him. What if she accused him of burglary—or worse? With his luck, Dotty Jansen would shoot him dead before he could even explain his predicament So much for the welcoming committee.

  “Well…there is someone here,” she said.

  Max held his breath.

  Then she giggled. “No, I swear it’s not a hot date. Look, I’ve got to go, but I promise you’ll get a full report later.”

  Max sure hoped Colleen wasn’t the only one who got to hear it.

  When the stranger hung up, Max decided he’d better try to ascertain her relationship to the neighborhood’s resident law officer. “Sounds like your friend’s decided to become a full-time mother, huh?”

  She nodded. “Dotty and I have gone through our pregnancies together.”

  Max mustered a friendly chuckle. “Excited?”

  She grinned. “Yeah.”

  Only years of weaseling his way into no-press zones allowed Max to keep smiling back. He lifted his duffel. “Well, I don’t have much stuff.”

  “Most of it’s probably dirty, too.” She nodded toward the laundry room. “We’ll just bring the dirty things back down. That way, I can wash them.”

  Why did the woman of his dreams have to be robbing him? “You do laundry?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re too good to be true.”

  Faint pink touched her milky cheeks. “Well, here I am.”

  Max’s eyes roved over her. “You sure are.”

  As he followed her toward the stairs, he realized she’d decorated his entire cottage. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he managed to say as she preceded him up the stairs, her cute rear twitching beneath the maternity jumper.

  “I’ve been doing lots of work on it.”

  He fought not to roll his eyes. “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah.”

  When they reached the upstairs landing, he glanced in both directions. Through a half-open door, he caught a glimpse of the master bedroom—his bedroom. A new navy spread covered the neatly made bed, and a sexy, pearl white silky robe was tossed across it.

  Turning away, he followed her to the opposite end of the hallway, into the second bedroom. Empty when he’d left, it was now simply furnished, with an antique iron bed and maple armoire. Bookcases lined the walls. Not only had she arranged his books, she’d alphabetized them.

  In a corner, he saw four boxes she hadn’t unpacked. One, he knew, contained his photographs. The box was just as he’d left it, too—unopened, wrapped in clear plastic and duct tape with Personal scrawled across it. That meant she probably didn’t recognize him from his pictures. Yeah, she really did think he was someone else.

  Realizing she was watching him expectantly, he smiled.

  “The armoire was in Colleen’s basement, and Dotty gave me the bed and bookcases. Like it?”

  Max wanted to say he hated it. After all, she had no right to decorate his home. Still, if truth be known, Max was none too swift in the decorating department. “Yeah,” he admitted.

  Her voice skipped. “You do?”

  He nodded.

  But who do you think I am? He had half a mind to announce himself. No doubt she’d drop into a dead faint if he told her he was Max Tremaine. Realizing he’d been staring deeply into her green eyes, “he shook his head as if to clear it.

  “I’m really glad you like the room,” she said.

  His temper suddenly flared. “Why should it matter if I like it? I mean, the place is yours.”

  Her smile faltered. “Well, you will be staying here for a while.”

  How long? he wanted to ask. But whoever he was supposed to be, he’d surely know the length of his own visit. How could he find out? And how was he going to keep his hands off her? His eyes slid toward the bed. And then he reminded himself that he was entertaining sexual thoughts about a woman who was robbing him. Not to mention about to give birth.

  She headed for the armoire but was still so close that the bedroom seemed cramped. Her perfume filled it—a soft, floral scent that was even more enticing than the turkey.

  “Well—” She opened the armoire. “As the agency undoubtedly told you, my ex-husband’s gone.”

  What agency? Max wondered. And was the ex gone as in vanished.or as in dead? “They, uh, did mention that,” Max lied.

  She blew out a long sigh. “Some friend of his who stayed here left a bunch of clothes. I had the suits cleaned. So—well, if you can use them, please feel free.”

  “That’s so kind of you,” Max said drolly as he stared inside the armoire at his own suits.

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  It sure was. But what in her story was truth—and what were lies? While Max knew there was no “friend,” since these were his suits, there probably was an ex-husband. Babies had to come from somewhere. And she was pregnant but not wearing a ring.

  “Besides,” she continued, “I never even met the guy…”

  A possible scenario formed in Max’s mind. This woman had fallen for some lowlife and the man had lied, saying this was his cottage. Maybe, for some reason Max couldn’t yet fathom, the man had even insisted she use the name Max Tremaine. And when she told him she was pregnant, he’d left her here.

  Oh, right. Face it, Max. She’s so good-looking you’re just wishing she wasn’t a con artist.

  “About your ex-husband—”

  She stared at him with a stricken expression. “I’ve, er, been over all this with the agency. I mean, they should have told you he’s, er, threatening me. So far, it’s just been phone calls. But I—I had to have protection.”

  It was the last thing he expected. Max forced himself to nod.

  Her eyes flitted around the room. “He, uh, didn’t want the baby.” Her face turned such a bright crimson that Max knew she wasn’t lying about that.

  “And the closer I get to my due date,” she continued, “the more worried I feel. So, I just called the agency and had them send you. I really felt I should have a—”

  “A…?”

  She stared at him as if he, of all people, should know. “A bodyguard.”

  Max’s face froze into a composed mask. She looked so honest now. Lord, she really thought an agency had sent him to protect her from the father of her child.

  This was absolutely insane. He should go right back downstairs and call the cops. But then his gaze took on a life of its own—sweeping her face, caressing her hair and roving over her curves. And Max found himself saying, “Don’t worry, Max. With me in a bedroom right down the hall, you’ll be perfectly safe.”

  3

  How Chemistry Could Not Be Denied

  SAFE WITH THIS GUY? Lo thought.

  Never.

  Hot-cold, queasy-faint feelings buffeted her insides, and beads of perspiration rolled from her armpits like Sherman tanks. Beneath her maternity jumper, her knees knocked together so fast and hard she could have been dancing the Charleston. Couldn’t the real Max Tremaine tell s
he was nervous?

  At least she’d made it back to the kitchen in one piece. She’d nervously stuffed his clothes into the washer, too, and now she tossed her hair over her shoulder, nodding casually at the dinner table, which she’d so foolishly set for two. “Why don’t you sit down while I fill our plates?”

  Max’s grin was devastating—making his amber eyes sparkle and his even teeth gleam white against his bronzed skin. He dragged a tanned hand through his longish, curling tawny hair. “I don’t mind serving myself. I’m a big boy.”

  Was he ever. Lo fought to keep her voice even. “Uh, true, but I know how tired you must be after your trip.”.

  “Actually, I’m pretty wiped out, Max,” Max admitted. “I’ll take double everything, though. It looks great.”

  Lo sighed in relief as the man dutifully folded his ample, broad-shouldered frame into one of the kitchen’s straight-back chairs. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally jostling him at the counter—feeling the searing brush of his skin, the heat seeping through his shirt, the warmth of his breath as he nuzzled her neck….

  Her neck?

  Get ahold of yourself!

  Ever since she’d gotten pregnant, her hormones had gone wacky, but she was in big trouble here, and ignoring her traitorous physical response to Max Tremaine was the very least she could do. She circled the table—fussing with his silverware and repositioning the centerpiece of flowers. Only after she’d lit the candles did she realize she’d made a disastrous mistake. Everything was so romantic….

  And her heart was pounding so hard she could barely think. If only she knew what was going on here. Why was Max Tremaine letting her pretend to be him?

  Willing her fingers not to tremble, she started spearing turkey slices. Oh, please, she prayed, make the way to a man’s heart really be through his stomach. Because if it wasn’t, she was going straight to jail.

  But what in the world was the man doing here?

  He lives here, she reminded herself. And yet she’d been positive he was still in that South American hospital.

  “Hmm.” His contented hum seemed to indicate that not a thing was out of the ordinary. “So the basil’s in the salad dressing…”