Who's Been Sleeping In My Bed?

by Jule McBride

  In the perky cheerleader voice that had made her a rising star at Meredith and Gersham, Lo said, “And there’s pie for dessert—your choice of pumpkin or pecan.”

  “Then I guess you’d better go easy on that spinach.” Max rested a heartbreakingly perfect hand on his flat stomach.

  “But wasn’t it spinach that gave Popeye all that strength?” Lo found herself saying.

  Max chuckled. “Do I look weak to you?”

  Lo considered his well-delineated biceps. Then it took two tries before she could clear her throat. “Er, you look…” Like vitamin E’s your middle name.

  “Don’t worry.” He flashed her another smile. “I fully intend to defend you if your ex comes around.”

  “Ex?” It took a second to remember she was supposed to be divorced, which meant she’d better start keeping better track of all her damning lies. Upstairs, she just hadn’t wanted Max to think she’d gotten pregnant and ditched. “I know you’ll, er, defend me fine.” Especially since I’m in no danger whatsoever—at least not from an ex-husband She just wished Max Tremaine’s close proximity wasn’t posing its own kind of threat.

  “Count on being safe,” he said.

  At the thought of counting on Max, Lo’s hands started sweating so that when she transferred a smidgeon of spinach to his plate, the serving fork nearly slipped. Darn it, she thought as she reached for the rice pilaf, she’d meant to leave Max’s house—she really had—but then one thing had led to another.

  Since her arrival months ago, she’d been searching for B.B., who’d mysteriously vanished, as well as trying to figure out a way to get hold of the papers Sheldon had given the FBI and SEC. Now she only needed a little more time. She was sure she could link the paper trail directly to Sheldon and clear her name. In the meantime, she was researching the scandal at the local library.

  Of course, a pregnant woman’s entire life couldn’t be devoted to such activities. She’d been regularly visiting an obstetrician. And at the library, she’d started an afternoon storytelling group for kids. She’d also organized a neighborhood crime watch and a bingo game for the seniors and…

  Felt compelled to do something nice for Max Tremaine. So, she’d unpacked for him, getting to know him intimately in the process. He kept everything-boxes of letters, his old New York Times clippings, snapshots and yearbooks. Not to mention a lock of hair from his first-grade girlfriend, Molly Miller, that was still tied with a faded blue ribbon. His doting parents wrote regularly about their lives in Montana, and his fun-loving sister, Suzie, had sent a postcard months ago, saying she’d left town with a musician named Amis.

  Lo shot Max a shamefaced glance. She’d felt so guilty about snooping that she’d repacked the box marked Personal in such a way that he’d never guess someone had scrutinized the contents.

  “Uh…if you keep piling on that rice, there won’t be any room for dressing,” Max said. “And I love dressing.”

  His voice was distinctive—carrying hints of accents from the many places he’d been, and its vibrations warmed Lo from the inside out. She glanced up, hot color flooding her cheeks. With shaking hands, she scooped up the dressing.

  “Gravy?” she managed to ask.

  “Tons.”

  As she dutifully doused Max’s plate with gravy, Lo thought back on how she’d unpacked Max’s things and gotten credit cards in his name so she could buy him a few home furnishings. She would pay him back, of course. Just as soon as she had access to her accounts again. She sighed. All along, she’d thought of herself as a benevolent soul who’d come in the night—like Santa or the tooth fairy, or one of the little men who fixed shoes.

  But she was a criminal.

  She knew that now. Even worse, she’d fallen criminally in love with Max Tremaine.

  There—She garnished his plate with a fat dollop of cranberry sauce. Now, that wasn’t so hard to admit.

  That he’d kept little Molly Miller’s lock of hair all these years had sparked her imagination. Then his observations in the New York Times about South America had warmed her soul. At first, she’d scanned the newspaper for his articles merely to make sure Max was still out of the country. Later, she found herself poring over them with real interest while she ate her breakfast.

  When it was announced that Max’s column was suspended because he was near death in a foreign hospital, Lo had felt worse than on her very first night here—when Sheldon no longer wanted her. And the only men who did wore blue uniforms and carried badges.

  Back then, she hadn’t yet laid eyes on Max. His work carried no byline, probably because he’d wanted his words to speak for themselves, and the pictures upstairs didn’t do him justice. In the flesh, he was more rough-and-tumble, looking as if he belonged on a Texas ranch or an Australian bush safari, not in the Connecticut suburbs. Even the thick golden stubble on his unshaven jaw couldn’t hide the sculpted contours of his face. His eyes, which were dusted with sandy brown lashes, were the color of whiskey and glowed like a warm fire. Kind and watchful, they said he could play nice, but that he never let people take advantage.

  Lo just wished she hadn’t pretended he was her bodyguard. But maybe she’d said that because she secretly wanted him to protect her. Her eyes landed on his chest again. As she tweezed two biscuits onto his bread plate, her heart thudded dully.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Her voice was a thin, nervous quaver. “You’re welcome.”

  Once she’d filled her own plate, she stared at the great piles of food. Her stomach was so jittery she knew she couldn’t swallow a bite. All at once, she clenched her teeth. Is Max still expecting the real bodyguard to show up?

  Why hadn’t she thought of that? Trying to maintain some semblance of composure, Lo reminded herself that before Sheldon booted her off the ladder at Meredith and Gersham, she’d nearly reached the top rung. If there was one thing on which she prided herself, it was the ability to think on her feet.

  “Forget something?” Max asked.

  “I, er, better phone the—” what had she called it? “—the…agency. While I let them know you’re here, please go ahead and eat.”

  Max’s gorgeous eyes surveyed their feast. “I wouldn’t think of starting without you.”

  She melted. Why did Max have to turn out to be such a gentleman? Not knowing what else to do, she strode purposefully across the kitchen. Mind racing, she lifted the receiver of the wall phone, her other hand poised above the numerical pad. Lord, her fingers were obviously trembling! Quickly, she punched in the number for her old apartment, since it was the first that came to mind.

  Then she sent Max what she hoped was a guiltfree smile.

  He smiled back.

  On the line, a piercing tone sounded.

  As the operator began announcing the line was disconnected, Lo started rambling chattily. “Hi, this is Max Tremaine. I just wanted to let you know that the man you’ve sent seems fine.”

  Fine! What an understatement.

  Lo was still fighting the urge to stare at Max’s broad chest and shoulders when the line went dead. Her heart lurched. How much time remained before a buzz sounded, alerting Max to the fact that she was talking to a dial tone?

  Think, Lo! She mustered her haughtiest, most indignant snarl, praying that Max would focus on her righteous anger, not on the logic lapses in her story. “What do you mean he shouldn’t have arrived yet? Well, he’s sitting right here in my kitchen!

  “Yes, I’m sure he’s the right one. His name’s—” In a panic, she glanced toward the table. What was a good bodyguard-sounding name? Stud? Rod? Her eyes darted down, landing on Max’s feet. “Boots!” Lo blurted out. “His name’s Boots…Boots, uh—” Her eyes landed on the stove. “Boots Stover. That’s who you were supposed to send.” She stared Max straight in the eyes. “You are Boots, right?”

  Feeling faint, Lo waited for him to growl, “Hell no, I’m Max Tremaine and you’re in my house, lady.”

  “You are Boots?” she repeated.

 
After an excruciatingly long moment, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lo nodded as if he’d merely spoken the obvious. “No!” she exclaimed into the phone’s mouthpiece, still trying to ignore the dial tone. “I do not want you to send Boots Stover. Boots Stover is here! This man just said he’s Boots. And if so much as one more man comes to my home, I—I’ll never use your agency again! You came highly recommended, too. By…by…” C’mon, Lo, who recommends body-guards? “By my very best friend, Dotty Jansen,” Lo rushed on regally. “And Dotty just so happens to be with the Connecticut police!”

  Making a show of getting her emotions under control, Lo blew out a very long, very false sigh. Then she voiced a cool, “Thank you,” and slammed down the phone. Beneath her maternity jumper, her knees started slamming together again.

  “Sorry—” She sent Max an apologetic smile as she seated herself opposite him at the table. “I rarely lose my temper. But how do you work for those people? They’re so disorganized.”

  “I know.” Max shook his head in disgust. “But when it comes to setting me up with work.well, they really are the best.”

  The guy was a great actor. Better than she was. Lo had to give him that. Well, if he really believed she’d been waiting for a bodyguard, he’d no longer expect another man to show. She only wished she hadn’t christened him Boots Stover. Things were bad enough without him answering to that ridiculous name.

  Max gazed at her across the table. “Max?”

  Somehow, she kept a straight face. “Boots?”

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  But she wasn’t. That Max was playing along with her was setting her teeth on edge. But it was also creating a heaven-sent window of time. Could she use it to show him she was a nice person? Then maybe he’d believe in her innocence if she told him about Sheldon. She knew Max had heard of her. He’d written the breaking story about the Meredith and Gersham scandal for the Times before another reporter stepped in. The paper was still offering coverage, and Lo’s name had appeared frequently and in bold type.

  As a journalist, Max could help too. But how could she convince him she was a good person? “Shall we say grace?” she murmured demurely.

  Max’s eyes widened, but when he spoke, his voice was laced with only the thinnest thread of irony. “How could I have forgotten?”

  Since holding hands during prayer was a Lambert tradition, Lo reached across the table, but she was hardly prepared for the way Max’s huge, dry palms warmed her smaller, damp ones. Max shut his eyes-as if he hadn’t heard her sharp, audible breath, as if the touch of skin on skin didn’t affect him in the least. Dutifully, Lo squeezed her own eyelids together. Just as her lips parted, Max’s voice sounded.

  “Heavenly Father,” he intoned. “Accept our thanks for these and all thy blessings…”

  “Amen,” she said.

  “Amen,” he said.

  She blinked—and found herself gazing too deeply into Max’s eyes. Time seemed suspended. Her upper body swayed to the soft, seductive radio music. It was as if Max had put her under a spell. Until the rinse cycle on the nearby washing machine kicked in and he said, “Ladies first.”

  Realizing her fingers had actually linked with his, Lo gingerly withdrew her hand and picked up her fork. Even though I’m in his house, she thought, feeling touched, he intends to treat me like a lady.

  Or else he thinks I’m going to poison him! At the thought, she winced and the tension sparking between her and Max seemed unbearable. All her unanswered questions were driving her mad: What was he thinking? Who did he think she was? And how in the world was she going to choke down dinner?

  She smiled wanly and forced herself to take a bite.

  He watched her carefully.

  Then, as if suddenly sure his supper wouldn’t kill him, he dug in ravenously. “Sorry I’m not more of a conversationalist,” he said between bites, “but I’m starved.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t mind me. I like to see a man with an appetite.”

  The way Max’s eyes suddenly roved over her startled Lo into realizing he had an appetite for her. “Is that so?”

  “I thought you were too starved to talk.”

  “Do you mind talking?”

  “You’re not talking.”

  “No?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, you’re starting to flirt.”

  At that, he laughed—a deep, rich, musical laugh. “So, do you mind flirting?”

  She swallowed hard. “You mean generally speaking?”

  His eyes twinkled. “No, I mean with me.”

  Suddenly reminding herself that she was supposed to be his boss, she said, “Look, maybe we’d better, er, lay down some house rules.” Like how we’re both going to sleep upstairs without me losing my mind.

  He laughed again. “Am I making you nervous?”

  “A little.”

  His laughter tempered to a wry smile. “Sorry.”

  While Lo waited for her overwrought nerves to settle, she watched Max eat, his voracious appetite doing her heart good. Suddenly, she frowned. Because Max had a wide readership, the New York Times had reported on his hospital progress, hinting that he suffered from a stress syndrome.

  Was Max confused? Did he think he was her bodyguard? But no. Given his appetite and propensity to flirt, he was probably fine. Maybe the writer in him was even intrigued by her.

  Lo toyed with her food, then glanced toward the window. In the distance was the Dreamy Diapers packaging plant. It was still closed, pending her arrest and the final review of the price-fixing, investigation. Lo shook her head sadly. She’d been forced into constant contact with people who’d lost their jobs because she hadn’t paid closer attention when she’d worked on the deal at Meredith and Gersham. In part, that’s what had driven her to do so much community work in this neighborhood. Her gaze slid toward Max just as he polished off his plate.

  “Something on your mind?” he said.

  Lots. She shrugged. “Not a thing. Ready for pie?”

  Max actually looked crestfallen. “Dinner was so good I completely forgot. Can I take a rain check?”

  “Pie’s there anytime you want it,” she said, imagining Max coming downstairs for a midnight snack. Somehow, she was pretty sure he slept in boxers and didn’t own a robe.

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Sure you ate enough?”

  She stared down at her full plate. “Jumpy stomach.”

  “Is it from…”

  “The baby,” she quickly lied.

  “C’mon—” He shot her a smile. “Eat a little more and I’ll help you with the dishes.”

  She smiled. “Bribing me?”

  He stared right into her eyes. “Can you be bought?”

  At the not-so-veiled reference to her possibly criminal nature, Lo’s skin turned hot all over. “No,” she managed in a strangled voice. Then she held her breath and waited for him to ask her who she really was.

  Instead, he said, “Never?”

  “Never.”

  As she dutifully took a few more bites, feeling like a heel because he was so darn nice, she became acutely aware of the surroundings again—the flickering candles, the dreamy music, the soft amber eyes that kept drifting over her. Oh heavens, she thought with horror, did Max think she’d intended to seduce her new bodyguard? She slid a palm over her belly. She was hardly in shape to seduce anyone…especially Max Tremaine, she reminded herself in no uncertain terms.

  But when she lifted her gaze and found him surveying her, she knew instinctively that they’d be right together.holding each other, joking around. In bed. Her breath caught. Oh, why had she set the table for two? Judging by the light in Max’s eyes, it had definitely given him the wrong impression.

  “It’s good to be back,” he said softly.

  “Back?” she croaked. Please don’t let everything be over now—not the soft lights, the music, how his eyes drink me in. It’s crazy, but I want this man to keep playing along with me.

  He shrugg
ed. “In South America, everything gotsort of out of control. I was, uh…”

  She held her breath.

  “Protecting a political guy down there, you know.”

  “That’s what the—” she winced “—the, uh, agency said.”

  “Things got dangerous.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “But I guess I kind of thrive on danger.” He shook his head. “Landed in a hospital, too.”

  She feigned surprise. “Really?”

  He nodded.

  Concern touched her voice. “But you’re all right now?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a short silence. And then, suddenly, something magical happened. The lies between them were forgotten. As if responding to nothing more than her genuine, heartfelt concern, Max started telling Lo tales about his trip—about small, colorful villages and hamlets, and militiamen who trained in the mountains. Even though the stories held their share of tragedy, Max somehow found the one germ of humor in each of them.

  Lo was sure she could listen to him talk for the rest of her life. He was acting as if he’d been protecting a dignitary, not writing for the Times, but the rest was real. Straight from the heart—the people, the places, the emotions.

  And before Lo knew it, she was talking about herself, too—about how badly she wanted her coming baby, and how much she hoped she’d be a good mother, especially since she’d lost her own parents when she was young. She talked about her memories of her father, who’d been a physicist, and she even told Max about her relationship with Sheldon, though she didn’t mention his name or Meredith and Gersham, and she pretended Shel was her ex-husband.

  Finally, she mentioned that she’d lost her job-and explained how that was allowing her to rediscover herself. It was so ironic, she thought as she gazed into Max’s eyes. Only by pretending to be Maxine Tremaine had she begun to forget the fast track and remember the family she’d once wanted.

  “So Gran raised you?” he said at one point.

  She nodded, wondering how much she could safely say. “When I thought things with my—er-ex would work out, I’d hoped Gran would come and live with us.” She frowned. “Of course, she’s cantankerous and set in her ways.”