Who's Been Sleeping In My Bed?

by Jule McBride

  MAX EYED THE DOOR.

  He was sorely tempted to break it down. But then the crazy stranger had already wreaked enough havoc on his home without adding door destruction to the list. He hardly wanted to contemplate what all that furniture moving had done to his polished hardwood floors.

  “Women,” Max muttered as he turned on his heel and headed downstairs. They’d done a lot of things to him, but none had ever confused him this badly.

  When he reached the kitchen, he started searching through drawers and cabinets, determined to find some clue to the woman’s identity. Suddenly he stopped and cocked his head. He could have sworn he heard something. But it wasn’t her. Shoot, she’d hemmed herself in with so much furniture that he’d probably never see her again.

  “Fine by me,” he muttered, recalling how she’d stared at him as if he were some sort of baby-hater.

  He shook his head, remembering how shocked-and moved—he’d been when the baby’s tiny kick had reverberated against his abdomen. He’d been kissing the stranger, preparing to edge her toward a bedroom. Since he’d never so much as thought about making love to a pregnant woman before, he’d been mentally reviewing some old articles he’d written on pregnancy for the Times, hoping for hints. But it had been so long ago…

  And then the baby kicked.

  For a half second, Max was sure he’d pressed against her belly too hard, causing the kid mortal damage. But before he could even ask, the redhead had gone ballistic.

  Finding no clues in the kitchen, Max ambled toward the living room, wishing he wasn’t so tired. He’d definitely rather worry about the mystery woman tomorrow.

  Not that he could. Especially since he was so sure she’d really been expecting a bodyguard who wasn’t going to show up now. Her angry call to the agency had been too real to be a performance. That meant the woman was in danger—and without professional protection.

  “As hormonal as she is,” Max muttered, “I feel sorry for any guy who comes after her.”

  In the living room, the top of his cherrywood rolltop desk was open, exposing a brand-new telephone. Seating himself, Max simultaneously dialed Suzie’s apartment and peered into his desk drawers. Just as Suzie’s message beep sounded, Max found the motherlode—a shoe box filled with envelopes, articles and receipts. He hauled it to the desktop.

  “This is Suzie,” his sister said perkily. “Don’t bother to leave a message…”

  Max came to full attention. If there was one thing in this world about which his little sister was meticulous, it was getting her phone messages.

  “Amis got some gigs in Europe,” she continued, “and if everything works out, I’m going to marry him right on top of the Eiffel Tower. I just love the idea of throwing a bouquet off of that old thing, don’t you?”

  The beep sounded.

  “You could be in the middle of the Sahara without water, and I know you’d still be checking your messages,” Max said. “So you’d better call me back. The number’s—” Max sighed and held out the phone receiver, hoping to find the number. No such luck. “Well.call information, Suzie. I guess it’s listed.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “This is your brother.”

  Then he hung up.

  Great. A strange woman was living in his new cottage, and his sister was eloping. Max felt torn between brotherly concern and envy. Suzie was still in her twenties and she’d already found her mate. She and Amis had been joined at the hip since grade school.

  It just didn’t seem fair.

  To add insult to injury, Max didn’t even know his own phone number. Or have a clue as to what the woman had listed it under. The only thing he’d managed to find out about her so far was that she was an A-list kisser.

  With renewed determination, Max stared at theshoe box. The box itself was from Saks Fifth Avenue, which meant his houseguest had expensive taste in shoes. He sighed. “Way to go, Sherlock.”

  Not that the contents were any more illuminating. There was a set of keys Max didn’t recognize, and a pamphlet about finding your true self. Definitely an area where the woman has difficulty. Max studied some paid bills for an expensive nursing home in West Virginia, which meant he was paying her grandmother’s rent. Then he fingered through countless credit card receipts mingled with recipes the woman had clipped from Bon Appétit.

  One for lamb chops in orange sauce made Max’s mouth water, so he gingerly put it aside. Then he wondered why. Was he really contemplating asking the strange woman hemmed in by furniture upstairs to cook him lamb chops? “Yeah, right. And is that before or after you kiss her again?”

  After.

  Yeah, he was definitely going to kiss her again. She’d felt too good in his arms. Besides, Max loved a walking mystery. And he rarely saw one walking around with such great legs.

  “Bavarian peach cobbler,” he murmured. He carefully placed that recipe aside, also.

  And then Max found a stray receipt from the car company he used to get to and from the airport. Jack Bronski was listed as the driver, and Max’s signature was clearly forged. Had the woman upstairs used his car service to get here? Max’s frown deepened. Something about the receipt was setting off warning bells….

  He shrugged and kept rummaging until his fingers stilled on an old article he’d written about a Wall Street scandal. A source had tipped off Max while he was on the plane bound for South America. Max had broken the story, then a guy on the metro desk had taken over.

  It was just as well, too. White-collar crime bored Max to tears. He’d take the overseas beat any day, with its dirty politics, movers and shakers and high stakes. But why were so many of these stories from the Times?

  Suddenly, Max murmured, “Practically all these articles are about that Loraine Lambert thing.”

  The former Meredith and Gersham employee had fixed prices and finalized countless suspect deals. A number of people in the surrounding Connecticut area were laid off because of her. Just down the road, the Dreamy Diapers packaging plant had shut down. He glanced over the tabloid headlines that had run in the New York Post: Lambert Leads Lambs To Slaughter! Lady On The Lambert! Lower Than Lo?

  Both Loraine Lambert and her alleged accomplice were still missing. “I’d sure love to be the reporter who found her.”

  Max raised a sandy eyebrow. Then he glanced toward the stairs and brought the photograph closer. There was no mistaking that face. Or the layered red hair. Not to mention the perfect legs he’d been ogling and the lush mouth he’d just kissed senseless.

  Right before Max’s eyes dropped to the caption, he whispered, “Tell me she isn’t Lo Lambert.”

  But, of course, she was.

  5

  What Goes Up Must Come Down

  MAX WOKE WITH A START. He was lying on his back, his body stock-still, his muscles tense. The digital clock beside him said 4:00 a.m. Had he heard a noise downstairs?

  No.

  But something was in bed with him—and moving! Was it Lo Lambert? Max flicked on a bedside lamp and peered around. Beneath the covers, something bobbed up and down, but it was far too small to be a woman. Feeling a little disappointed, Max groggily wondered if Lo was just a figment of his overactive imagination. Maybe he was still in some backwoods mountain village, suffering from stress. Maybe a field mouse had gotten in…

  Just as he whisked back the covers, a creature lunged for his throat. Catching it in midair, Max met the gaze of mean yellow eyes. Then the white ball of fur with black markings let out a peep. “Darn thing can’t even meow right,” Max muttered.

  He sighed. Lo Lambert was no dream. Not only had the most wanted criminal in the area helped herself to his cottage and equipped the fridge with three kinds of lettuce, she’d apparently brought a pet. Nevertheless, Max could make swift adjustments—especially since he’d just landed the scoop of his career. He could already see the headlines about his undercover life with Lo, and feel the weight of the Pulitzer in his hand….

  “I have a right to be here,” he whispered to the wiggling kitt
en. “This is my house. You can’t just wake me up in the middle of the—”

  A sound from downstairs interrupted him. Had a door creaked open?

  Putting down the kitten, Max cocked his head. Nothing but silence. He frowned. He’d read all the articles in the shoe box—and found out plenty. Lo had never been married, though she’d dated a Meredith and Gersham V.P. From interviews, it was obvious that Sheldon Ferris felt betrayed and brokenhearted. But had Sheldon known Lo Lambert was pregnant?

  Max heard another creak downstairs. Had Lo Lambert’s supposed partner shown up here? No. It’s more likely she’s had a falling-out with her accomplice-and he or she is the person from whom she needs protection….

  Or else no one was downstairs. The cottage was utterly silent now. Max just wished he was certain the baby was Sheldon’s. Well, with any luck, Zach Forester would find out. Max had phoned Zach, and his P.L friend had agreed to dig up all the dirt on Lo.

  Max sat up straighter. A door had opened. Someone was definitely downstairs. If anything bad happened to Lo, it would be his fault, too. He never should have pretended to be her bodyguard. Chances were a criminal like her really needed one.

  Rising cautiously, Max glanced around for a weapon. Nothing—unless he was going to defend the woman with boxes or books. He didn’t even have a robe. Clad only in his boxers, he rubbed his stubbly jaw as he walked silently toward the door. He’d been sleeping like the dead. He always did, his first few nights home. And he felt too groggy to deal with intruders. Not that he had a choice.

  He was halfway to Lo’s room when sharp claws sank into the tender flesh of his ankle. He sighed. How was he supposed to defend Lo Lambert while her cat was attacking him? Dutifully lifting his foot, Max disengaged the kitten.

  Then Max growled softly.

  The terrified kitten peeped back, its two yellow eyes blinking in the dark. Now, don’t move, Max thought, feeling faintly murderous. He glanced between Lo’s closed door and the steps. What if she was downstairs? “Lo?” Max called. Realizing his mistake, he quickly added, “‘Lo? Hello, down there. Is that you, Max?”

  But no one answered.

  And now the intruder knew Max was upstairs. Great. Max glanced at Lo’s closed door again. If she awakened, he hoped she had enough common sense to stay put. Fortunately, the kitten was heading back to Max’s room. Holding his breath, Max silently lowered himself to the first step, then the next and the next…

  On the way down, his hand closed around a compact umbrella that had been shoved between the banister posts. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it would have to do. Max paused on the lowest step, as still as a statue. It was pitch-dark.

  After a moment, he heard a rustle. Then soft, shallow breathing. Max craned his head toward the sounds. The other guy was crouched beneath the banister, next to a table not two feet from Max and the newel. Max could make out the faint silhouettes of a phone and lamp on the tabletop. Should he reach through the posts and flick on the lamp? It was the easiest way to get a look at the guy’s face.

  Yeah, and then he’ll probably shoot me.

  Or would he? Enough people were looking for Lo Lambert that the intruder could be anyone—even an overzealous lawman from the SEC or FBI. Max winced. Maybe he should have turned her in. Now he was guilty of harboring a fugitive. But no other reporter in the city would get an exclusive like this.

  Or get to play house with a woman who looked like a goddess and kissed like a heaven-sent angel. Besides, when he’d felt her baby kick, it had taken away his breath. Surely he could seduce a confession out of her before he called the cops….

  A loud creak sounded.

  The guy realized Max was here—and was trying to escape! Max streaked around the newel with the speed of greased lightning. “Hold it right there,” he snarled.

  Just as Max lunged, a ghostly figure in a flowing white coat flew past. As the eerie apparition darted toward the living room, only its pounding footsteps assured Max it was human. He gave chase, clutching the umbrella and rounding the downstairs rooms, but the intruder was faster. Footsteps thudded full circle around the living room, kitchen and dining room.

  On the third pass, Max pivoted and reversed directions, hoping to slam head-on into the guy. But the intruder did an about-face. Just as they reached the living room, Max flung out his umbrella-free hand and snatched at the intruder’s filmy white coattails. The fabric whisked through Max’s fingers, feeling strangely silken, then whipped around in the dark like a ghostly tail.

  “Hey, Casper,” Max muttered in a lethal tone. “I said stop.”

  Instead, the person darted upstairs. Max lunged again, this time catching a fistful of the coat. Simultaneously he pulled the intruder down onto the steps, tackled him and reached through the banister rails, jerking the lamp cord. Blinking against the brightness, Max could swear he’d just assaulted a bride.

  Then she screamed bloody murder.

  And Max realized he was lying flat on top of Lo Lambert. He groaned, thinking of the baby. “Oh, no, is it all right?”

  “I am not an it,” Lo said succinctly.

  She was mad, Max realized. And even more annoying, she wasn’t the least bit winded. How could a pregnant thief be in better shape than he was? “I mean the baby,” he said flatly.

  Lo sniffed haughtily. “Earlier you made it very clear what you think of my baby, so don’t try to inquire about its health now.”

  Max’s jaw set. “I like your baby just fine. It just surprised me.” When her expression didn’t soften in the least, he continued, “Clearly a little beauty sleep hasn’t improved your mood.”

  “You think I need beauty sleep?”

  Hardly. She was gorgeous. And you need to get a story out of her, Max reminded himself. He forced a smile. “Look, we seem to be getting off on the wrong foot…”

  “I’m not sure I even still have a foot. You tackled me.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh, then continued sweetly, “What? Were you having nightmares about some linebacker who creamed you back in high school?”

  Max’s temper flared. He wanted to remind her that she hardly deserved his protection since she belonged in jail. Feeling sorely tempted to call the precinct, he said, “Look, are you all right or not?”

  “What do you think?”

  She sounded fine. But he wasn’t. Staring down, Max felt a traitorous tug of arousal in his nether regions. No wonder she’d looked like a ghost. She was wearing a sexy white nightie and a long, silky, pearl white robe, which was now hiked to her thighs. His tackle had landed her in an undeniably sensitive position—on her back with her knees parted. He was wedged between them, her bare skin teasing his upper thighs. All at once, he remembered he was clad only in boxers.

  Color flooded her face as if she’d read his mind. Pressing her palms against his bare shoulders, she gave one hard shove. “What is your problem?”

  He wouldn’t know where to begin. First, she was a wanted criminal. And second, she’d caught him off guard and he was thoroughly aroused. “What’s yours?”

  “That should be obvious.”

  He started edging off her. She struggled to a halfsitting position, her outfit making her look incredibly innocent. Some men might like a woman in black-with those risque garters and stockings with visible seams and black high heels that said, “Have your way with me.”

  Not Max.

  Nothing excited him more than plain old white. He liked white blouses and cotton panties, too. The waist-high kind. His mouth went dry as he watched Lo tug down her hemline and quickly check her chest for exposed cleavage.

  Catching his gaze, she snapped, “Would you please get off me?”

  He lifted his eyes from her ample chest. “I am off you.”

  She scooted even farther away, the heat of their tussle still evident in the bright pink of her cheeks.

  “All the way off.”

  Max sighed. As he sat up, his thumb inadvertently pressed the trigger of the umbrella, and it popped open. For a minute he didn’t
move, merely held the umbrella over their heads as if they’d just been caught in a downpour.

  And then Lo Lambert did the unforgivable. She started humming “Singing in the Rain.”

  “You’re off-key,” Max pointed out sourly.

  Undeterred, she eyed the open umbrella. “Haven’t you heard that’s bad luck?”

  Max thought of his redecorated cottage, the three lettuce salad and the kitten. “Opening umbrellas indoors is the least of my troubles.”

  Lo giggled. “Were you really going to defend me with an umbrella?”

  “Hardly.” Max wrestled the umbrella shut. “But with you around, I knew to expect stormy weather. Besides, I left my gun at the…agency.”

  Her luscious green eyes widened. Good. Max stared back, gauging the reaction. Just exactly how much danger did Lo Lambert think she was in? And had she come downstairs to phone the accomplice who’d probably helped her set up all those pricefixing deals? If she had overseas accounts, she might have to check on them in the middle of the night because of the time difference.

  “Don’t worry.” Max shoved the umbrella between the stair railing again. “I know you hired me for protection. I’ll get a gun tomorrow.” He glared pointedly at a wall clock. “Today.”

  Lo’s gulp was audible. “I won’t have a gun in my house.”

  Her house? That was rich. Nevertheless, Max felt relieved. Obviously, Lo didn’t feel a gun was necessary. He eyed her suspiciously. “Mind telling me what you were doing down here?”

  Her eyes slid guiltily away from his. “Oh, nothing.”

  She was lying. Maybe now, since she was in danger, she’d decided to leave town. No doubt she’d stashed the money she’d made backstabbing Meredith and Gersham clients in overseas accounts. “If you weren’t doing anything, then why didn’t you answer me?”

  “I wanted to be alone.”

  Max rolled his eyes. “In the middle of the night? In the dark? Why—” He flashed her a quick smile. “I’m not sure you’re entirely on the level.”

  Her voice rose indignantly. “Not on the level?”