by Lisa Plumley
"Mrs. Parker?"
This had to be some kind of mistake. Had to be.
"Uh, I'm here." Her mind wasn't, though. It was someplace else entirely. Like Panicville. "Thanks for calling. I guess I ought to change clothes after all," Stacey said, hanging up the phone with a ridiculous, panic-induced titter.
Clothes. She needed clothes. She slammed the phone into its stand and twisted to pull her other foot from the bathwater.
Knock—knock—knock.
Her heart revved into overdrive. So did her foot. It splashed from the water, sending an arc of lemon-scented foam across the bathroom—and sending Stacey flat onto the floor. She landed on her backside in a puddle, staring in the direction of the knock on the door.
Knock—knock—knock.
Ouch. Rubbing her bruised, soggy knee, she glared toward the sound. Maybe if she just ignored it, whoever it was would just go away. He'd obviously made a mistake. He needed the other honeymoon suite, the one with an actual bride in it.
Just in case, she pushed herself up and hobbled to the bathroom door. Her knee ached from cracking into the marble floor. Good thing there hadn't been a cute guy nearby; she might have wound up unable to walk at all.
Shivering, she yanked the white monogrammed hotel robe from its hook and slipped her arms inside the sleeves. The thick terrycloth stuck to her wet skin, but at least it was warm. She'd cranked up the air conditioning before stepping into the tub, a bad move if you were going to wind up creeping around dripping and injured a half hour later.
Knock—knock—knock.
Okay, this was ridiculous, Stacey decided, tying the robe closed at her waist. She was hardly going to skulk around in her honeymoon suite, dripping, while some poor libidinous bridegroom knocked around outside. For all she knew, that wasn't even his knuckles he was rapping against the door.
Now there's the kind of guy you want to invite in, Janie would've said with a wink. Unfortunately, Janie and her ribald sense of humor weren't there. Stacey was. With a quick swipe at the foggy bathroom mirror and a last pat at her scraggly brown ponytail, she headed toward the door.
Something scraped against it. The knob clicked.
The keycard. The woman at the desk said she'd given one to Stacey's 'husband.'
Panicked, Stacey scanned the room for a weapon. Her suitcase? Too bulky. Her purse? She carried hot pepper spray in a holster inside, but there wasn't time to grab it. Think, think.
Her gaze settled on her blow-dryer's cord, dangling from the bathroom vanity to the floor. She followed it upward from the plug to the two-thousand watt, gun-shaped business end.
The door swung inward.
If personal care appliances were all she had to defend herself with, that's what she'd use. Adrenaline pumping, Stacey lunged for the blow-dryer. The plug slapped her bare leg. The dryer's weight filled her hand.
"Mrs. Parker?" asked a rich-timbered masculine voice.
A familiar masculine voice.
The broad, polo-shirt clad shoulder that edged next into view around the door nudged her suspicions. The rest of the hard-muscled body that followed confirmed them.
Dylan Davis. Here. Dear Lord, she had to be imagining him. Maybe hallucinating. Stress could do that to a person, couldn't it?
But he sure looked real. Tall, dark-haired and grinning, he filled her doorway. His arms were laden with an overcoat-wrapped bundle of what she assumed constituted luggage for a Peter Pan type like him, and above it his eyes sparkled with good humor. The bastard.
"Aren't you missing a husband?" he asked.
He added another smile to the mix. This was the part, Stacey supposed, where she was supposed to fall at his feet in gratitude. Fat chance.
"I spent the whole wedding trying to avoid you," she said, aiming the blow-dryer nozzle at him.
His gaze went to it, and his eyebrows raised. His stupid smile widened, too, damn him. "What are you going to do?" he asked. "Style me to death?"
Stacey stretched her arm back, letting the blow-dryer cord spin through her fingers until she held a good hank of it. She twirled it in the air, working up momentum. Then she walloped him with it.
It was the least Dylan Davis deserved.
The hair dryer whacked him right in the temple.
"Ouch!"
The dryer rebounded off his forehead, bashed off the wall, and came at him again. Dylan ducked, his head stinging, and tried to keep from dropping the trench coat-wrapped bundle in his arms. Easing it into the crook of his arm, he grabbed the hair dryer with his other hand.
"Same old Stacey," he said, unable to keep a goofy-feeling grin from his face. "I knew I should've taken out accident insurance before I came here."
She crossed her arms over her chest, hair dryer swinging beneath her elbow, and glared at him. "That wasn't an accident."
"Uh-huh."
God, she looked great. Between the half-tied bathrobe she had on, the bunched-up, shiny brown ponytail she'd stuck her hair in, and the fire in her eyes, Dylan figured she'd never looked sexier. But maybe that was just his skewed perspective talking. Because actually, Stacey looked miffed. Adorably miffed.
Adorably miffed? part of his brain jeered. Hell-o. You're way far gone over this one. He had to get a hold of himself.
Okay, maybe miffed was understating it. Mad as hell was more like it.
On the other hand, he'd pretty much expected that. Now he just had to change her mind—about him, about them—and he didn't plan to leave until he'd done it.
Dylan let go of the hair dryer. "You always say that, right after you stomp, drop, smash or hurl something at somebody."
"I did that on purpose, you creep," Stacey said.
He stepped forward, glancing around the suite. Behind her, the room stretched into a pale-carpeted sitting area with a couch and chairs arranged around a table that featured a cellophane-wrapped basket of more fruit than Dylan ate in a whole month. Behind that, a bank of windows let the desert sunshine pour in, illuminating the room's central feature—a big double bed covered with a cushy black silk comforter.
He liked it.
"Nice place," Dylan said, looking back at her.
"You're not staying."
"Who's asking?"
"Not me."
Beneath his trench coat, Ginger wiggled. Stacey's gaze went straight to the lump of coat covering the dog, and 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've 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 and she stepped backward. 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 over the room. He liked watching her more.
"Get out of here," she said, advancing toward him. 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—"
She 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 onto 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 over 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?" she asked.
"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. Grinning for the first time—presumably at his failure to make even a dog listen to him—Stacey went on petting her.
Dylan snapped his fingers. "Come."
The dog yawned, stretching her muzzle wide, then plunked her head onto 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 as kindly treated as the dog.
Judging by his reception so far, they were pretty bleak.
"Really," 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 looked back at Ginger. "Right."
"I'm hurt," Dylan said, doing 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 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 lemon-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 safety onto the bathroom vanity 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've 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, denim-shorts-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 it 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, and 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 said, opening the door and nodding 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, and 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. Stacey's fingers automatically raised to slip 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 into her robe pockets instead. He'd probably left it that way on purpose, knowing it would drive her nuts.
"Why?" she asked, squinting up at him. "Why? Because you're smothering me, that's why."
She meant it as a joke, but the strangled laugh that came with it wrecked the punch line. Scowling, she pushed herself back against the wall, wishing she could disappear into the tasteful flowered wallpaper.
What was Dylan doing looming over her, anyway? He couldn't have proved her point better if he'd tried. Men could never 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. Literally.
"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 like you got dressed wearing mittens."
Dylan made a face and tucked his chin into his chest to try and see what she was pointing at.
Too quickly, he stopped. "You look like 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—I can't help it if you dress like an eight-year-old," Stacey said, hating the way her voice quavered when he kept coming closer. She gestured vaguely toward 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.
"It's from the jeep. I wasted no time getting here." Dylan scooped his hand under her chin and tilted her face upward. "To find 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?" he asked.
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."
Ac
tually, 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, and while she should've been glad at that small sign of her success, Stacey couldn't manage it.
"I'm not your worthless ex-husband," he said. "Give me a chance to prove it."
"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 brass 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," he hissed. "Come!"
Her tail thumped. Her paws didn't. The mechanical swish of the elevator doors opening echoed down the hallway. Two elderly women and a man in a bellboy's uniform got off, then clustered briefly in front of the mirrors opposite the elevators.
"Ginger, come on." He squatted in the doorway and snapped his fingers. The dog didn't move. Hell. Standing, Dylan 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."