Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

He jumped when she grazed his nipple with her fingernail and was about to tell her not to do that-he really was-when she said, “I’ve never been to Boston. Too cold. I like hotter climates, don’t you?”

Hallie was in meetings that were long but informative. See? He wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t remember.

“It’s awfully hot tonight, though.” She lifted her hair off her neck with both hands, held it up, then dropped it. When she did, her hands skimmed over her breasts, and she seemed to like the feel of them, because her right hand stayed. It cupped her right breast, and her thumb began to idly stroke her nipple beneath the shiny F. The circular movement of her thumb was hypnotizing, and so was what it was doing to her nipple.

But as seductive as it was, he had to blink hard to hold it in focus. Jesus, he was drunk. His body felt heavy. He wasn’t sure he could move his legs, and didn’t particularly want to, because that would have meant dislodging…uh…

Had she told him her name?

Anyway, moving would have meant dislodging her, and he was liking the feel of her hip against his thigh.

How had he got so drunk on one beer and half a margarita? He had a much higher tolerance than that. Years of college drinking had conditioned him…

Where was his margarita, anyway?

“Your fiancée left you all alone?”

There was something he should say to that, but damned if he could think of what it was.

“That was pretty stupid of her.”

He didn’t remember disposing of his margarita, but he must have because his hands were otherwise occupied. One was on…

Shit, what was her name?

One of his hands was on her leg, being guided beneath her short skirt and up the inside of her thigh, and the other was being pressed against that tight, hard nipple, which had been bared to him.

Her breath was humid against his face. “Stupid of her, but lucky for me.”

That pink, pointed tongue he had noticed earlier…was it licking the salt off his lips? Something below his waist was feeling damn good, but wrong. Wrong.

This isn’t right. This isn’t right! Why am I doing this?

WHEN RALEY STOPPED TALKING, THE CABIN WAS SILENT except for the occasional drip of the kitchen faucet. Eventually he looked across at Britt. “That’s the last thing I remember. Her tongue was in my mouth and her hand inside my pants, and I was thinking, What the hell am I doing? I need to stop this.” He shook his head as though to clear it. “After that, nothing.”

Britt drew a shuddering breath. “That sounds familiar.”

“I thought it would.”

“I don’t remember anything beyond wanting to make it to Jay’s sofa without falling down. Everything past that is completely blanked out.”

“Have you had any flashbacks?”

“I wish I could say yes.”

“You may,” he said. “Some of it came back to me, the way you remember dreams days after you’ve dreamed them. An image flashes and then vanishes before your mind can fully register it. A group of words you know you’ve heard but which make no sense. Like that.”

He reached for his water bottle and drained it, then folded his forearms on the tabletop and leaned across it toward her. “Don’t you think it’s awfully coincidental that we had similar experiences, and in both instances, Jay was behind it?”

“You think Jay set you up with that woman and had her drug you?”

“What do you think?”

The question wavered between them like smoke from a snuffed-out candle. After a time, Britt said, “I don’t want to think that of Jay.”

“No. Because he was a hero. And heroes don’t do things like that. Especially not to their friends.”

She pictured Jay, smiling and disarming. He always had a mischievous twinkle in his eye, but was he capable of treachery on the level that Raley had described? She couldn’t conceive of it. Not the Jay Burgess she knew.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

While lost in thought she’d been absently rubbing the goose egg on the back of her head. Raley had noticed. “It’s caused a dull headache. Do you have a Coke or something?”

He got up, took a canned drink from the fridge, and passed it to her. She opened it and took a sip. “Jay may or may not have had a hand in what happened to you,” she said. “But it doesn’t make sense that he drugged me so I would be an agreeable lover, and then smothered himself by holding a pillow over his face.”

“No. Somebody else came in and did that.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who do you suspect?”

“We’ll get to that. Let me tell you what happened that morning when I woke up in Jay’s guest bedroom.”

“He didn’t live in the same town house as he does-did-now.”

“No. His old apartment had two bedrooms, each with an attached bathroom, separated by a kitchen and living area.”

“Right. The bedrooms were on opposite sides of the apartment.”

Immediately after the words cleared her mouth, she realized she’d given herself away. She looked at him quickly to see if he’d realized the implication of what she’d said.

Of course he had. He said, “No surprise there.”

Her expression wasn’t contrite or apologetic. If anything, it was challenging. “So what? Jay and I dated when neither of us was attached, the affair was over soon. In fact, it was so short-lived it could hardly be called an affair. It was harmless.”

“Harmless, huh? When you’re now suspected of murdering him?”

A long silence stretched taut between them, then she said, “Tell me about the morning following the party.”

He pressed the tips of his fingers into his eye sockets, then dragged his hands down his face, over his bearded cheeks and chin. “I have no memory beyond what I’ve told you. But till the day I die, I won’t forget the absolute horror I experienced when I woke up.”

He came awake but didn’t open his eyes. He lay still, sorting through the days of the week in his mind, trying to determine which day it was. What was on his agenda for today? Was he on duty or off? When would he see Hallie?

Right, he thought, as though his mind had snapped its fingers. This was Sunday. She was coming home.

With that happy thought, he opened his eyes. He was facing a wall, but it wasn’t his wall. It was too close to the bed to be the wall of his bedroom, and besides, it was the wrong color.

Where was he?

He took in more of the wall, the window, and realized he was in Jay’s apartment. Guest bedroom. He recognized it because he’d slept here a few times, when poker games went into the wee hours, when his own place was being painted and the fumes had driven him out. Jay had offered his guest room for as long as it took for the painting to be finished. Once, after a long dinner party, Jay had persuaded him and Hallie to sleep in this bed.

Those occasions he remembered clearly.

But he had no idea in hell how he’d got here last night. It was fairly late in the morning, judging by the light coming through the blinds. They were drawn, but bright sunlight rimmed the edge of each slat.

He rolled onto his back, and the motion caused him to moan. His head hurt like a son of a bitch and felt as heavy as an anvil. He wasn’t sure he could raise it off the pillow, but he was absolutely positive that he didn’t want to try. A motion that extreme would cause his eyeballs to explode. He had the mother of all hangovers, but he didn’t even remember-

He gave a cry of shock when he saw the hand.

It was lying palm up, inches from his thigh, as though seconds before it had been touching him.

That hand, lying supine and still, belonged to a woman.

He bolted from the bed. Or tried. The sheet was tangled up around his legs, causing him to stumble when his feet hit the floor. He landed on one kneecap, so hard it made a knocking sound against the hardwood floor. But in his shock, he barely felt it.