Jill Shalvis: Her Perfect Stranger

Book 18 in the Wrong Bed series, 2002

He’d never forget his first glimpse of her. Or his second. She walked in as if she owned the place, and in spite of the chaos around him, Mike Wright's gaze went straight to her.

It was all indelibly imprinted on his mind: the harsh storm outside pounding against the fogged windows of the hotel's pub; the lights flickering overhead as the electricity spiked with the repeated thunder and lightning; the loud strains of Bruce Springsteen blaring from the speakers mounted on the walls; and the even louder voices of the crowd around him talking, laughing, flirting.

He'd been preoccupied, thinking about the reason he was in Huntsville, Alabama, in the first place-his life's work, flying space-shuttle missions. The primary pilot of STS-124 had broken his leg parachuting and the first team backup had contacted hepatitis. All of which left Mike, once the secondary backup, as primary. He'd been called home from Russia, where he'd been on loan from NASA to the Russian space agency for the past decade.

Mike loved being an astronaut, loved his testosterone-run life. But he loved women, too. All of them, all shapes and sizes and colors and temperaments, and everything else faded away the moment she stepped foot into the place-the storm, the crowd, the noise, everything.

She was wet. Drenched, actually, her dark, dark hair plastered to her head, her clothes molded to her body.

Another poor, unsuspecting victim of Huntsville 's weather.

He could empathize, having just come from Russia 's much more predictable climate. But this woman didn't look like anyone's poor, unsuspecting victim, not with all that attitude, fire and rage spitting from her eyes.

Drenched and inconvenienced, Mike guessed. And furious because of it. Amused, he watched as she pressed on through the thick crowd, and in spite of her petite stature, people moved out of her way.

It might have been the fact she was a woman, when most of the patrons were men. On-the-prowl men at that. But Mike thought it was most likely her queen-to-peasant look, which was icily effective.

She worked her way closer, heading directly toward the bar, and by coincidence, him.

"Something hot," she demanded of the bartender, setting one hand down on the bar as she dropped her bag, establishing a spot for herself where there was none to be had. She looked to both sides, left then right, clearly expecting someone to get off a stool so she could sit.

Grinning now, Mike rose. "Please," he said, gesturing for her to take over his seat.

"Thank you." As if she wasn't dripping a river of sleet and rain onto the floor, she sat and tossed back her hair. When the bartender slid what looked like an Irish coffee in her direction, she nodded her head regally and sipped. And then sighed. Sinfully. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, as if she'd just dropped the weight of the world.

After a good long moment she appeared to realize Mike was still standing next to her. Her dark-blue eyes were cool and assessing, in direct contrast to her wet, incredibly lush, incredibly sexy body.

"No coat?" he asked, referring to the fact that she wore only a black, long-sleeved silky blouse and skirt, both of which were so wet they couldn't have been tighter if she'd painted them on. What should have been a very conservative, businesslike outfit became outrageously erotic, especially given that she had a body that could make a grown man drop to his knees and beg.

"Someone stole it at the airport." She grimaced. "I hate airports. Let's just say this is a day better forgotten all around."

She didn't have the Southern drawl of the people around him. Another misplaced traveler, he thought, just like him. "Got caught by surprise in the storm, did you?"

"Yes, and I hate surprises."

Her voice was as cool as her eyes. Low and slightly husky. But combined with all those feminine curves, she became one irresistible contradiction. Fire and ice. Tough, yet sexy as hell.

Though Mike had planned to have only one beer, which he'd already had, before going up to his room and crashing for the night in preparation of the crazy week ahead, he didn't budge. And when the guy behind him vacated his barstool, Mike took it for himself.

"Don't bother," the woman said without even looking at him as she continued to sip her drink, staring directly ahead.

Mike made himself comfortable, which included smiling at the pretty female bartender. "Don't bother what?"

"Trying to charm me out of my panties."

Mike laughed. This woman was truly sexy as hell, gorgeous as sin, cool and regal, and funny. A rarity. "Now why would I try do to that?" he asked innocently, though now that she'd planted the thought, he could think of nothing else.

"Why? Hmm. Maybe because I have breasts? I don't know." She shrugged. "It's a male genetic disorder, I guess."

Mike laughed. "You mean I can't help myself? That's a handy excuse, indeed."

She looked at him then, a hint of a smile on her lips. "That's right. As a man, you can't help yourself, you're just a helpless slave to your body's cravings. Will that help you sleep at night?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you." Mike cocked his head and studied her. She was warming up, no doubt thanks to her drink. There was a blush to her cheeks now, and when she crossed her legs-remarkably well-toned legs, he couldn't help but notice-they appeared to be drying nicely.

"To be quite honest," he said. "I hadn't entertained the notion of charming you out of your panties at all."

She slanted him a doubtful glance.

"Really." He lifted his hands in an innocent gesture. "Before you came, I was just going up to bed."

"Don't let me stop you."

But she did. Everything about her stopped him cold, and it wasn't just that her nipples were pressing against the material of her blouse, or that her skirt clung to her perfectly rounded hips. It wasn't just that she smelled like heaven and sin all in one, or that he knew instinctively that her skin would be soft and creamy and in need of being warmed up by his hands and mouth. He couldn't name exactly what kept him there watching her, why she fascinated him so.

Everything in his home country fascinated him, and he enjoyed being back after so long away, even given the work ahead of him. He needed lengthy training for the upcoming mission, training that would keep him busy day and night until launch, only four months off now.

He'd be far from his own place, which happened to be a suitcase more often than not these days. In fact, he was no longer certain where home really was. He and his four brothers were close, but they were also scattered across the globe, in various military branches. So was his father.

His mother, a native Russian, had died when Mike-named Mikhail by her-was very young, which was probably why, when he'd had the chance to go to Russia after his stint in the Air Force, he'd jumped at it, wanting to understand the heritage he'd missed. He'd welcomed the opportunity to stay there, in the cosmonaut space program, working on the International Space Station. It was a lifestyle he loved, but he suddenly realized how isolated from female companionship he'd been lately.

A sharp bolt of lightning startled the large, noisy bar into an instant of collective silence. Thunder rolled immediately on its tail, and after another instant of stunned quiet, the room went back to its dull roar.

The woman next to him pushed her drink away and sighed. She shivered once, then crossed her arms. "Well. Back to work."

Yeah, he should be working, too. He had plenty of reading to do. From now until launch, he'd be living and sleeping this mission, running like crazy to catch up with his crew-whom he'd not yet met-and who'd been training together for a year and a half already. He looked forward to meeting everyone involved, but at the moment, as the woman next to him shivered again, work and everything that went with it were far from his mind. "You have business at this hour?" he asked, slipping out of his jacket and putting it around her shoulders. "What do you do?"