Natalie Anderson - Whose Bed Is It Anyway?

Two seconds later he stood at the foot of the bed, rubbing his raw eyes. But they weren’t deceiving him. The bed was made up all right. A big, brand-new bed with acres of soft-looking white coverings. He felt the thick pile of a luxurious rug under his bare feet. He was certain that if he looked, his bathroom would be gleaming and perfect. But there was something else looking gleaming and perfect: a woman. A beautiful woman was curled up asleep right in the middle of his huge bed.

She’d left the blinds open so the city lights gave the room a pale glow. It made her arm and face luminescent. Her long blonde hair was spread enticingly in a swathe over the pillow. A golden beauty in his bed. Goldilocks herself.

He was dreaming.

He glanced around. There was no bag. No clothes anywhere. The rest of the room was pristine. There was just that too pretty, random woman in his bed.

Definitely dreaming.

Real life wouldn’t be so cruel to have her actually there. Not at a moment when he had no chance of stringing a sentence together. No chance of talking, let alone doing any of the other things suddenly running through his head.

Ah, hell. He was overtired and had gone without sex too long and now his mind had come up with the ultimate ‘willing-woman-lying-waiting’ fantasy.

He blinked a couple more times but the vision didn’t dissipate. He cleared his throat. She remained still.

Testing, he spoke. His voice rough and low. ‘Sweetheart, wake up.’

She didn’t wake, but the faintest of furrows appeared between her eyebrows.

Huh, fantasy girl reacted.

So did his body. Hell, she was gorgeous. But this couldn’t be. He ached to be unconscious.

‘Time to leave, darling.’ Oddly he found himself whispering, almost not wanting the mirage to shatter. Maybe she could stay asleep and he could crawl in beside her. He only needed a few hours’ shut-eye, then he’d be up to talking...and taking.

But her eyes shot open. He saw her focus quickly, right on him. With a gasp she sat bolt upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her lips remained parted, as if she was going to scream. But no sound came out.

It was James who dragged in the audible breath. His attention arrowed to her full, shiny lips. In the dim light he imagined they were slicked with some kind of gloss. Flavoured? Maybe cherry or vanilla? He did like vanilla. Yeah, it had been way, way too long if he was off sidetracking like this.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, rougher than he meant to.

Big, slumberous blue eyes blinked back at him. Her blonde hair tumbled about her sweetheart-shaped face. She looked warm and flushed and ready. A beautifully pliant, silken, tempting woman.

‘Who are you?’ he repeated, almost plaintively. This so wasn’t fair. If this was a dream, he should have more energy.

‘What do you want?’ she asked, her voice husky.

‘Uh...’ Dear heaven, this just had to be a dream. A full-scale, torturous sexy dream. She was willing to do whatever he wanted? Asking him in that sultry voice? ‘Um...honey, I can’t do this right now...’

She stared at him for a long moment. He noticed her shoulders eased as she spoke with a breathy sigh. ‘You’re James.’

She knew that? She whispered his name in that honeyed-tone?

Pure fantasy.

‘Yeah and I’m sorry, darling,’ he said gruffly. ‘As gorgeous as you are...as good as I know you’d be...it’s not going to happen tonight.’ No matter how pretty she was, he was never going to manage it.

She blinked and didn’t move. Just stared at him. Hard. The flush in her cheeks deepened.

A weird prickling sensation pinched at the base of James’ spine.

Her frown returned—a whole lot bigger than before. ‘George told me to come here.’

Huh? Why were thoughts of his brother encroaching on his fantasy?

‘George sent you here for me?’ he asked, confused. The prickling sensation turned icy. Was she here because she’d been told to, or because she’d been paid to?

No way. This whole thing wasn’t even real. And George would never set something like that up. He might have been going on at James to ‘get back in the game’ for months, but he’d never think paying for a playmate was a solution. The idea was insane. But James’ fuzzed-out brain couldn’t figure anything any more. He just wanted to be in his bed. Now. He closed his eyes, reckoned she’d be gone when he opened them again.

She wasn’t.

And her eyes had narrowed, her expression tightened, her pixie chin lifted. ‘You think I’m waiting for you?’ she asked.

Wasn’t she? This was all just some wonderful, weird dream, wasn’t it?

He opened his mouth. Shut it. Swallowed.

Shit.

* * *

Caitlin Moore tilted her head back and stared at James Wolfe. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such dark brown eyes—almost black, bottomless. Eyes a woman could drown in. Way darker than his twin’s—George had more golden lights in both eyes and hair. But the main difference between the two was more obvious than that.

The scar snaked out from James’ hairline, slashing across his upper cheekbone. She knew how he’d got it. You’d be hard pressed to find a man, woman or child in the world with Internet access who hadn’t seen that iconic picture of James Wolfe running through the middle of a landslide struck village, ignoring the blood pouring down his cheek from the gash at his temple as he carried that broken child to safety. He’d been the one to operate on the kid himself. The hero. The ultimate good guy who thought what, exactly, about her?

Deliberately she didn’t stare at the scar. Nor did she lower her gaze to stare at the legs he had on show. Or the bronzed arms appearing out of the grey tee that fitted him so much better than the one she wore. But she was aware of his tan, his obvious strength, his size. He was all weary warrior with those muscles, that stubble and the end-of-the-fuse glint in his eye. Well, she had her own fuse burning—as good as he knew she’d be?

‘Who are you and what did George tell you?’ he asked. He looked both confused and...intense.

James Wolfe was a medic, a rescue man. A hero who worked in disaster-ravaged countries. She knew exactly who he was. She knew all those amazing things about him. But he had no idea who she was, where she’d come from. Nothing about the recent nightmare she’d left in London. He’d not read the headlines, the worst of the bile from the Internet. So wasn’t it just typical that even someone so ‘good’ automatically doubted her? Did he honestly think she was his paid plaything for the night? That she was here for his personal use and pleasure?

Caitlin sucked in a breath. Unhelpfully the air burned her lungs. She was already hot enough—with anger, right?

‘You think I’m here to do whatever you want me to?’ Caitlin ditched the sheet to reach out and flick on the reading lamp. She remained on the bed. Possession was nine tenths of the law and this was her sleep space tonight.

He didn’t answer. Instead he stood frozen at the foot of the bed, staring at her with those wide, bottomless, ninety-eight-per-cent cocoa eyes. Finally a half-strangled sentence emerged. ‘You’re wearing my T-shirt.’

What, and that then made her his property?

With the light on, Caitlin saw the flush deepening in his upper cheeks and the tension humming through his body—pulling him taller, tighter. Bigger. Her eyes widened as she saw the interest in his. To her horror she felt reciprocal heat build inside. She breathed out, hoping to cool it. No way. No way.

But was the guy attracted to her?

No. She mentally clarified. Not her. It was what he could see. What was with the Paleo instinct that kicked in when men saw skin? Insta-lust central.