Laura Wright - Sleeping With Beauty

“Lift the sweatshirt again.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Tentatively, she did as he instructed. He had the rope around her waist in one second, tied in another. “There.”

She stared up at him, an uncertain smile playing around her mouth. “Much better. Thank you.”

He should’ve taken a step back, run out the friggin’ front door, but he didn’t. He stood there, looked down into her eyes and wanted to haul her against him, cover her mouth with his, feel her tongue…

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.

It had been a long time since he’d stood this close to a woman and felt a pull so strong it fairly knocked him off his feet.

Getting involved with someone in the past four years, even sexually, had seemed too easy and totally undeserved. No matter how masochistic it sounded, he felt the need to punish himself, deny himself, always and forever. After a while, he’d just forgotten to want.

Then, this violet-eyed temptress had stepped into his path, got herself hurt, got herself dropped between his sheets. Thank God she was only going to be around here for one night.

He held out a chair for her. “Have a seat.”

She sat with her back to the fire, her wet hair glowing tricolor fire. “If I didn’t say this before, I really appreciate all that you’ve done. I’m sure I’ve inconvenienced you terribly, and as soon as you deem me well enough to travel, I’ll be out of your way.”

“It’s not a problem.” What a bold-faced lie.

“But it is a bother. Were you on holiday? Is this your vacation spot?”

“No.”

“Oh. Do you live up here year-round then?”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing up here?”

His gaze lifted. He watched as she twirled her spaghetti against a spoon. “You know, you ask a lot of questions for someone with no memory.”

Spaghetti stopped twirling, forehead creased. “Are you in some type of law enforcement, Dan?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why would you ask that?”

“You’re very suspicious of me. I doubt very much that I am a criminal.”

He doubted it, too, but after five years as a cop and ten as a marshal, you wondered about everyone. Especially someone you were attracted to. Could make for big problems.

“Perhaps I’m asking questions,” she began, returning to her dinner, “because I’m frustrated. I have no memory, no identification, no personal effects. Perhaps I’m asking questions because I think learning about someone else’s past might trigger memories of my own.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“Yes.”

The pasta suddenly felt like worms in Dan’s mouth. He dropped his fork onto his plate, sat back in his chair. “I have no past.”

She raised her gaze, studied him. “What does that mean?”

“That means, Angel, that I don’t want to talk about it.” He ground out the words, frustration building inside him.

“Sounds rather daunting. Maybe you would feel better if you did.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Let’s try and—”

“You know what I feel?” he interrupted.

“What?”

“Tired.” He pushed away from the table, took his bowl into the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, enjoying the crashing sound it made.

Sure, he owed this woman his care, his protection. But his personal life was none of her business. It was no one’s business. “You can take my bed tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“The couch is very small. I’d hate to have you be so uncomfortable.”

A swift jolt of desire rose up and bit him on the butt. She was making him crazy with all her questions and good manners. He spun around. “We could share the bed.”

Her gaze met his for a moment, then dropped to her plate. “No, no.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “I didn’t mean… The offer for your bed is a very generous one.”

He exhaled. “Tomorrow, we’ll head into town. See the doctor.”

“All right,” she agreed, taking a dainty bite of pasta.

And the doctor could take her off his hands for good. Then things would get back to normal. Fishing and cussing and forgetting about the past. He could go back to eating in peace and not thinking about beautiful violet-eyed women and where his soap had been.

At that moment, the beautiful violet-eyed woman in question stood up and began collecting plates and bowls. “You know, you’re a very good cook, Dan. Was there fresh thyme in the tomato sauce?”

The woman had to be a diplomat or something. He shrugged. “You’d have to ask Chef Boyardee.”

“You have a chef?”

Dan paused, rewound. Then a chuckle—an honest to goodness chuckle—escaped his dusty lungs. Leaning back against the sink, he shook his head. “Man, you really have lost your memory. The pasta’s from a can.”

“And so is the chef?”

He nodded.

Her face broke out into a wide grin.

His, too.

He reached for her plates and placed them in the sink, this time with only a mild clatter. She disarmed him with that smile and easy way of hers. Extraordinary.

Yet worrisome. If she could make him smile a dozen times—and laugh—all in one day, she was a bigger batch of trouble than he’d even imagined.

“You should probably head in to bed,” he suggested. “I have an injured horse who needs tending.”

She nodded. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, thanks again for dinner.”

“No problem.”

“And I really hope my memory returns in the morning.”

“So do I.” Truer words were never spoken. “Make sure to keep the door open a crack.”

“Okay. Good night.” After one of those irresistible smiles, she turned and left the room.

“Good night, Angel.”

Dan grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to the couch, his bed for the night. In the fireplace, the flames crackled and sputtered, fighting to stay alive. He knew their fierceness, their hunger.

For four years, he’d been crawling around on his belly, unwilling to stand up. He’d never thought he’d have the pluck.

From the bedroom, he heard the woman pull back the comforter, heard the bed dip with the weight of her body.

Around her, he had the pluck. Around her, he had the urge to stand.

He drained his beer, then headed for the front door.

Around her, he had a new hunger, dangerous and demanding.

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