Metsy Hingle - Secret Agent Dad

Get a grip, Josie, she told herself. Or else she was going to end up embarrassing the man and making a complete fool of herself. It was the thought of making a fool of herself that snapped her back to her senses. Pride, Josie conceded, had seen her through a mountain of disappointments more times than she cared to remember. While the Almighty might have skimped on her when it came to looks and family, He had given her an abundance of pride. And it was pride that made her yank the comforter up over the man and leave the room.

He came awake as he always did—instantly and fully alert. In the blink of an eye he noted the position of the exits. Assured he was alone, and sensing no immediate danger, he gave in to the need to clutch his aching head. He didn’t know what had happened, but he felt as though he’d gone ten rounds with a Mack truck. Based on the wad of gauze and tape across his forehead, he could only assume that he’d lost.

Willing himself not to focus on the pain in his head, he took quick stock of his surroundings and tried to determine where he was. He noted the ceiling painted a soft shade of cream, the delicate floral border that wrapped the room’s four walls. He gazed past the empty overstuffed chair in faded chintz positioned several feet from the bed. A small dressing table covered in lace sat against the far wall, a vase of pale pink roses, glass bottles and a ceramic box sat atop it. Continuing his assessment, he skimmed past the old-fashioned armoire in one corner and paused at the quaint bench seat beneath a window decked out in mint-and-ivory-colored drapes.

Nothing about the room or its contents triggered any warning bells. Nor did the place strike any chords of familiarity. But that fact didn’t alarm him. Although he had no idea where he was or exactly how he’d gotten here, he was sure of one thing-the room and the bed he occupied belonged to a female. Pleased by the thought, he closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and smiled. Now that he did recognize—the scent of roses and rain. And of a woman.

But who was she?

He searched his memory for a picture to match with the scent. At first none came to him. Then an image began to play at the fringes of his memory—an image of a raven-haired angel with clear, green eyes leaning over him, speaking to him in a honeyed voice. The smile curving his lips widened. Opening his eyes, he stared at the empty space in the bed beside him and probed for a name to go with the face of the woman whose bed he’d shared.

“Good morning.”

He turned his gaze toward the doorway at the sound of the voice and stared at its owner. “Morning,” he replied, giving her a quick once-over and then a slower one. The tray she held blocked his view of her upper torso, but he noted with appreciation the way the jeans hugged her long legs, the slight sway of her hips as she walked toward the bed. His body responded to her immediately, tightening as he thought of her stripping off those jeans and shirt and joining him back in bed. He started to invite her to do just that, only he couldn’t come up with her name.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he replied, only to wince when a pain shot through his head as he pushed up to his elbows. “Correction. Not so fine. My head feels as if it went a couple of rounds with a tank and lost.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He shifted to a sitting position and was surprised to discover that he still had on his briefs. Must have really tied one on, he reasoned, which also surprised him since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such sad shape. Not only couldn’t he remember her name, but he usually slept in the raw. Heaven knows what in the devil he’d done to his head. He was just about to ask her what had happened when the scent of coffee derailed his thought processes. He sniffed. “Please, tell me that’s coffee I smell.”

“It’s coffee,” she assured him with a friendly smile and placed the tray on the table beside the bed. “After last night, I thought you could use a cup.”

After last night? Frowning he tried to remember what had happened last night. But for the life of him, his memory of their evening between the sheets and exactly what had led to his monster-size headache remained blank.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry or not, but I brought some biscuits to go with the coffee just in case.”

“Actually, I’m starved,” he told her and realized he was. “Biscuits sound great.”

“Really? That’s wonderful,” she said and proceeded to transfer biscuits to a plate.

Ah, she was eager to please, he decided and continued to study her, contemplating her hands as she fiddled with butter and napkins. Her nails were short, unpolished, but there was a gracefulness in her movements. Gentle hands, soft hands, with long soothing fingers, he thought, and another image winked at the edges of his memory. An image of those fingers stroking his face tenderly while she spoke to him in that lyrical voice. He lifted his gaze, noting the long column of pale skin at her throat, the fullness of her unpainted mouth. He tried to recall her taste, but it eluded him, just as her name did. Disturbed that he couldn’t remember kissing her, he drew in another deep breath, and this time caught her scent—roses and rain. Desire stirred inside him as he continued to watch her, tried to remember what it had been like to make love to her. And once again he drew a blank. As though sensing his scrutiny, she looked up, and her gaze tangled with his. Suddenly the air snapped with the sexual vibrations bouncing between them.

Just as quickly she looked away. “According to what I read in the book I checked last night, having an appetite after an experience like this is considered a good sign.”

“Excuse me?” She’d actually read books about what to expect from sex?

“I have to admit, you really had me worried last night,” she said, as she handed him a napkin.

“I did?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Um, why?” he asked, hoping for some clue.

“Well, mostly because you were so restless. You seemed to be having some disturbing dreams—which is understandable, of course.”

“Not for me, it isn’t. I don’t usually dream much.”

“Yes. But under these circumstances, I suspect it’s only normal.”

Under these circumstances? What in the hell had happened last night?

While he desperately wanted to ask the question, he didn’t. After all, how was he supposed to tell a woman whose bed he’d obviously shared that not only could he not remember making love with her, but he couldn’t even remember her name? The answer was simple. He didn’t tell her.

“So how do you take your coffee?”

The question gave him pause. Evidently they hadn’t been lovers very long if she didn’t know how he drank his coffee. “Black, one sugar,” he told her. Deciding he needed some answers to the questions buzzing in his head, he said, “But the coffee can wait. There’s something else I need first.”

Her fingers hovered over the sugar bowl. She tipped a glance at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have thought to ask if you wanted more aspirin for your head right off. That was a nasty cut you got. I’ll just be a minute—”

“Angel,” he said, something stirring inside him at her eagerness to please him. He reached out, captured her hand. “I would like that aspirin—in a minute. But right now what I want is you.”

He tugged, and she squealed as she fell to the bed against him. Surprise streaked across her features when he closed his arms around her and flipped her body beneath his. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She appeared so genuinely shocked and her tone so schoolmarm proper, he almost released her, sure he’d made a mistake. Then he caught that flicker of heat in her eyes, that shy yearning he’d glimpsed earlier when she’d looked at him, and he decided he hadn’t been wrong after all. “I’m remembering,” he whispered and lowered his mouth to hers.