Callaway Country

“I don’t know, Pam. So much has happened to both of us since those days. We can’t just—” Somehow he couldn’t keep his mind on what he was saying as she unfastened his pants and slid them down his legs.

As soon as she touched him, his body responded. She cupped him, crooning her admiration and satisfaction.

He scooped her up and laid her on the padded bench, rapidly disposing of the remaining items of clothing they both wore. He slipped his hands through her hair, removing hairpins until it fell like a veil around her head.

“Do you have any idea how many dreams I’ve had of you, dreams of making love to you, dreams of you looking at me in just that way?” he whispered.

“Show me, Clay,” she responded, placing her arms around his neck and pulling him down to her.

He knelt between her legs, resisting the urge to plunder. Instead, he wanted to take his time and explore her. He leaned down and licked the hardened tips of her breasts, one after the other, smiling when she shivered.

“Are you still cold?” he asked.

“No. Oh, no. I feel as though I’m burning up inside, waiting for you to take care of the fire.”

He rewarded her honesty with a kiss that represented all the years of missing her, loving her, grieving for the loss of her in his life. Then he began a trail of kisses down her body, wanting to memorize her with his mouth and tongue.

She cried out when he touched her through her thick curls. He savored her for a moment before trailing kisses down her inner thigh and the back of her knee. He glanced up at her as she lay with her eyes closed and her neck arched slightly, her body glowing in the dim light from the moon.

He moved to the other knee and began his slow way back up, pausing once again at the apex of her thighs, giving her the pleasure he denied himself.

She groaned out his name, her breathing uneven. No longer able to lie quiet, she undulated, silently begging him to enter her.

He could no longer ignore her plea. In one long stroke of possession he moved inside her, fighting to maintain his control until he brought her to the very peak they both sought.

She wrapped her legs around him, holding him tightly against her, and met each thrust with her own. She chanted his name with each movement, placing hot kisses on his mouth, his cheeks and his jaw.

It had been so long—too long—but he could no longer hang on to his control. Instead, he increased his pace, moving faster, his rhythmic movement driving them both onward. He felt her tension increase until her involuntary spasms signaled that she had gone over the edge, taking him with her.

When he felt his own body release he cried out her name as he tumbled into the darkness of oblivion once more.

The persistent br-ring of a nearby phone drifted into Clay’s consciousness, forcing him out of an almost unconscious state. Without opening his eyes he fumbled for the receiver and pulled it to his ear. “H’lo,” he mumbled.

“Rise and shine, Callaway. We’ve got work to do.” Sam’s rumbling voice was like a shock of cold water.

“Yes, sir,” he responded automatically.

“Meet me downstairs at the coffee shop in twenty minutes.” Sam hung up the phone.

Clay let the receiver drop back into the cradle with a groan. He felt as though he’d just fallen into bed. He forced his eyes open to a squint in order to see his watch. It was almost eight o’clock. He hadn’t gotten to bed until after two, but he was thankful to have gotten at least a few hours of rest.

He rolled over onto his back and only then remembered that he was sharing the bed with Melanie.

Melanie. Had he made love to her last night? Or had he dreamed it? He couldn’t remember what was fatigue-induced fantasy and what had actually happened. He definitely recalled dreaming at one point, but not about Melanie. He’d been dreaming about—

He sat up in bed and pushed the covers away. He had to get downstairs right now. This was the day he was officially assigned to work with a woman he’d hoped never to see again.

He glanced over his shoulder and met the horrified gaze of the woman in bed with him.

He closed his eyes, convinced he was hallucinating. Melanie’s eyes were a gorgeous black. The eyes staring at him were a pansy-blue. There was only one woman he’d ever known with eyes that color.

Pamela McCall.

Chapter 3

Clay stared at the woman in his bed in complete and total shock.

“What are you doing here!” they both said in unison.

Clay leaped off the bed as though he’d been stung by a swarm of hornets and then realized that he was buck naked.

Son of a—He didn’t finish the thought, but he knew he was in trouble, big-time. He had gone to bed wearing his boxer shorts. There was only one reason for him not to be wearing them now.

The dream he remembered was a hell of a lot more real than he wanted it to be.

He flipped the sheet back on his side of the bed and scrambled for his shorts, almost groaning out loud as he discovered them at the bottom of the bed.

He jerked them on before he turned back to her. She sat up in bed, her hair tumbled around her shoulders, clutching the sheet to her chest. Pam looked thoroughly loved and sexy as hell. Her eyes, however, told a very different story.

“I want to know what you’re doing in my room,” she said grimly.

“I—uh, well…” He shoved his hand through his hair. “Damn it, I don’t know! I thought this was my room. You don’t think I deliberately came here last night to—” He spluttered to a halt, unable to put into words what had happened.

“I don’t know what to think, Clay. You practically looked through me all evening and then you—you—well, you crawl into my bed and…” She paused, apparently unable to give voice to what had happened.

“I know we need to talk about this,” he finally said when she didn’t say anything more, “but frankly, I don’t have the time right now. I’ve got to get downstairs.” He almost told her why, but if she didn’t know about the planned meeting and that he was going to be working with her, he did not want to be the one to break the news to her. The situation was volatile enough as it was.

He hastily gathered his clothes from the floor, retracing his trail from the night before. Hell, he scarcely remembered coming into the room, much less undressing and getting into bed.

How could he have made such a stupid mistake?

He found his bag, opened it and pulled out the first clothes he could find, which happened to be underwear, a pair of well-worn jeans and a faded knit shirt. Without looking toward the bed, he retraced his steps and went into the bathroom. He quickly showered before getting dressed.

He returned to his bag and grabbed a worn pair of running shoes and put them on. Then he left the room. What in the hell had he been doing in Pam’s room? Hadn’t Melanie told him room 937?

He stopped in the middle of the hallway and rubbed his aching head.

Or had she said 973?

Damn.

He must have gotten the room numbers confused. And of all the people that he might inadvertently end up spending the night with, why did it have to be Pamela McCall?

When he spotted room 973 on his way to the elevators, Clay impulsively paused before the door and knocked. Within a short time the door opened. Melanie stood there in a filmy negligee, her expression puzzled.

For a very good reason.

“Good morning, Clay,” she said, taking in his casual dress, a far cry from the tuxedo he’d been in the last time she’d seen him. Instead of commenting on his clothes, she lifted an eyebrow and drawled, “When you said you were going to be late getting to bed, you weren’t kidding.”