Lightning Strikes

Well, at least she was taking partial responsibility. “Now that we’ve covered that, let’s get dressed.”

Heading out of the room, he spied a red toolbox and a pile of clothes in the corner of the bedroom.

“Those yours?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. She quickly covered her breasts and nodded.

“You missed one.” He dropped his gaze to a dark pink nipple that peeked through two of her fingers.

She gave a little shriek, fumbling to cover up.

He turned away, smiling to himself. “I’ll get dressed in the living room. You get dressed in here. Let’s meet up in five and discuss what happened to our beds. And how you ended up in my house.”

But they’d skip the part about how they also ended up becoming “lubbers.” Hell, what had happened? He’d sworn it was a steamy, erotic dream where everything fit just right. Reality was never like that. Not the first time, anyway. He’d never taken a woman to bed and instinctively known her body. Known its terrain as well as his own. Known where to touch, how much pressure, when she was ready. That’s why it had seemed so…perfect. As though they were destined to be lovers.

Perfect?

Destined?

Hell, he was sounding like a guy who’d fallen in love at first sight. Hit by a zap of lightning. The kind of crock those New Age poets that dawdled at the Spice of Life coffee shop spent hours scribbling about. They’d sit for hours sipping their chai tea, writing love poems on napkins while listening to piped-in harp music.

Buddy, you’re still suffering from sleep deprivation. You need coffee. Hot, black, and kick-ass strong.

Naked, he marched to the kitchen.

BLAINE BLEW ON THE COFFEE. It was too hot to drink, smelled like burnt beans and was black enough to fill a fountain pen. But she accepted it, with a smile, because it was the least she could do after throwing a wrench into this guy’s life. Plus she wanted to be as easy to get along with as possible considering she’d intruded on his life, his bed. Well, her bed.

She cringed inwardly. Argghhh. If only I hadn’t overdosed on that allergy medicine last night. Because if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have woken up without a stitch, next to a royally pissed-off guy whose bed she’d somehow lost.

She stifled a sneeze. Great, her allergies were acting up again, but no way in hell would she pop a pill. Not right now, anyway. Even though one pill never made her that sleepy, after her little overdose yesterday, she didn’t want to take another one too soon. The last thing she needed was to fall asleep while he was talking to her and further test that thundercloud mood he’d flashed earlier.

At least this time, they were both dressed. And this room had some light in it, thanks to the opened curtain and switched-on lamp. She glanced to her right. Yesterday, she’d noticed the books, but had been unable to see their titles. Now she could clearly see the words on their spines. A biography of Ulysses Grant, another of Robert E. Lee. Novels like The Razor’s Edge, Of Human Bondage. A thick book titled Great Poets of the Twentieth Century.

No thrillers? Mysteries? Man, this guy went for the heavy stuff. She wondered if that reflected his life, too. Heavy books, heavy thinkers. Which probably meant he approached situations with heavy caution.

Well, she’d certainly blown that approach sky-high!

She blew on her coffee again, more for something to do, and sneaked a peek at him over the rim of her mug. He wore a pair of faded jeans, ripped at one knee, and an olive-green T-shirt that read As You Ramble On Through Life, Brother/Whatever Be Your Goal/Keep Your Eye Upon the Doughnut/And Not Upon the Hole.

Considering his moodiness, she’d have thought he kept his eye upon the hole.

He took a slug of coffee. She cringed inwardly as she watched him swallow the stuff. His gut must be made of asbestos.

“Start from the top,” he said, leaning back in the recliner.

He’d been sitting on his recliner when she’d finally emerged, fully dressed, from the bedroom. Surprisingly, he offered her a cup of coffee and the recliner, which had left her momentarily dumbstruck. She’d expected the guy to blast her with some angry accusations, not polite inquiries.

Rugged, moody…yet, it appeared a heart beat within the beast.

She’d accepted the coffee. And declined the recliner—after all, it was the only place to sit in the room, and who was she to deny a man his throne? So, she’d sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor. As she got comfortable, she’d noticed he rubbed his leg again. Funny, he didn’t appear to have a limp, but then the only time she’d seen him walk was when he exited the bedroom, butt-naked.

And to be honest, her eyes hadn’t been focused on his legs at that moment.

“From the top?” he prompted.

Oh, yeah, he’d asked her a question. “Frob de top?” she repeated. Damn allergies. She was starting to sound like a clogged pipe. Keep it short and sweet.

She sucked in some air through her mouth. “Yesterday, I cashed id my Alaskan cruise ticket ad bought by sister a bed.” She paused to catch a breath. “A weddig gift frob me.” That was neat and tidy. No mention of boyfriends getting engaged or the pending bank loan…

There was a long pause during which the guy frowned, downing another slug of coffee. She could tell by the glint in his eyes that his mind was working, the wheels turning. Oh yeah, he was cautious all right.

When he finally nodded, Blaine realized it had taken all that time to decipher what she’d said.

“And?” he prompted.

“And…de bed was delivered to de wrog address.”

“Rog?”

She nodded.

“Oh, wrong.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. This guy was serious to the max. The last thing she needed to do was make light of the situation.

“Delivered to the wrong address by this Ralph person.”

“Yes.” She tried to down a sip of coffee, but the stuff damn near scalded her tongue. She sucked in a cooling breath of air, her eyes watering. “How do you drik this stuff?”

“I like hot things.”

Heat flooded her face. That’s what last night had been. Hot. The hottest she’d ever experienced. God, her skin burned with the memory of his touch. Those calloused hands were skilled, relentless…

She looked around the room, too embarrassed to meet this guy’s eyes…her lover’s eyes. She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position on the floor. Man, she was sweating in places she’d never sweated in before. Memories of what happened last night—in her sister’s wedding-present bed, for God’s sake—were better than anything, anything, Blaine had ever experienced with a guy, which now just seemed a blur of fumbling and body parts.

Maybe it had been better because last night had been like…a fantasy. Lush, provocative, meltdown hot.

Maybe that bed was magical, after all.

She looked up at the man with whom she’d shared the ultimate intimacy—what had Milly called him?

“What’s your nameb?” she asked.

He frowned. “Oh, name. Donovan. Donovan Roy.”

His finger played along the lip of his cup, circling it slowly. “Yours?”

“Blaind Saudders,” she answered, forcing herself to look him in the eyes and not at his finger, whose sensuous, circling motion reminded her of how he’d touched her last night. “I rud de Blaind Saudders Temp Agency.”

He stared at her, his brow furrowed. “Okay,” he said slowly.