Bedspell

She registered a musty smell. “Cats?” she mouthed.

She opened her eyes a fraction. Just enough to see that this wasn’t her cabin. Uh-oh. She ceased to breathe, and her aching body felt frozen in panic. Now she couldn’t shut her eyes if she wanted to. Where was she? The curtains were different from those in her cabin, she realized, and somebody lived here. Full-time. No…this was no part-time camper, and this somebody was messy.

Without even moving her head, she could tell that the place was a wreck. A closet door was open, and a man’s clothes were inside. Not the kind of man’s clothes that might have brought her comfort, either, such as Brooks Brothers suits and Hermès ties. This man’s shirts were made out of plaid flannel. Yards of it, indicating he was quite sizable.

Dirty jeans were on the floor. Canoe paddles were propped beside the door, near mud-caked steel-toed work boots. An open can of soda was perched on a sofa arm. Not very promising. Had she really walked into the wrong cabin? And slept with some strange man, thinking he was Gorgeous Garrity? And how could such a thing have happened…when her friends swore there were no men out here in the woods?

Her eyes slid to the bedside table, landing on a graduation certificate, and she made out the words: Wildcat Capture Team Certification. Whoever he was, he’d certainly captured her last night.

Feeling desperate for a drink, she took in a desk stacked with books and strewn with papers, and then she saw the disabled cats. Two of them. An orange tabby with its head bandaged and both front paws bound in gauze. The other was missing a leg. Telling herself to remain calm, she pressed a hand to the mattress and tried to roll over. As she did so, she pressed a hand to her head, also. She felt something that didn’t belong there and removed it.

“A leaf,” she mouthed. Great. More exploration turned up brambles and a twig. Glancing down, she realized her legs were mud-streaked from the swim in the lake. Yes. It was all coming back to her now….

Then he snored.

It was not delicate snoring, the kind C.C. and Diane could both be guilty of after they’d had too much to drink…the kind that would have assured Signe that she’d wound up in the other cabin with her girlfriends.

No.

This was chesty male snoring that said he was at least six feet tall and packed with muscles of the very type that she’d felt holding her tightly last night. Trying not to make a sound, she fought the pain as she craned her neck and glanced over her shoulder.

When she saw him, her heart hammered harder. Who was he? The sheet was pulled only to his thighs, and getting a gander at his physique, she couldn’t help but think of the fertility statue Detective Perez thought she’d stolen. No wonder sex had felt so good….

His skin was as smooth as glass and tanned the color of toasted walnuts. He was definitely gorgeous. Just not the Gorgeous…Gorgeous Garrity. Which meant she had to get out of here. Escape, while he was sleeping. She’d just run….

But her eyes lingered. He had great hair. Thick and medium-blond, it was decidedly too long; soft curls that had felt like heaven against the insides of her fingers were brushing the skin of his shoulders, gleaming like summer sun. Faint light, slipping through the closed curtains, was dancing in the strands, and for a brief moment, she watched as if spellbound.

She forced herself to blink rapidly.

Glancing around, she searched for her clothes, then remembered she’d lost them at the lake. She’d come here naked, thinking this was her cabin, and he must have thought…

She was someone else.

Yes. He’d seemed to be expecting her. Great. This was the sort of jam C.C. always got herself into. But nothing such as this had ever happened to Signe. What would C.C. do? The answer was just as clear as it had been a moment before: run. Trust your instincts, Sig.

Soundlessly, she edged her legs over the mattress, wincing when her feet hit the wood floorboards, making them creak. She glanced over her shoulder again in panic, but the man hadn’t moved. So far, so good. Standing, she stared covetously at the sheet on his legs, wishing she could risk taking it, to cover herself. How far was her own cabin from here?

She tiptoed toward the door, wincing as she took a silent step, then another. She was halfway across the room when she heard the groan of mattress springs, and then a gruff voice saying, “Going somewhere?”

She froze, uncomfortably balanced on the balls of her bare feet, her fisted hands at her sides, deeply conscious of the fact that she was naked, and that it was no longer dark in here. Her backside was exposed, and while she didn’t exactly want to be a coward, she didn’t want to turn around and face him, either.

He said, “You can borrow a shirt if you want.”

Her eyes cut to the closet. It was tempting, but if she borrowed a shirt, she’d feel obligated to return it. “Uh…thanks, but I’ll manage.” Another wave of mortification overcame her when she heard her voice. It sounded weak and gravelly.

“You sure?”

How could he sound so normal? Had he forgotten how they’d spent the better part of last night? She still hadn’t managed to move. She’d remained standing in the middle of his cabin, perched on the balls of her feet. Venturing another quick look over her shoulder, she wished she hadn’t. The sheer force of the man’s over-the-top good looks was—unfortunately—enough to pivot the rest of her body around.

For a long second, she just stared. And then her foggy mind caught up with the rest of her body, and she realized he was seriously checking her out. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling like an idiot. Casually, she drew one leg in front of the other.

The slightest smile lifted his lips, almost as if he was getting a kick out of her discomfort. She blew out a surreptitious breath, wondering what to do next. His face was strong and broad, framed by blond curls, and his jaw was firm and square, his eyes, the kind of hazel that could turn brown or amber, depending on the light. She felt tempted to crawl right back into bed with him.

Then she remembered the flannel shirts, steel-toed boots and disabled cats. The man might be amazing in bed, but he was not the type with whom a reasonable New York woman could make a lasting future, and Signe was practical. What she wanted most was a future. Reminding herself that she was in enough trouble already, since she was temporarily suspended from the Met, not to mention a prime suspect in the theft of a priceless statue, she edged backward, toward the door.

He huskily said, “I thought you were…”

Someone else. The words hung in the air. Somehow, despite her embarrassment, she managed to keep the smile plastered on her face. “Nope.”

His thick eyebrows knitted. “Have we even met?”

She really couldn’t stand here in front of him much longer, naked. “Nope,” she said again.

He slowly sat, pulling the sheet with him, thankfully covering his lower half and bunching the pillow behind him, as if anticipating a lengthy conversation with her, and while she hated to disappoint him…

She’d almost reached the door, but she couldn’t help but ask, “And you are?”

“Name’s James,” he said. For the space of a suspended heartbeat, the whole world slid off kilter and she could swear he was going to add, “Bond. James Bond.” But instead he said, “The park ranger.”

“The park ranger,” she echoed in a hoarse whisper. Of course. How could she have imagined that her magic spell had conjured Gorgeous Garrity? “I see.”

He was starting to look offended. “Who did you think I was?”

“Gorgeous,” she managed. “I thought…”

He flashed a grin that did remarkable things for his already remarkable face. “Thanks.”

“No,” she managed to say, realizing he’d thought she was referring to his good looks. “I mean…” But probably it was better not to explain she’d mistaken him for Gorgeous Garrity, a man a park ranger in the Catskills would have never heard of. “I mean…uh…”