The Case Of The Vainshed Groom

But not half as horrified as she was now.

Ross Duke grimaced. “Dawn? What are you doing in my room?”

Chapter Three (#ulink_1cc5d48c-79bd-59c0-9c3e-f33491e6e9e4)

A reasonable explanation existed. One always did, even if it didn’t appear exactly reasonable at first glance. Or so Dawn told herself as she stared at Ross’s confused face.

But explanations, reasonable or otherwise, eluded her completely. Ending up naked in a bed with her husband’s best man defied explanation. Scarcely daring to breathe, her heart drumming in her ears, she inched backward, cringing as her breasts collided with his chest. She groped blindly for a pillow, found something fluffy and snatched it to her bosom. Never taking her eyes off Ross’s face, she crawled slowly, clumsily across the bed.

Ross watched her as if she were a strange, potentially dangerous species of animal.

The mattress seemed a hundred yards wide, but finally her feet found empty air and she slid onto the floor. Hunched over, holding the pillow over her breasts and belly, she backed toward the bathroom.

Ross suddenly dropped an arm over his eyes.

She scooted into the bathroom and slammed the door, fumbling with the lock until it turned. She looked wildly around the bathroom. Spying a pair of fluffy, terry-cloth robes hanging on the back of the door, she grabbed one, dropped the pillow and clothed herself.

Half-fearing Ross would come bursting through the door, she kept a fierce gaze on it as she sank onto the rim of the bathtub.

“A nightmare,” she whispered. Her heart thudded, making her chest ache.

This had to be a-nightmare—a reasonable enough explanation considering all the champagne and rich food she’d indulged in last night. If she went to the door and peeked out, the man on the bed would be Quentin. She’d married Quentin, she’d gone to bed with Quentin, she’d explored Quentin’s body and nearly made love to him.

She was going insane.

Or perhaps. Her eyes widened, and her heart began hammering anew. She’d had a nightmare and sleepwalked, something she’d done often as a child. This wasn’t the honeymoon cabin, it was Ross’s room in the lodge. By now, Quentin must have realized she was missing and he’d never understand how she’d ended up in his best friend’s bedroom.

Sharp raps on the. door made her moan. She clutched her knees, certain she was going to be sick. Please be Quentin, she prayed, let me wake up and discover the man banging on the door is Quentin.

“Dawn? What’s going on? Open the door.”

Ross! Tears rose, but she choked them down, leaving her throat sore and her eyes burning. She rocked on the tub edge.

“I’m in trouble here,” he called. “Please open the door.”

He was in trouble? As far as he was concerned, this situation held the potential for a funny story to tell all his friends. She, on the other hand, had awakened from a somnambulist nightmare in another man’s bed and hadn’t the faintest idea how to explain her near-adultery to her husband!

“Dawn? Sweetheart, answer me. Are you all right? Dawn!”

The edge of fear in his voice reached her. She crept to the door. “Please go away,” she called through the wood.

“I can’t. Open the door.”

Steeling her nerves, she unlocked the door and opened it about an inch. She peered out. To her relief Ross had wrapped a sheet around his waist.

He held up a hand, showing her his empty palm. “I swear to God, I don’t know how I got in here. Where’s Quent?”

She opened the door wide enough to take a good look at the room. She recognized the honeymoon cabin. So it was her bed, not Ross’s. She opened the door all the way.

With one hand clutching the sheet, Ross held his head with his other hand and staggered toward the bed. He sat heavily, bent over so his face nearly touched his knees. “Where’s Quent?”

Good question. She tiptoed out of the bathroom and turned on a nearby light. Ross winced away from the new source of illumination. He rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers. Glancing frequently at him to make certain he didn’t try anything funny, she searched the room. No Quentin.

She did find her belongings. Her luggage was stacked neatly inside a closet and her garments had been draped on hangers or folded and placed in dresser drawers. But she didn’t find anything belonging to her husband. Not a suitcase or a shirt or a hairbrush, nothing. Feeling a rise of panic, she dropped onto a chair and lowered her head between her knees. She breathed deeply until she could think again.

“Dawn?” His eyes were a little clearer. “Do you feel sick, too?”

“Where is my husband? What have you done with him?”

“I didn’t do anything.” He gave his head a shake, and winced. “Feels like two weeks’ worth of bad booze.”

“Get dressed and get out! If this is a joke, it isn’t funny. So you—”

“Quit yelling at me.” He pressed his hands to his ears. “I can’t think.”

Dawn jumped off the chair and rushed to the bed. She tore through the covers around the floor, looking for Ross’s clothing. She didn’t find so much as a sock. “I don’t want you to think. I want you out of here. Where are your clothes?”

“I don’t know.” He held out a hand, but she skittered away, putting as much distance between them as possible without actually leaving the room. He groaned and dropped his hand. “Fine. I’ll just march my naked butt across the grounds to the lodge. Everybody will get a big laugh out of that.”

She gazed at the window. The sun was up. “You don’t know where your clothes are? You don’t know where my husband is?”

“No.”

The mournful look he gave her went straight to her heart. Acknowledging his status as a victim did little to calm or assure her. She clutched her knees with shaking hands. “There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.”

“Okay?” He eyed her expectantly. “What?”

“To start with, how did you get in here?”

He turned his attention to the door. Neither the chain nor the security catch were fastened. “I think I got conked on the head.” He lifted a hand to his head and poked around the back of his skull. He winced. “I’ve got a bruise.”

Warily, hoping he was telling a tall tale—the implications of his telling the truth were too horrible to contemplate—she moved to his side. He leaned forward and she examined the back of his head. She found a tender spot and a bump on his scalp.

“Do you think you have a concussion?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. I saw a prowler sneaking around the honeymoon cabins. He must have hit me.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, but away from him. Even touching his hair reminded her too vividly of how closely she’d come to unwitting adultery—how much she’d desired him. Even looking at him was dangerous.

“I was helping out Stefan last night. Playing valet and fetching cars for your guests—”

“You were working?”

“I made twenty-eight bucks in tips.” A ghost of a smile appeared on his haggard face. “Anyway, your last guest left around midnight. I was about to turn in when Stefan said he saw someone carrying luggage to the parking lot.”

“Why is that unusual?”

“It’s unusual at midnight when there aren’t any guests checking out. But when I reached the parking lot, I .couldn’t find anybody. It bugged me. Stefan is just a kid, but he doesn’t make things up. He and I hung out in the parking lot for about an hour. I finally sent him to bed, but then I saw somebody on the walkway headed toward the Honeymoon Hideaway.”