While She Was Sleeping Read online

“Wait, don’t go!”

  “Huh?”

  “I...I’m sorry.” She wished she could cry. But lessons had been learned early on, so she rarely did. “I don’t know what’s going on. I mean, I don’t remember anything.” Did she have a brain tumor? “What time is it?”

  “About noon, I think.”

  “I mean, what day is it? And where am I?”

  “Sunday,” he said, less amused now for sure. “And you’re at my place. Listen, could you open the door? I’m not going to hurt you or anything. I mean, after last night...”

  Why did he keep referring to last night? Surely he should have better manners than that. Manners? Where had that come from? Some book on morning-after etiquette?

  “I don’t know what you’d do,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ve never seen you before in my life. I don’t know you. I mean, I didn’t know you, until...” Now thoroughly flustered—on top of the panic—she allowed the sentence to trail off and leaned back against the wall, willing herself to be whisked away to another planet.

  After another pause, he expelled a loud, irritated breath. “Look, come out, don’t come out, whatever. I need coffee.”

  Then she sensed his presence no more. He was gone, off to perform a normal, mundane morning ritual like making coffee. His universe, of course, was totally in order. Lucky him.

  She began to rock back and forth again, as she used to do as a child, when all the angry chaos in her home had made her anxious.

  She was no longer a child, but Carla Anne Terry had never felt so alone or lost in her life.

  Nick slammed the carafe into place, then dumped ground coffee into the filter and punched the start button. Muttering an oath, he shook his head. Just his luck—you meet a woman, engage in astonishing, mind-bending sex, and the next morning she does a number on you. “What? I did what? Oh, no, not me.” “What time is it? What day is it?” “I’m not Amanda.”

  Yeah, that was the best one of them all—someone else did all those nasty dirty things with you, not me. Man oh man, he’d thought modern women had thrown that kind of thing out with girdles.

  What a shame, he mused as he watched the heated water drip into the pot, willing it to move along—he really needed his morning coffee. A damn shame. A woman who gave herself in bed like that, who’d lapped up everything he’d offered as if she was starving, to feel so guilty the next morning she had to make up a story rather than face who she was. Guilt was an emotion he tried not to indulge in himself, although he wasn’t always successful. It could do all sorts of things to your brain.

  Nick shook his head again. Man, was he p.o.’d.

  Not just upset. He felt...let down. Disappointed. There had been a few moments there, that last time, when he’d sensed a strange kind of connection to her. There, at the end, the sex had been different than before—not so much mindless sensation. Something had stirred him that had nothing to do with what was happening to his body, a kind of a...heart thing. Like it was no longer about sex, but something more important than that.

  Ridiculous, he told himself, uncomfortable with the direction of his thoughts. A wish left over from when he still had hopes. Hormones, that was all it had been. Good old-fashioned primal urges and needs, nothing more. He was a man with a healthy appetite who’d been without a woman for a while, and he’d done his damnedest to make up for lost time.

  So, he thought, propping a hip against the tile counter, that was him. But what was her story? Why the reversal? Maybe she was some kind of wacko. She’d sure changed personalities a lot the night before. Hell, maybe he was dealing with a schizophrenic and he’d better watch it. In the movies, this was the moment when the crazed woman came after you with a knife and began to slash away.

  Uneasy, Nick glanced over his shoulder, but the kitchen doorway was empty. Come off it, he told himself with a chuckle. He needed to put a hold on his imagination. Don’t spend any more energy on it, he advised himself, because whatever was going on with this Amanda—or Carly...hell, whatever her name was—wouldn’t take away from what had happened between the two of them last night.

  It was a memory he’d keep locked in his mind forever....

  He’d been at his temporary place of employment, Morgan R’s on the marina—two nice-size, wood-paneled rooms with ocean views, one a restaurant, the other a bar. Officially, he wasn’t supposed to be working, as be was on medical leave from the Manhattan Beach Police Department; unofficially, he was acting manager for his buddy Kyle Morgan while he was on vacation. What that meant was showing up on Saturday nights when the bar filled up and the crowd often got raucous. It was policy to let them know the boss was around.

  Last night, the early hours, at least, had been like the others. The sound of jazz poured out of the loudspeakers, a couple of guys argued sports teams, some others laughed loudly over tasteless jokes. There were couples and singles, people looking for company and others who wanted to be alone in the midst of company.

  It was around midnight when she walked in. Slipped in, really, through the side entrance near the end of the long wooden bar. He’d happened to be looking that way, or he’d have missed her. If she’d come in through the main entrance just off the boardwalk, no one would have, or could have, missed her.

  Not with those long bare legs and that little slip of a dress that just hit the top of her thighs. It was made of some shimmering, cream-colored stuff; thin straps held up a low-cut bodice that revealed a juicy amount of cleavage. Generous breasts, high and firm. The appreciative male in him checked her out head to toe, while the manager part of him made note that a young, attractive woman, unescorted and dressed as this one was, was potential trouble.

  She had lots of wavy yellow-blond hair that fell past her shoulders, slender arms, a long neck and heavily made-up eyes with half circles of smeared mascara under the lower lids. Could have been anywhere from twenty to thirty. He watched as she slid onto the end bar stool, a couple of empty stools over from where he sat. Her feet were bare, but he didn’t go up to her and say something about the “no shoes, no service” policy, because, for the moment, he liked watching her. She settled herself, crossed those long legs one over the other, then brushed back several strands of pale hair that had fallen over one eye. Elbows balanced on the bar, she rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms, seeming to huddle into herself.

  Joey, the bartender, finished wiping a glass and spoke to her. With the noise level, even sitting as close to her as he was, Nick couldn’t hear their conversation. He could, however, see Joey shake his head once, then again, before Nick signaled him to come over.

  “What’s she want?” he asked the bartender.

  “She can’t seem to decide.”

  “Loaded?”

  “Maybe. She’s slurring her words.”

  Nick glanced at the woman again. “Give her water or juice, on the house, then tell her to take a hike. Nicely.”

  “Will do.”

  He watched as Joey related his message to the woman, pointing toward Nick as he did. The woman turned her head and looked at him, surprise and something else—fear?—on her face. The proverbial doe caught in the headlights. She squinted as though she had trouble focusing, then closed her eyes and rubbed the lids, smearing her mascara even more. Joey brought her the juice, then went to wait on a customer at the other end of the bar.

  Nick watched her sip her drink, then gulp it more thirstily. Was she drunk or high? he wondered. From all his years on the force, especially working Vice, he was pretty good at spotting the hard-core dopers and boozers, but she didn’t seem hard-core anything. There was an innocent, almost angelic quality to her, in spite of the dress and the hair and the makeup.

  A customer he’d never seen before, a big guy with a full beard and a fuller gut, plopped himself down on the stool next to her, effectively blocking Nick’s view. “Hi, sweetheart,” he bellowed in a voice loud enough to cut through a bomb detonation. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Nick couldn’t see her reaction. He glanced a
t the long mirrored wall behind the bar, but several tall bottles covered his view. However, he had no trouble hearing the man’s next offering.

  “What’s the matter, can’t you talk, sweetheart? My name’s Lenny. What do they call you?”

  Nick sighed. He was going to have to step in. He told himself it was in his official capacity as management, to prevent a scene in the bar, but he wasn’t fooling himself. He had some kind of radar for people who couldn’t take care of themselves and was repeatedly drawn toward helping them out. He’d gotten kicked in the teeth for it a few times, but he probably wouldn’t change.

  He got up from his stool, felt the familiar twinge in his knee, winced, shook it out, then moved over to stand behind the thickset man.

  “Please, no,” the woman was saying very carefully and slowly. She was looking down at her lap where her hands clutched each other tightly.

  “No, what?” Lenny said. “No time to lose?” He laughed loudly, then emitted a cigarette smoker’s cough.

  Nick tapped the man’s shoulder twice. “Hey,” he said. “It’d be best if you left the lady alone.”

  Lenny turned on his stool and glared at him from under bushy eyebrows. “Who the hell asked you, friend? She’s alone, ain’t she?”

  Nick’s hackles rose automatically at the challenge in the other man’s tone, but long experience had taught him to keep his temper in check at moments like these. He sighed patiently. “Lenny, I’m the manager here and I’m not looking for trouble, promise. Just do me a favor this time, okay? Let me buy you a drink and leave her alone. She’s a friend and she’s not feeling well.”

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  He waited a beat, then, making his tone ominous, said, “You don’t want to know.”

  “Jeez.” Lenny jumped off his stool and backed away from both his former quarry and Nick. “Forget it. I’m out of here.”

  The woman’s head jerked up in surprise and she watched Lenny’s retreat into the crowd, squinting again as she did. Nearsighted, Nick thought, and too vain to wear glasses. He’d known other women like that. Stupid hang-up. You could miss a lot of pretty terrific views that way.

  She shifted her gaze to him, studied him almost solemnly for a moment, frowned, then ran her tongue over her lips as though they were dry. Whatever the intention of that little gesture, it had the effect on Nick of making his groin tighten momentarily. His reaction took him by surprise, but he shrugged it off. It was like that sometimes, he told himself. One look and instant hard-on.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice husky and low-pitched, her words again slow and deliberate.

  “No problem.” He took Lenny’s place on the stool next to her. A faint whiff of something very expensive wafted into his nostrils—but there was no booze smell. “Look, you probably ought to go home.”

  “Home?” She tested the word on her tongue as though it were a new one. She seemed distracted, even slightly disoriented. Up close, he saw a sweet, pretty face, round and smooth. Dainty. A small nose, unexpectedly full lips with a beautiful, sensual bow to the upper one.

  Her large eyes, encircled with dark smudges that were not just smeared mascara, were the color of warm golden brandy. No dilated pupils, he noted, crossing off several substances immediately. Hers was such an unmarked face, he thought, not at all hard or lived-in. It didn’t go with the provocative outfit, the deep V of the neckline and the way her pebbled nipples were outlined by the thin fabric.

  Another bolt of desire hit his groin with a suddenness that threw him. He stifled a groan. It hadn’t happened like this in years, not since he’d been a randy teenager. Down, boy, he told himself.

  “Yeah, home.” He shifted a little on the stool for comfort. “You know, where you have things like a kitchen and warm clothes and shoes.”

  “Shoes?” she repeated, then looked down at her feet as though realizing for the first time that they were bare. “Shoes.”

  “Hey, are you all right? Joey,” he called to the bartender, “bring over a couple of black coffees, will you?” He turned back to the woman. “Are you feeling okay? Sick?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “All right. What did you take, then?”

  “Take?” She looked off somewhere over his shoulder, her eyes becoming unfocused. “I don’t understand.”

  “Come on. Blow? Ludes? Meth? You’re high on something.”

  Again she frowned, shaking her head slowly, then brought her gaze to meet his. “No. I don’t...do that. Ever.”

  There was so much sincerity behind the words, he half believed her, even though the cop in him was pretty sure she was getting a buzz, and it was not a natural high. “Look...what’s your name?”

  She had to think about it for a moment. Her eyebrows knit, then she said, “Amanda?”

  “Okay, Amanda, I’m Nick. I’m the manager here.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Thanks, Joey,” he said as the coffee cups were set down in front of them. “Amanda, what I think is that you ought to drink this coffee and get home. Where’s your car?”

  “I’m not sure.” She yawned, then covered her mouth with her hand, as though she’d been brought up to be a lady at all times. “Sorry.”

  “You probably shouldn’t be driving anyway. Where’s your purse? Do you have money for a cab?”

  Holding up both her hands, she gazed first at one palm, then the other. “No purse.”

  She looked at him in amazement, then smiled-a wide, enchanting smile that brought a sparkle to her eyes. “No shoes and no purse.” she said, then bit her bottom lip with her front teeth, like a guilty child. “Isn’t that the silliest thing?”

  He drew in a ragged breath as the zipper area of his jeans got tighter. Man, that combination of innocence and worldliness, it was a major turn-on. “Yeah, real silly.”

  “I’m not sure what to do.” Another huge yawn escaped. Again, Amanda covered her mouth daintily with her hand. “I’d like to sleep, though. Would it be all right if I put my head down?” She proceeded to make a pillow with her crossed arms on the bar and began to lower her head.

  Nick grabbed her elbow. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you you can’t sleep on a bar? Come on.” He helped her off the stool. Standing, she was about five-three, he figured; as he was a couple of inches over six feet, she seemed tiny.

  “Where are we going, Nick?” She shivered, and he realized her skin beneath his palms was cold and clammy.

  He retrieved his windbreaker from a nearby hook and put it around her shoulders. “This isn’t real heavy, but put it on.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  She seemed so pliable, so docile. So lost. It brought out all his protective instincts, in spades.

  He’d always been that way. As a kid he used to bring home stray dogs and kittens, eggs from birds’ nests. He’d tried to balance that caretaking instinct with constant reality checks all twelve years on the job. He’d learned to mind his own business and watch his back, but every so often that need to take in hurt puppies popped up again.

  Amanda was not a puppy, he reminded himself. Not even close. “Where do you live?” he asked her.

  Huge doe’s eyes, a little sad and bewildered, gazed up at him. “I ... don’t know.” Her forehead cleared. “Yes I do. Hull.”

  “Hull?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never heard of it. Where’s Hull?”

  “Across the bay.”

  “Across what bay?”

  Her forehead wrinkled again. “I’m not sure.” As he took her by the shoulders, she gazed up at him, startled.

  “Look, here’s the deal. You’re spaced on something, and what I should do is take you to a hospital—”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I don’t like hospitals.” He felt her sag a little. “All I want to do is sleep.”

  He emitted a sigh. She really didn’t seem sick, just disoriented. Probably needed a good night’s sleep.

  Which he was about to offer. Hell, he�
�d probably lost any battle for self-protection the minute she’d walked in the door, but he’d tried to put up a fight. Sucker, he called himself silently.

  “Then come over to my place,” he said. “My couch, I mean. I’m no danger to you, you can ask Joey if you’d like. I won’t jump your bones.”

  “Jump my bones?” She seemed puzzled.

  “You know what I mean. I won’t try anything. Not that I’d turn down an invitation, but there are rules, as they say. You’re not yourself.”

  “I’m Amanda.” She yawned again. Her complete disinterest in any sexual danger he might pose, he had to admit, bruised his male ego just a little.

  “Joey, I’m taking off,” Nick called out. “Call me at home if there’s trouble. Come on, Amanda.”

  “Okay.”

  He wondered if she went home this easily with men all the time. The thought disturbed him. What a dumb thing to do, with all the hopped-up lunatics around.

  They walked along the docks toward his condo. It was a warm October night, and the marina was busy. Aside from a couple of private parties on larger boats, noise and music poured out from all the dockside watering holes. A patrol car sped by with sirens blaring; Nick stifled his automatic curiosity.

  It took five minutes to get to his building, one of three large complexes in the area. He’d bought the condo four years ago, after his divorce, something temporary, he’d told himself, until he set up a real home. Somehow, with all the years on the job, all the time-and-gut commitment, he’d never come any closer to making the place a real home than the stark white walls, small balcony with a view, one-bedroom, one-bath condominium. Clean, efficient, impersonal.

  Amanda seemed half-asleep by the time they came through the front door. When she padded into his bedroom and fell facedown on the bed, her dress crept up to uncover pale cream silk bikini underpants and nothing more. The smooth, pearl-colored flesh of her buttocks and thighs made his loins tighten again.

  He wished momentarily he were the kind of man who didn’t have a conscience. However, he believed in rules of behavior, as well as the legal kind; it was why he’d joined the force. Not that he was some kind of straight-arrow Dudley Do Right—he approved of anything between mutually consenting adults. But the mutually consenting part didn’t happen when one adult was unconscious.