While She Was Sleeping Page 3

  Tugging her dress down, he resisted the temptation to touch the pad of one finger to that smooth skin. Instead, he pulled the covers up to her neck. She put her arms around his pillow and hugged it to her. Several golden strands of hair draped across one cheek and he eased them off her face, tucking them behind an ear.

  He stood a moment more and stared at her sleeping, innocent, angel’s face. Her eye makeup would get all over his sheets, he thought distractedly, but it wouldn’t be the first time a woman had left her mark on his bed; besides, that was what soap was for.

  Feeling a strange emptiness, Nick made up the couch in the living room, watched a little TV and dropped off to sleep.

  Sometime later—it could have been fifteen minutes, could have been three hours—he awoke with a start. Sensing a presence near him, he reached for his gun then remembered it was in the closet

  He was about to sit up when he realized the presence he’d felt was Amanda. She was close, very close, her face and his only inches apart. Visible by the outside porch light that shone through his living-room curtains, she was on her knees, her arms folded on the cushion next to his pillow, her chin on her arms. She stared at him with huge eyes, but said nothing.

  Sitting up, he scrubbed a hand across his face. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Sorry.” In that low, hoarse voice.

  “What do you want?”

  Still on her knees, she straightened her torso, her hands braced on the edge of the cushion. That’s when he saw what he hadn’t quite noticed a moment earlier. She had no clothes on.

  Her breasts—smaller than they’d appeared in the dress, but still high and firm-stood out in the pale yellow light. Her waist was nicely indented, but her hips were surprisingly round and womanly on one so thin. Her stomach, too, was slightly rounded, enticingly so, but his angle didn’t allow him to see below that. And man, did he want to.

  “What do you want?” he said again, but this time it came out harshly.

  “You,” she said. “I want you.”

  She leaned to one side and stretched out along the floor. It was a pose out of a girlie magazine, but seemed somehow not to go with this woman. The way the dress hadn’t really gone with her. She offered temptation, but not with self-assurance. There was—what?—a shyness, a modesty about her. He found that more attractive than any blatant come-on. Even if Amanda wasn’t about to win Cover Girl of the Year for her nude modeling skills, she got to him, all over.

  Now he could see the junction of her thighs, just make out the wedge of pale pubic hair that disappeared into the V and the womanly mysteries there. She followed his gaze, looked down at herself, then back up at him. She bit her lip; he could have sworn she was blushing, although it was hard to tell in this light.

  Most of the breath whooshed out of his body. “Uh, I don’t think—”

  “Hold me.” She sat up and raised her arms toward him. “Make love to me. Please.”

  He stayed right where he was, trying not to stare at the rosy, temptingly puckered nipples on her creamy breasts. “Look, you don’t really mean that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He might have been asleep thirty seconds earlier, but his body was now fully awake and raging with desire for Amanda. Hot blood coursed all through him, crowding his brain and rendering coherent thought almost impossible.

  He made one last attempt to be a good guy. “I’m not sure you know what you’re doing....”

  She moved closer, placed one hand on his chest and ran it slowly down his torso. Her touch was light, tentative, but effective. “If I don’t know what I’m doing, you’ll help me, won’t you?”

  When her hand arrived at his already throbbing phallus and she cupped its base in her palm, it was all over.

  With a groan, he went to her, only too glad to oblige. First on the living-room floor, then on the couch, then in his bed.

  He didn’t have to help her much, after all.

  Nick poured himself a cup of black coffee and took a sip. Shaking his head, he thought again what a damn shame it was, all that good loving, and this morning the “ruined-virgin” bit.

  “I’m sorry to bother you...”

  Her voice startled him out of his reverie. She stood in the kitchen doorway wrapped in his blue terry-cloth robe. She’d washed her face; without all that eye makeup on, she was definitely less glamorous. Almost, but not quite plain. And still angelic—except for those frightened, dark gold eyes and that great mouth. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she seemed to be both self-conscious and determined not to show it.

  “Good morning,” he said easily, leaning back against the counter. “You’re not bothering me, promise. Coffee?”

  “In a minute. Um, Nick, is it?”

  “Yup.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Fire away.”

  “The ocean outside the window. Is it the Atlantic?”

  “Nope. Pacific.”

  “So, I’m in...?” She let her sentence trail off, but her large eyes begged for an answer.

  “Marina del Rey, California.”

  Closing her eyes for a moment, Amanda/Carly took a shaky breath, then opened them again. With a brave but trembling smile, she said, “How interesting. I’ve always wanted to see California. I just... have no idea how I got here.”

  Chapter 2

  “You what?” His eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  Carly said it again. “I don’t know how I wound up here. In your apartment.”

  “Bull.”

  Carly took a step back. His epithet not only stung but took her by surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “I said bull. You know exactly how you wound up here. We met in a bar last night. You came home with me.” The harsh planes of his face seemed sculpted out of marble. His eyes were unfriendly, untrusting.

  Flustered, she dug her hands deep into the pockets of his robe, which she’d found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. “Well, yes, of course. I’m sorry, I’m talking about how I got to the West Coast, to California.”

  “Plane? Car? Hitchhiking?” The low rumble of his voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “I’m sorry, but why are you so angry?”

  An eyebrow lifted and he studied her. Then he leaned against the door frame and draped his well-muscled arms across his broad chest. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Just tell me one thing—do you remember what happened after you did get here? To my place? I mean, when exactly did this memory loss come over you?”

  She had no idea how to answer him. Removing her hands from the robe’s pockets, she rubbed up and down her arms nervously as she glanced around the kitchen. It was small, bright and clean, and totally lacking in personality. No plants, no refrigerator magnets. Either he was a housecleaning fanatic or this room wasn’t used much. She got the feeling it was the latter.

  “May I sit down?” she said.

  He vaulted away from the doorway. “Where are my manners?” he said sardonically. “Of course. Grab a chair. I’ll even get you some coffee. It’s all part of the service.”

  He pulled a chair out for her and she sat. Then she looked at him. Up at him, actually; he was quite tall. His expression seemed mocking now. Wordlessly, she studied his face while her mind ran up and down the corridors of its confused maze.

  Dear heavens, he was good-looking, a part of her brain was able to register. Rumpled, sexy, his nearly black hair not yet combed, his face not yet shaved. Tanned skin, penetrating green eyes, the color of old jade. A strong, slightly crooked nose and a wide unsmiling mouth.

  And he was so big. Too big. Maybe a foot taller than she. He had put on sweatpants to make the coffee, but his upper torso was bare. Black curly chest hair, a Saint Christopher’s medal on a silver chain. Well-muscled shoulders and biceps, but not overly developed. His wasn’t the physique of a narcissistic bodybuilder, just a perfect example of how men were constructed a lot differently than women.

  Another wave of trembling swept over her, making her s
hudder again. This reaction to him was unsettling. Yes, it was part fear of his anger, but also a large part raw, sexual attraction, heightened by memories of the dream....

  No, not a dream, she corrected herself. The night before, she’d given in to that raw sexual reaction fully and thoroughly.

  Carly felt her skin heating with the blush she knew was taking it over. Ripping her gaze away from his, she concentrated on the bare tabletop. “Thank you. Coffee sounds good. I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have any cream?”

  “I’m out.”

  “Then black will be fine.”

  He went to the bare white tile counter and removed a cup from a hook. His back was broadly powerful; the sweatpants fit snugly over tight buttocks before they draped casually to his ankles. His feet were bare; as were hers. At least, she thought distractedly, the floor was cool without being cold.

  Weary, she rubbed her temples. “I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind me wearing your robe, but I didn’t know what else to put on.”

  “Do you always apologize for everything?” he asked abruptly, glancing over his shoulder and startling her.

  Her hands fell to her lap while she swallowed the urge to apologize for apologizing. What a wimp she could be sometimes. This morning she could take the prize for low self-esteem. “No. I don’t always apologize for everything,” she managed to say with some spirit. “Or I mean, I used to, but I don’t anymore. Except now, of course.”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled it. “I’m completely at a loss here. I mean, I’ve never been in a situation like this. It’s, well, it’s insane.”

  He turned to concentrate on pouring the coffee. “Keep talking.”

  Staring at his broad, intimidating back, she shrugged helplessly. “I...don’t know what to say. I seem to have some sort of blackout about how I got here.”

  He turned around, coffeepot in one hand, her steaming cup in the other. “So you keep saying. Do you remember me being in you, and you being in me, with several variations, for most of last night?”

  Carly recoiled from the cool, almost brutal directness of his question. But she answered him. “Of course I do. I remember it all....” Letting the sentence trail off as mortification overtook her, she looked down at her hands. Anything to avoid looking at him. “Oh, Lord.”

  After a moment he said, “So, that’s not the part you’ve blacked out.”

  She shook her head, but couldn’t look up at him.

  His voice gentled slightly. “It’s okay, you know.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Carly murmured, shaking her head even more vigorously. “It is most definitely not okay. I..don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  Nervously rubbing her thumb, wishing she could close her eyes and disappear, she said softly, “Go to bed with people I don’t know.” Even as her skin continued to heat again with embarrassment, she made herself raise her head to meet his gaze. “This has to be the most awkward morning of my life.”

  She kept her eyes focused on him; she had to stop coming across as some flustered ninny, had to stop trying to run away from dealing with this, with him, with the raw truth about what they’d done together.

  He stared at her a moment longer, then nodded, a small smile quirking at one side of his mouth. It was the first remotely pleasant expression she’d seen since they’d been in the kitchen talking. As the atmosphere of deep suspicion lifted slightly, Carly actually felt her own inner tension let down somewhat.

  He returned the coffeepot to its holder. Then, crossing to the table, he set her cup in front of her. “Here. Yeah, you don’t seem the type to hop into bed with strangers.”

  He retrieved his own mug from a nearby counter, put it on the table and pulled out the other chair. With a fluid movement, he turned it around, straddled the seat and crossed his arms on the top. “Okay. Let’s talk about it. Do you remember coming into the bar?”

  Closing her eyes, she rubbed the lids as she concentrated. “Yes, I think so. Laughter...men’s voices... It was cold. Green eyes. Bits and pieces, is all. Most of it’s a blur.”

  “Where were you before that?”

  She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  “Drink your coffee,” he said. “Maybe the caffeine will help.”

  Her eyes snapped open. His tone was peremptory, but she ignored it. Wrapping her fingers around the cup, she took a sip, then another, grateful for the warmth spreading through her system. “Oh, this is good.”

  “It’s about the only thing to eat or drink in the house. I haven’t shopped for food in weeks. I can’t even offer you any orange juice.”

  Her stomach turned over at the thought of food. “This is all I want for now. Thanks.”

  “Okay then, start talking again.”

  “Was that an order? I mean, should I salute and say ‘Yes, sir!’?” It popped out of her before she had a chance to censor it, but she really hated being ordered around.

  “My turn to say sorry,” he said ruefully. “Ignore me. I was in the marines.”

  Nick rubbed a hand over his face, then raked his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t meant to bark at her; it was just something he did when he was off-kilter. “I’m not sure what to make of all this,” he confessed.

  Stretching both arms over his head, he took a couple of deep breaths, then rotated his shoulders to get the stiffness out. He was tired. And he was sore, that was the truth. Last night’s little amorous workout had taken quite a toll on him, he had to admit. Even though he hated to.

  Back to the business at hand, he thought. She was claiming she’d had a blackout. At least she wasn’t denying she’d been with him. Hell, maybe there was even some truth to her story; she sure didn’t seem to be an accomplished liar by nature. He was curious, and he was a cop—he loved a good mystery.

  “Okay,” he said, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Let’s start from the beginning. What’s the last thing you remember, I mean, from before?”

  She closed her eyes again, as though trying to recall a picture. Brown lashes fanned the faint blue shadows underneath. “Richard’s face,” she said after a moment. “Friday night. Yes, that’s right. I was having dinner with Richard.”

  “Richard?” Even as he stiffened inwardly, Nick tried to keep his voice impersonal. It shouldn’t have surprised him that she mentioned a man’s name. He knew nothing at all about her, including if she belonged to someone else.

  “My husband. No, ex-husband, sorry.” She gazed at him with a small smile of apology. “I’m a little foggy. We’ve been divorced for a year.”

  Divorced. He relaxed somewhat, wondering momentarily why that brief burst of tension had felt like jealousy. Not possible, he thought. Not even reasonable. Jealousy implied possessiveness—he never went down that road. Not to mention the fact he’d just met the woman.

  “Go on.” Gulping down the last of his coffee, he rose and refilled both their cups. “Tell me about dinner with Richard,” he said as he took his seat again.

  Wrapping her fingers around the cup once more, she stared into the brown liquid, her eyebrows furrowed with concentration. While he gave her time to think, he studied her. Her face was shiny and clean, her amber eyes were slightly bloodshot. Still, except for that incongruously pouty mouth, she could have been cast in a movie as the girl next door, the one who was good for you, the one your mother encouraged you to ask to the senior prom. Even though you had your eye on the class wild woman.

  Nick nearly smiled at the direction of his thoughts. Corny images like that were from movies and books he’d read, not from firsthand experience. He’d had nothing like a normal high-school experience. Motherly advice? Not so’s he could remember. Prom? No way. Too busy working nights. Too busy keeping the old man away from the booze.

  “What else?” he encouraged her. “Anything.”

  “We were at a restaurant, the Greenery in Old Town. That’s in Boston. He wore a suit. We talked about...everyday stuff, I think.” She frowned, chewed
on her lower lip. Then, as though a new thought had crossed her mind, her head jerked up and she stared at him. “This is Sunday?”

  “Yes.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “My God, I’ve lost almost two days. How could I have lost two days?” As panic hit her eyes again, the other hand fisted on the tabletop.

  The lady was thoroughly spooked. Reaching across the table, he grabbed her hand and squeezed, hard. “Amanda—”

  “That’s not my name.” Even her lips were quivering.

  “That’s right, sorry.”

  “And I don’t know why you think it is,” she cried out.

  He kept his voice even. “Because you told me your name was Amanda. At the bar. Listen...Carly, right?”

  She nodded, that bottom lip of hers getting a good workout with small, white teeth. He could see her struggling to catch her breath, fighting for some kind of calm.

  “Carly what?” he said.

  “Carla Anne Terry. Carly is what they call me.”

  Releasing her hand, he offered his as though inviting her to shake it. “Nicholas Constantine Holmes. Nick.” His mouth quirked up as he added, “Pleased to meet you.”

  Thoroughly disoriented, Carly stared at his hand. What in the world was going on? A brief moment ago she’d been trembling enough to dislodge her brains; now she felt ready to burst into nervous laughter. He had just introduced himself. But, wasn’t that backward? Shouldn’t she have known his full name before...before...

  Before experiencing the most exciting, most sensual night she’d ever had or would have in her life.

  “Oh, Lord,” she said. “What have I gotten myself into?”

  “Beats me,” Nick said easily. “But, at the risk of upsetting you even more, I want you to know that I found our night together, every moment of it, thoroughly satisfying, in every way.”

  When her mouth dropped open with shock, Nick congratulated himself. He’d said that to jolt her. Hell, something needed to be done to lighten the mood; experience told him the woman was on the verge of hysteria.