Читать книгу Lightning Strikes - Colleen Collins, Colleen Collins - Страница 10

“LUBBERS?” DONOVAN ASKED, cocking an eyebrow.

She swallowed, hard. “Lubbers,” she said slowly.

He noticed she was breathing through her mouth. Allergies. Then it hit him. “Lovers,” he repeated slowly.

She closed and opened her eyes, then nodded sadly.

Was I that bad? Maybe he hadn’t been with a woman in a while—okay, months—but that didn’t mean he’d lost his touch. Hey, once you learned how to ride a bike, you never forgot, right?

Which somebody needed to remind this lady.

“Let’s get dressed,” he growled, turning around, “then discuss this bed situation.”

She coughed. “Question.”

He paused. “What?”

“Are you…healthy?”

“What?” Coffee. Black, hot, now.

“Healthy.” She coughed again. “You know, no diseases or anyting.”

Then it dawned on him what she meant. They hadn’t used…damn, he never did that. If he hadn’t been so exhausted.

“I’m healthy. Just had my annual. I’m a hundred percent.” He paused. “You?” After all, he should ask, too.

She snorted. “Very, very healthy.” She coughed.

“For the record, except for last night, I always use protection with a woman. I don’t know what happened…” It was the truth. Honest to God, he thought it was a dream.

“I don’t know what happened, either.”

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.

His last name rang a bell. “Roy’s Eggs?”

He seemed to hesitate before answering. “My mom sells those, yes,” he said gruffly. A shadow crossed his features.

He took another drink of coffee, but seemed to keep the mug in front of his face afterward. As though not wanting to face something?

Not face Blaine? Uh-oh, and here she was, savoring last night’s sensuous finger play while he was analyzing his great escape. Maybe this was one of those dreaded “morning-afters” she’d heard Sonja and her girlfriends talk about. The guy’s uncomfortable, afraid the woman doesn’t know the difference between a fling and forevermore, and he’s dumb-ass clueless how to deal with it.

Blaine looked down at the scuffed hardwood floor.

Shame. I could sand and varnish this, make it shine like new.

“So,” she finally whispered, “when de bed could’t be redelivered, I decided to do it byself.” There. She was picking up their previous thread of conversation, saving him from having to deal with whatever-it-was-that-happened-between-them last night.

“I see.”

Donovan searched Blaine’s face so long, she had the eerie sense he read beneath her words, sensed her feelings. And for a moment, she despised him for it. Wanted to tell him, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t wondering some girly thing like “will he call me?” That she didn’t pine and daydream over any guy…

“Milly let you in.”

“You have a problem with dat?” Blaine snapped. Some of her coffee sloshed onto the floor. Bending over, she wiped it up with the sleeve of her T-shirt.

“No,” he said slowly, looking at the smeared brown stain on her T-shirt. “Milly has a key. I’ve told her to use it when necessary.” He paused. “You didn’t have to do that. I have paper towels, you know.”

“I know.” She slugged back a mouthful of hot coffee, wincing as she swallowed.

“You okay?”

She nodded, afraid to speak. Sometimes even she was aware she was behaving oddly, but damn if she was going to let him know that.

After a long moment, he continued, “I’m still trying to understand why you decided to sleep in my bed.”

Decided? As though she’d planned this little escapade? She bit her tongue, reminding herself that her bed—her gorgeous, magical bed—was at stake. She needed to stay reasonable and calm because the bed was now in this guy’s possession. And wasn’t possession nine-tenths of the law?

“Allergy pills,” she said softly. “Too many. Fell asleep.” She expelled a weighty breath, which unfortunately came out as a scratchy wheeze.

“You sound terrible.”

“I am terrible.” She winced. Maybe she was trying to be calm and reasonable, but it didn’t mean her tongue didn’t move ahead of her mind sometimes. Okay, so she felt bad about what had happened. Not such an awful thing for this guy to know.

One corner of his mouth kicked up in a grin. “No, you’re not.”

“I like to follow the rules.”

His eyes sparkled. “Could’ve fooled me.” He took another slug of his coffee. After swallowing, he said. “Myself, I abhor rules. Maybe you should rethink your stance, be easier on yourself.”

This wasn’t at all what she expected. Rather than ranting and raving at her, he wanted to talk, so she was talking—or trying to. And in return, the guy was acting interested, heck, even sounding concerned.

As though he cares.

Her insides went all swampy. And the way he looked at her—his rugged face softening, those full lips giving her a loose, kicked-up grin, made her feel…special.

Guys often looked at her kid sister this way. Blaine knew because she’d seen it plenty of times. And she never begrudged her sister for it, either. It was part of being the surrogate mom, happy for Sonja’s beauty and popularity. Thankful, even, because Blaine knew life would be easier for Sonja. It wasn’t a bad thing, just a reality. Some people stood a bit more in life’s golden light.

But at this moment, Blaine suddenly had an inkling of what it was like to bask in that light. To feel…cherished.

She swiped at the corner of her eye, hoping Donovan thought it was allergies, not emotion, getting to her. Damn, I’m getting all girly. If this guy doesn’t cut to the chase, wrap up business, I’ll have to do it myself.

“I didn’t take advantage of you.”

She looked up. “Huh?”

“Last night. I didn’t take advantage of you.”

She peered at him, momentarily taken aback by his admission. He looked so…apologetic.

“I, uh, was tired.” He rubbed that spot on his leg again. “Had been up for hours. Days, actually.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Honest to God, I thought I was dreaming. I’d never take advantage of a woman.”

Dreaming. He thought he was dreaming. It had nothing to do with me. She plastered on a smile. “Do’t worry,” she said, forcing herself to sound upbeat, confident.

“What’s Ralph’s number?” Donovan stood, dangling the empty coffee mug off one finger.

Blaine started to look at his face, but all that body was in the way. Her gaze did a slow tour up his jean-clad legs, past that midriff, which underneath that T-shirt she knew to be tight, muscled, and covered with a wild mass of hair.

Finally, she reached his face—solid, angled—and peered into those soft brown eyes. Funny, back in the bedroom, when their conversation had been tense, those eyes had been a turbulent brown—like a dirty, churning river during a winter deluge.

Now they spilled light, the muddy brown shifting to a whiskey color.

“Ralph’s number?” he repeated.

“Od my desk.” Jerome had called her at work and left it. She’d jotted it on one of her sticky notes.

Donovan headed toward the kitchen. “Is he listed?”

She couldn’t remember Ralph’s last name. “My friend who sold me da bed has da numbbb—” she blew out an exasperated breath, tired of being so damn clogged up “—number.” There, she got the word out.

“Got your friend’s number?”

Blaine looked at those whiskey eyes. This was a man who took care of business, no matter what was churning inside of him. She could relate to that. “Sure,” she answered.

A few minutes later, after talking briefly with Jerome, Donovan was punching in Ralph’s number on a kitchen wall phone, its blue color dull, its receiver scarred with what looked to be a burn mark. But old, usable things seemed to be Donovan’s style. The old, torn plaid recliner. Makeshift bookshelf, really a carefully arranged assortment of old cement bricks and two-by-fours.

Donovan glanced at her where she sat perched on a plastic kitchen chair, which she’d guessed was formerly someone’s patio furniture. “I think he owes us one free delivery.”