Читать книгу Naughty By Nature - Jule McBride, Jule Mcbride - Страница 8

February 14, 2002

Happy Valentine’s Day, Vanessa.

Do you know you’re pure dynamite? Right now, I’m exploding with desire. Ever since I first saw you in the Blues Bar in Georgetown, I’ve thought of it as our special place, and I hope we’ll see each other there soon. At the Presidential Kids fundraiser last week my fingers were itching to pull down all those russet Botticelli curls you’d clipped back with jeweled pins. Maybe I would have, but that bodyguard—the Secret Service agent who looks like a Hulk Hogan-size Antonio Banderas—was glued to you, his dark eyes glowering. So, I was left to my fantasies. Right now, I’m remembering how beautiful your neck looked that day—swanlike and succulent—banked by dangling diamond earrings. I’m shutting my eyes now and imagining flicking my tongue down…down…down…

Oh, Vanessa, I’m hungry to taste every tall, lanky, elegant inch of you. I want you to imagine my lips dipping beneath the faux fur collar of that gold lamé coat you were wearing. Slowly, I’m exploring the backless gown underneath. Feel the warmth of my hands as they glide over each vertebra until my touch dips, cruising over your backside. My mouth’s going dry, Vanessa. Is yours? You’re not even in the same room, but you’ve got me moaning as I write….

THERE WAS MORE to the letter. Lots more. But Secret Service agent Morgan Fine wasn’t going to torture himself by reading it again. Not the part where the writer finished relieving Morgan’s client, Vanessa Verne, of her sexy gold gown. Not the part where he discovered that she wore no panties and that the soft moist curls there were the same astonishing, fiery russet as her hair. Not the part where the writer lost control by giving in to temptation—a temptation Morgan had avoided for the past two weeks—and ripped Vanessa’s stockings down to her ankles using only his teeth.

No, this letter was the last Morgan would be seeing of Vixen Vanessa. Now that he’d checked today’s mail for explosives and fingerprints, he could finish delivering it. And then it was bye-bye Vixen.

“Vanessa Verne,” he murmured, wishing he wasn’t so distracted by her as he leaned back in a roller chair and traced his dark eyes over the wall of T.V. screens before him. “Three words. You’re dangerous, lady.” Ruefully shaking his head, Morgan lifted a remote and flicked the buttons, viewing various angles of the downstairs rooms in the Verne home, the kitchen, living room, dining room, a weight room, pool and sauna. Finally, a room hung with photos of Senator Verne’s late wife, the peach-painted study where Vanessa, the senator’s daughter, often did work pertaining to the breast cancer foundation bearing her mother’s name. “At least she’s doing something worthwhile. Otherwise, not even I could keep that woman out of trouble,” Morgan said, chuckling softly. “Even if I am a Hulk Hogan-size Antonio Banderas.”

He’d have to relate that description to his three little sisters. They’d appreciate it. Meantime, his gaze settled on a high-angle shot of a state-of-the-art kitchen that seemed bigger than his apartment in Georgetown, which just went to show that Secret Service men didn’t command the salaries of senators. Or ex-senators, he corrected, since Ellery Verne had retired from government ten years ago, at least officially. As Morgan’s eyes settled on a red-carpeted stairway leading from the kitchen to the live-in maid’s private suite, a slow, wolfish smile spread over his lips. During the time he’d worked here, Lucy had flirted with him shamelessly, as had Senator Verne’s troublemaking daughter, Vanessa, whom Morgan wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. But Lucy…

Suffice it to say Morgan felt he deserved to spend tonight with her. If the senator hadn’t demanded the best the Secret Service had to offer—meaning Morgan—then Morgan could have spent these weeks in the line of fire, catching the Valentine Bomber, instead of living at the Vernes’, opening mail and installing their new security system. Anyway, no male needed to defend his right to seek satisfaction, and this was the first time since he and Cheryl broke up that Morgan had really been in the mood. Glancing down, his gaze caught the words, I’m so hungry to taste every tall, elegant inch of you….

Vanessa Verne was definitely mouthwatering, but Lucy Giangarfalo was far less risky, and as a Secret Service agent, Morgan prided himself on playing it safe.

“Call it a kiss goodbye,” he murmured, lifting the in-house intercom phone and eyeing the stairwell to Lucy’s suite. “A valentine for staying out of Vanessa Verne’s legendary clutches.”

He was only half joking. Vanessa had a reputation with men that made Medusa look like the tooth fairy. Fortunately, Morgan’s two-week stint was over, so he’d be leaving the Vernes’ without having slept with Vanessa. “Good job,” he commended himself.

As Lucy’s phone rang, he thought about the Valentine Bomber case, which had started a month ago when three prominent ex-senators formed a lobbying committee to review national maternity-leave policies. Because their first meeting had been planned for today, Valentine’s Day, they’d dubbed themselves the Valentine Committee, and a media blitz followed.

Everybody had an opinion about whether or not U.S. businesses should extend maternity leaves from three months to six—including an unidentified extremist. He felt longer leaves would encourage women to be in a workforce where he said they didn’t belong, and he’d begun sending letter bombs to dissuade the ex-senators. The first, a red heart pasted to a white lace doily, had exploded beside a mailbag on David Sawyer’s porch in Connecticut; the second, a white heart mounted on red felt, was discovered by a trained dog at Samuel Perkins’s home. Because it seemed likely that a third bomb would be delivered to the Vernes, Morgan had been called in to tweeze open the mail and dust for prints.

In addition to becoming privy to the senator’s wild daughter’s private erotic correspondence, he’d established mail-opening protocols for whoever would replace him tomorrow, as well as set up state-of-the-art security that could be operated from switches on a wall in the kitchen. Listening to the continued ringing, he frowned. “C’mon, Lucy. Don’t disappoint me.”

He was about to hang up when a sleep-scratchy female voice came on the line. “Who’s this?”

“Sorry,” he murmured, straining to hear her barely audible words. “You asleep, sweetheart?”

Her soft, raspy voice sent warmth swirling into his groin. “Morgan?”

“You sound different.”

“Different?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, his chest tight. “Sexy as hell.”

“I’m not usually sexy?”

“Oh, but you are. That’s why I thought I’d take a chance tonight. See if you wanted company.”

“Uh…sure.”

He chuckled with satisfaction, the heat in his groin spreading to his limbs. “It wasn’t appropriate to call you before now,” he explained, “not while I was working here, but tomorrow morning, I’m being transferred back to headquarters.” After that, who knew? Maybe he and Lucy would hit it off tonight and keep seeing each other. That would be nice. At thirty-four, Morgan was the oldest of the Fine clan—there were five kids—but he was the only one who hadn’t yet found a life partner. “I can be there in five minutes,” he added, his voice husky with anticipation. “Can you keep the sheets warm?”

“Do you know where to find me? I’m—”

“I’m with the Secret Service,” he teased. “I know everything.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

After hitting Disconnect, he replaced the receiver, not feeling too surprised at his success, given how Lucy had been flirting with him. He glanced through an adjoining door into the bedroom he’d been using. His packed duffel bag was beside the antique four-poster bed. By eight a.m. he’d be back at headquarters. He hoped that catching whoever was sending the bombs would mean a promotion for him into administration, out of the field. He’d seen what happened to men who waited too long to take desk jobs. They got tired and couldn’t keep up the pace.

Lifting the letter to Vanessa, he began slipping it into its envelope, taking in the masculine, caramel-colored stationery and crimped, no-nonsense print that read, My fingers were itching to pull down all those russet Botticelli curls.

Morgan knew the feeling. But the poor guy didn’t know what he was getting into. Doing double duty as Vanessa Verne’s bodyguard during his stay here had sure opened Morgan’s eyes. He could almost hear her voice. Morgan, could you just check the clasp on my necklace? If you could just help me with this itsy-bitsy top button…

She was six feet tall in silk stockings, all sharp angles and long limbs. Not particularly busty nor conventionally pretty, she reminded Morgan of how sixteenth-century royalty was portrayed in Hollywood movies. She looked like the actresses in the big-costume productions made by Merchant and Ivory that his mother and three sisters went so gaga over.

Spiral curls the rusty color of autumn leaves cascaded to her waist, and her skin was the color of cream. Everybody said she had flair. Panache. Because her penchant for wearing oddly matched but tasteful vintage clothes made her stand out among Washington’s elite, Morgan had been surprised to find that, at home, she dressed like his sisters, in tight stretch pants, bulky sweaters and wool clogs from L.L. Bean.

“You’re tall enough for me, Morgan,” she’d commented during the Presidential Kids fundraiser, where he’d accompanied her as a guard. “Most men aren’t.”

Before he caught himself, he’d winked and said, “I’m not most men, sweetheart.”

It was the closest he’d come to flirting. While she’d dazzled him with a hundred-watt smile that made his heart pound, he’d realized she was right. Even with gold high heels encasing her slender feet, he was taller. Where her gown made her glow, however, his gray suit made him melt into wallpaper. Every time she’d smiled at him, he’d suddenly felt too huge, too dark and too male. Not that she minded. Between his name, his short, tousled black hair and dazzling dark eyes, people generally took him for what he was, black Irish. And around Washington, his watchful demeanor and physical stature quickly pegged him as an agent. Vanessa had obviously liked the overall package.

But Morgan hadn’t given in to temptation. Except for that one slip, he’d been curt, even cold. He was determined to leave here with his job intact.

Not every man had.

Feeling relieved his duty would end in eight more hours, he rose and headed down a long hallway toward Vanessa’s bedroom. Naughty by nature, one tabloid had called her. Just last month, she’d been caught in a compromising position with her Russian tutor, Ivan Petrovitch. When a tabloid photo alerted INS, Petrovitch had been deported, and after that, his wife left him because of the affair with Vanessa.

What a mess.

And everybody in the Secret Service still talked about Kenneth Hopper. Hired by the senator to keep an eye on Vanessa when she was flunking out of school after her mother’s death two years ago, Kenneth had barely stopped her elopement to a gardener. Ever since, he’d been pulling embassy duty overseas.

Fortunately, Morgan was the kind of guy who learned from others’ mistakes, so he’d steered completely clear of Vanessa. Halting his steps, he glanced down. Seeing no light shining from beneath her bedroom door, he leaned to slip the love letter through the crack. As it left his fingertips, he wondered who the writer was and if the besotted guy was aware of Vanessa’s bad rep. Morgan had been to the Blues Bar himself, an artsy, smoky joint in Georgetown where saxophones wailed until the wee hours, so he figured the writer was the kind of guy who usually hung out there, rich and looking to meet manor-born types.

As he headed downstairs, Morgan sifted through the male faces he’d seen at the Presidential Kids fundraiser. Which man had written the letters? And why didn’t he sign them? “Forget about it,” Morgan muttered. Unless the guy was sending explosives, he wasn’t Morgan’s problem.

Frowning, he realized it was pitch-black in the stairwell leading to Lucy’s suite. He figured she’d at least turn on a light for him, but maybe she’d fallen asleep again. Or maybe she didn’t like having sex with the lights on. Some women didn’t. Or maybe she figured Morgan could find his way in the dark since he’d memorized every inch of the house for security purposes. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he peered into the inky darkness. “You in here?”

That scratchy, sexy voice floated toward him. “I don’t know. Let’s see if you can find me.”

He grinned, letting the rustle of covers guide him while he visualized the brass bed he couldn’t make out in the dark. By the time his thigh hit the mattress, he’d pulled the shirt tails from his slacks and loosened his tie. Chuckling, he tumbled into bed, and a stunned second later, she’d grabbed his shirt tails and ripped his shirt off. Gliding his hands over the duvet, he got more aggressive, too. He massaged her feet, then her calves, then her thighs. When she didn’t protest, he began to explore.

She was different than he expected. Way different. Her legs longer. Her sighs softer. Her breasts smaller. Amazing how deceptive women could be until you got them into bed. Her bold responsiveness, however, didn’t surprise Morgan in the least. For weeks, her glances had offered the pleasure he was about to take.

Encouraged by slow moans Lucy wasn’t bothering to conceal, Morgan reached to rake his fingers through her hair—only to find it bound in something that felt like a turban. Giving up, he caressed her neck instead, then gently pushed back the duvet, his heart missing a beat when he discovered a skimpy nightie. Given Lucy’s practical uniforms, the sexy nightie, which revealed most of her, came as a pleasant surprise. It was every bit as silken as the endless, bare legs he began to stroke…every bit as smooth as the never-ending tongue kiss he glided over her collarbone…every bit as inviting as the involuntary whimper she released in tandem with the dragging sound of his zipper.

She whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Morgan.”

“It’s turning into one,” he whispered back. Kicking his remaining clothes from the bed, he wished the light was on so he could see her, but he quit worrying about that once she was naked. He set to work then, delivering a string of wet kisses that ended with a tongue swirl to the pebbled tip of a breast. Sucking in a ragged breath, he said, “Why don’t you shut your eyes again?”

Her voice melted into the darkness. “Shut my eyes?”

“Yeah,” he returned, her sighs spurring him on until his mouth was delivering such sweet torture that she began arching her hips, seeking him. “Shut your eyes,” he repeated, his warm lips hovering just above hers, his huge hand settling firmly between her legs. “Because everything that’s about to happen to you, sweetheart, is going to feel like a dream.”

VANESSA VERNE was not about to argue. It was a good thing Morgan had figured out she was sleeping in Lucy’s bed. Otherwise, they’d be missing this exquisite pleasure, since he was being reassigned to headquarters tomorrow. Her lips curling into a smile, she did exactly as he commanded, relaxing all her muscles until her limbs felt loose as liquid.

From the first moment she’d seen this man, she’d told Lucy she was sure there was something worth exploring. She’d imagined it would be exactly this way, easy, uncomplicated, satisfying. As he trailed his fingertips from her knees to her thighs, the electric sparks in the caress seemed nothing more than a warning for the lightning bolts to follow. She grinned in the dark, thinking maybe she should have worn her tennis shoes.

And then she startled. The phone rang, and her mind protested at being called back from a place of warm, dark bliss. “Sorry,” she murmured, fumbling for the phone and wondering who it was—her father or Lucy. Trying to disguise her voice, she kept her words brief so she’d sound more like Lucy. “’Lo?”

It was her father. “Are you in bed, Lucy? Before you turned in, I meant to discuss the menu for tomorrow, because Mrs. Bell called in sick.” Mrs. Bell was the cook. Vanessa half listened as her father offered excuses for the late-night call, the real purpose of which was to see if Lucy was really in bed—which of course, she was, just not in her own bed. Lucy had snuck to the garage apartment to sleep with her fiancé, which was why Vanessa was here—to cover for her. Fortunately, the call was brief, and as soon as Vanessa replaced the receiver, the hands that had stilled on her thighs began moving again.

“Everything okay?” he whispered.

“Now it is.” She smiled in the dark. “Weren’t you saying everything’s going to feel like a dream?”

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“Show me,” she urged, the sudden raggedness of her own voice surprising her, her hands exhibiting unusual urgency as they threaded into his hair.

And show her, he did.

THE NEXT MORNING, Morgan sighed with satisfaction. Downstairs in the kitchen someone was rattling pots and pans, which meant he’d better get a move on, but he didn’t want to open his eyes, not yet. He’d slept like a baby. And no wonder. He couldn’t believe how many times he’d done it with Lucy. Or how many different ways.

Listening to her bustle around the room, a well-pleased smile claimed his lips. How had she gotten up without alerting him, though? Usually, the slightest sound awakened him. The Secret Service taught a man to sleep with one eye open. If Morgan didn’t know better, he’d think his new lover had just come in from outside. “Lucy,” he murmured, his voice throaty as he opened his eyes. “Is that you?”

“This is my room. Were you expecting someone else?”

The low rumble of his voice was a testament to how content he felt. “Only you.”

“Is that right?” Lucy Giangarfalo was standing uncertainly near the doorway, squinting at him as if he were the most forward man on the planet, which, he guessed, last night he’d proven he was. His smile broadened.

Surveying the woman he’d loved so lavishly, he felt his heart stretch, warming. She was already wearing her uniform, leaning in the door frame, her large, doe-like brown eyes wide with surprise, as if she couldn’t quite believe Morgan Fine was naked in her bed. He couldn’t believe it, either. But here he was, naked as a jaybird.

Since he didn’t know Lucy very well, he’d secretly suspected sex with her might be lukewarm. Instead, she’d knocked off his socks—and every other stitch of his clothes. Another rumble of breath brought her tantalizing scent from the pillows, and when he spoke, he could barely keep the disappointment from his voice. “You’re already dressed.”

“What did you expect? To find me naked in my bed?”

“A man hopes.”

She was wearing her black uniform dress, and he feasted his eyes. He realized her cheeks were flushed, as if she’d been outside, and that she looked guilty as hell. Morgan didn’t blame her. If the senator discovered them, their jobs would be on the line.

Still, he couldn’t force himself to leave, not yet. Even he and Cheryl had never experienced pleasure like this—and he’d almost married Cheryl. Before last night, he’d thought Lucy was attractive and interesting, of course, otherwise he’d never have spent the night, but now that he knew how hot she was sexually, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. During the night, she’d told him the turban she’d worn was covering a moisturizing treatment, and now he could see that she’d rinsed out the cream. “Your hair turned out great,” he assured her, his eyes tracing the straight brown shoulder-length strands brushing her shoulders.

She frowned as if she had no idea why he’d mention her hair. “Uh…thanks, Morgan.”

He loved that she didn’t preen at the compliment, the way some women would. Lucy was so practical, so down-to-earth. And petite, he noted. Naked beside him, she’d seemed to meet him, part for body part, but really, she was much smaller, only about five foot five. Thinking once more of what they’d shared, heat coursed through him, stirring his groin. The sheet draping his hips slipped a notch, but it hardly mattered, since Lucy had already acquainted herself with everything beneath. Lazily reaching up, Morgan absently threaded his fingers through a black tangled thatch of chest hair, and his dark eyes turned hungry. “That dress really looks great on you.”

She was watching him oddly. “It’s my uniform, Morgan. Uh…what are you doing here?”

She must have gone downstairs, and in the interim, he guessed, she’d expected him to get up and leave. Ignoring that, he said, “After last night, you could wear a potato sack and I’d never know the difference, Lucy.”

She looked confused. “Last night?”

He laughed softly, loving how she was pulling his leg. Last night, she’d definitely exhibited a maddening, inventive sense of humor. Suppressing a shudder, he fixed his gaze to pretty lips that didn’t look nearly as sinful as they’d felt last night when they were circling the choicest part of his anatomy.

“Usually, I get up at five,” he confessed, uttering a rough, very male sound of longing, “but right now, Lucy, I can’t move.” He clasped his hands behind his neck. “Wish we could have breakfast in bed. Maybe an omelette and English muffins, with some champagne.”

“A rose in a discreet little bud vase?” Lucy queried dryly. Her gaze was slowly panning the room, widening in disbelief as she assessed the damage—condom wrappers on the floor, rumpled clothes, a cell phone, an overturned wastebasket. He couldn’t help but release another soft chuckle. “It was a hell of a night.”

“I’ll say,” murmured Lucy.

Glancing at the tangled bedding heaped beside him, he discovered that, in the light of day, the matching sheets and duvet were printed with pink whales and ocean waves. He bit back a grin. The covers were such a piled mess that, if he didn’t know better, he’d think somebody else was hiding under there. “A hell of a night,” he repeated, his heart tugging when he remembered how, on an emotional level, what he’d experienced with Lucy had been raw and passionate, then slow and tender. Occasionally, of course, it had gotten downright pornographic. And here, ever since his little brother Conner’s engagement to Sharon McConnell, Morgan had been thinking he’d never meet the right woman. But maybe he and Lucy would wind up together. She was so down-to-earth, his family would love her. They hated snobs. He eyed her. “What time is it?”

“Six.”

No wonder she looked so distressed. There was no time to sample another taste of what they’d feasted on last night. Drifting a potent gaze over her, Morgan didn’t stop until he’d traversed her uniform and support stockings and was staring at the toes of practical white crepe-soled shoes. “It’s risky, but maybe we could take a few more minutes….”

During a long, contemplative pause, Lucy crossed her arms, and when the movement lifted fuller breasts than what she’d possessed last night, Morgan credited himself for knowing she wore Wonderbras. He’d overheard his sisters Meggie and Fiona discussing their enhancing abilities.

“Morgan,” Lucy finally said, looking exasperated. “Do you mind telling me what you’re doing in my bed?”

“You’re so right,” he murmured apologetically. By hanging around, he was tempting fate. The Vernes didn’t usually get up this early. Vanessa, vamp that she was, stayed in bed until Morgan’s lunchtime, which meant ten. But what if today was an exception? He nodded. “The last thing I want to do is get us pink slips.”

“Then I suggest you leave.”

“Good point.” That was another thing he liked about Lucy. She was smart. Forward thinking. Reaching a long, well-muscled arm over the mattress, he fished around on the floor until he found his briefs. The sheet slid off his thigh as he moved, and when he glanced up, Lucy’s brown eyes were wide and startled, riveted between his thighs.

He chuckled again. “Meet me in broad daylight, Lucy.”

Her eyes lurched drunkenly upward, and she stared at him, slack-jawed. She whispered, “Have you lost your mind, Morgan?”

“No,” he assured her. “I’m leaving. I promise. As much as I’d love to stay, we’d better finish this later tonight.”

“Finish…?” Lucy managed to speak faintly, her eyes alighting briefly between his thighs once more before studiously focusing on the wall behind him.

“I don’t know how you feel about it, Lucy.” He couldn’t help but say it since after last night, he didn’t understand her shyness. “But that was the best sex I ever had.”

She gasped. “The best…what?”

Cursing his male insensitivity, he winced, then his eyes pierced hers significantly. “I know,” he assured her quickly. “I shouldn’t have called it sex. It was more than just sex. Much more.” He wasn’t inclined to divulge feelings this early in a relationship, but last night was so special that he gave in to his impulses, tossed aside his briefs and continued. “Two words,” he said. “You’re amazing.”

“Amazing?”

Her uncertainty was heartbreaking. “Don’t you know that about yourself, Lucy?”

She looked flabbergasted. “Well, I guess, Morgan, but—”

“Amazing,” he repeated. Surely from his response, not to mention her own, she’d realized how unusual last night had been. Smoothing a hand over his head, he tried to tame the hopelessly disheveled curls, and while he searched for the right words, he recalled how her long fingers had caught his hair in fistfuls, how she’d cooed his name during orgasm after orgasm. “I never experienced anything like this,” he admitted, taking another deep breath. “I don’t know what to say, where to begin….”

“Maybe it’s better if you don’t say anything more because—”

“I know it seems like too much, too soon, Lucy,” he interjected, feeling compelled to bare himself with her as he had with no other woman, “but after last night, we owe it to ourselves to be honest.” Pausing, he laid it on the line. “Lucy, with you, I don’t want to play the usual male-female games. There’s something more here, something real.”

Her eyes had fixed behind him again, on the piled covers, making Morgan realize how shy she was. Probably that was why she’d left off the lights last night. “You’re such a sweetheart,” he murmured.

“No, I’m not,” she denied hoarsely, taking a weaving step toward the bed. “And I think something really strange happened here last night. I think you’ve misunderstood….” Her voice trailed off. “Morgan, I really don’t think you should say—”

“Anything more?” Gently, he pushed aside the covers. Forgetting his nakedness, he rose and strode boldly toward her. “You’re wrong. What happened in this bedroom last night wasn’t strange. Just better than we expected. Maybe we didn’t count on it being the beginning of a relationship. Maybe we figured it would only turn out to be a one-night stand. But that’s why we need to talk about this, Lucy.”

Seeing how overwhelmed she was, his heart went out to her. “What are we going to do?” he asked reasonably, molding his hands over her shoulders and gazing deeply into her eyes. “Make a casual date? Go out to dinner? Start all over again and pretend we haven’t already made each other insane with lust?”

“No, Morgan,” Lucy whispered, rapidly shaking her head. “No!”

“That’s right,” he agreed, relieved she was on the same wavelength. “We can’t pretend we didn’t share the kind of passion that keeps people together forever.”

“Morgan.” She ground the word out.

Something in her tone stopped him. “What?”

“Get a grip!”

Why was she getting so upset? “We don’t need to get a grip. We need to let go, Lucy, to follow this wherever it takes us.”

Her face had turned sheet-white. “Morgan,” she said in a rush, “there’s something I have to tell you.”

Was there another man—as there had been with his ex-fiancée, Cheryl? Or had Lucy taken a job in another city? Was she moving? This didn’t sound good, but Morgan wanted to earn her trust. “You can tell me anything, sweetheart. After last night, nothing you say could change how I feel.”

“I doubt that,” Lucy announced ominously.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, Morgan suddenly realized that even though she was practically in his arms, she no longer had any effect on him physically. That was weird. Just a few hours ago, the simplest touch had aroused him beyond compare. Had the sparks already burned out? The magic vanished?

His fingers curled more possessively over her shoulders, and he bit back a curse, wanting to recapture those feelings and wishing she’d quit staring behind him. Last night’s intimacy was serious stuff, but was she really so shy that she couldn’t even look him in the eye this morning? Suddenly, he froze. From behind him, he could swear he heard the covers rustle, but that was impossible.

Lucy’s in front of me, he thought. He was touching her, so he knew he wasn’t dreaming. No, somebody else was in the room! Just as another rustle sounded, he realized that Lucy’s dress felt as cold as ice. Maybe she really had come from outside. In tandem with a missed beat of his heart, Morgan’s eyes widened, and very slowly, he turned and craned his neck to stare at the bed.

Behind him, the covers wiggled. Because of the print on the sheets and duvet, bright blue waves seemed to be undulating and pink whales seemed to be swimming as whoever was buried under there punched their way out. Quickly, Morgan tried to tell himself that he, not the covers, was moving. He’d almost convinced himself that he was just woozy from having too much great sex when, with mounting horror, he saw evidence that he’d slept with someone other than Lucy.

Her hand appeared first.

Slender, pale and long-fingered, it groped over the pillow, extending French-manicured nails that Morgan instinctively knew had left the welts pleasantly tingling on his shoulders. When the covers were whisked back, bare skin flashed right before a whale and cresting wave respectively were pressed to breasts that were definitely smaller than Lucy’s.

No WonderBra was involved, after all. A blue turban was half tangled in hair that was plastered to a head with dried green goop the color of split pea soup, but Morgan barely noticed that because his worst fears had just been realized. He was staring at the lust machine with whom he’d spent the night.

“Three words,” he whispered.

It’s Vanessa Verne.