Get a Clue (10 page)

Cooper was having the dream of his life, and he hoped he never woke up. In a bed of the softest down, surrounded by the gentle glow of dawn, she lay in his arms, the woman of his fantasies. She was scantily clad in silk that seemed to mold to her skin in an erotic, seductive way, and he couldn't keep his hands off her.

And because this was a dream, he didn't have to.

She was his
. He couldn't quite remember how or why, but in dreamland, what the hell difference did it make? Around them, the air seemed thick. Spicy. Erotic. He dragged some of it into his taxed lungs and cupped her face, trying to see her through the haze all around him, but he couldn't quite—

A sound escaped her, a sort of breathy, wordless plea, and he smoothed his fingers along the line of her jaw, sinking into the lovely disarray of her hair, letting it drape over his forearms as he leaned over her, lowering his mouth toward hers.

“Mmm,” she murmured as he swallowed her sigh of acquiescence. Her body seemed to melt against his like hot wax, and her mouth—God, her mouth was soft and warm and luscious, indescribably luscious.

She opened it to him, allowing his tongue to stroke hers, stroking his right back, both greedy and generous at the same time. His fantasy girlfriend was the best kisser he'd ever dreamed up. Not too wet, not too dry, but juuuust right. Her hand came up between them, opening flat on his chest. He took it in his, along with her other, and slowly dragged them both up over her head, palming them in one hand, using his free fingers to skim the hair from her face while he made himself at home between her thighs.

Eyes closed, hands captured by his, she arched up into his body with a soft, needy whimper.

In answer, he kissed her, and then again, sending shivers of heat and desire skittering to the base of his spine, pooling in his groin, where he was so hard for her he could hardly stand it.

“Nice,” she murmured, sighing with pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her full breasts pressed to his chest. Her hips cradled his. Her shorts were so minuscule his fingertips grazed bare skin as he reached down, the sweet curve of a cheek filling each hand. When he squeezed, kneading, she moaned and arched up, spreading her legs to better accommodate his, nestling his erection perfectly into the crotch of those skimpy shorts. Skimming his hand higher, beneath the silk now, he palmed her bare ass.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

Deepening the kiss, he wrapped a finger around a tiny strap on her shoulder. Tugged.

A breast popped free.

A glorious, pale, perfectly rounded breast with a rosy, pouting nipple. Dipping his head, he very gently rubbed his jaw over the full curve, absorbing every hungry sigh. Then again, over the very tip this time, watching as it puckered up all the more as she writhed beneath him, her breath sowing in and out of her lungs.

Then her hands were fisting in his hair, and she was tugging his mouth back to hers. They kissed as if they'd been separated for years instead of seconds; he poured everything he had into that moist, hot, brain-cell-destroying connection, his heart and soul, because this was a dream, a glorious dream.

Even so, far in the back of his mind came the niggling truth: she wasn't really his. But the longer he kissed her, losing himself in the taste and feel of her, turning his head for a deeper fit, groaning with it, the easier it was to push all that out of his head.

She made it easy to do with those breathy little pants, her hands fisted on whatever part of him they could reach, stroking down his back to his butt, squeezing, pushing as she rocked to meet him with every thrust. They kissed as if it would be the end of the world to stop, as if they'd never get another chance to do this. With a low hum that reminded him of a happy kitten purring her pleasure, she slid her hands beneath his sweats. Squeezed. Cradled him all the tighter within her thighs. He could feel both her tension and his, could feel her tremble, could hear his own loud, labored breathing.

She whispered his name.

Unbelievably, his toes curled, his body tightening as he barreled down that narrow road toward climax. Given her own wild, delirious state, she was right with him. He kissed his way to her jaw, then her throat. “I'm going to taste every inch of you, Breanne.”

Beneath him she went utterly still.

Abruptly he went from a blissful dreamland to brutal wakefulness. Lifting his head, he opened his eyes in the early morning light and stared down at her.

“
You
,” Breanne said.

Yeah, him.

Just as in his fantasy state, he had her tucked beneath him, legs spread to accommodate his. He had one hand plumping up her bared breast for his mouth, the other gripping her butt, the very tips of his fingers dipping into heaven, his mouth wet from hers as he stared down at her.

For her part, she'd wrapped herself around him like a pretzel. “I . . . I thought it was a dream,” she whispered.

“It was a hell of a great one,” he said, half hoping she'd let him continue it.

She just stared up at him, hair tousled, eyes still sleepy, cheeks pink, looking like she'd just been fucked every which way but Sunday—and had thoroughly enjoyed it.

“I guess the sheet wasn't enough of a barrier after all,” he said, wondering if he needed to apologize.

“Get off.”

When he didn't, she shoved him off her in a sudden flurry of movement, scooting out of the bed, running into the bathroom, but not before shooting him a scathing look that might have shriveled another man's parts right off.

Not Cooper's. Nope, his part still bounced in his pants, the eternal optimist.

The bathroom door slammed shut with a finality that suggested he should go, and was going, to hell in a handbasket. Alone. “Uh . . . Breanne?”

Nothing from the bathroom.

With a heavy sigh, he got out of bed, looking ruefully down at his tented pants. “Down, boy,” he murmured, and walked to the door. “Open up.”

“Go far, far away!”

As if he could. “What are you mad at? That I was kissing you, or that you were kissing me back?”

She muttered something, some smear on his heritage, and then the shower came on. He hoped the water heater was powered by the propane tank he'd seen outside, or there wouldn't be any hot water.

“And for your information,” she yelled through the door. “You were doing more than just sticking your tongue down my throat!”

“Same goes, Princess.”

She replied with yet another unintelligible mutter, which for some sick reason made him grin.

It made no sense. Her late-night confessional warning that she was done with men still echoed in his ears. She wasn't interested in him, or at least she didn't want to be interested.

Fine by him
.

But as he stood there in the early morning, getting chilled in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, a part of him wanted to prove to her that not all men were scum.

While another part of him entirely just wanted to sink into her body.

He heard the shower door open and then shut—yep, powered by the propane, because there was no way Princess was taking a cold shower—and he sighed yet again. No sinking, at least not today.

But there was always tonight.

Breanne stared at herself in the mirror. Hot water rose from the shower, steaming the glass, but she could still see. Too much. Her hair was wild, her cheeks flushed, her lips plumped up from all the action they'd just seen . . . and there was a wet spot over the silk covering her breast—from Cooper's mouth.

She looked as if she was indeed on her honeymoon.

This was idiotic. This was dangerous. Just the
thought
of what she'd just done with that man scrambled her brain and made her squirm. He'd nearly sent her shuddering into an orgasm with just a long, languid kiss that had surprised her with its potent heat and shocking intimacy.

She looked away from herself—she had to. Lined up on the counter were an assortment of goodies laid out for the honeymooners. The condoms came in all shapes and colors, and she pictured lying in the bed, watching her man come toward her, erect penis dressed for the party in sunshine yellow, bouncing as it came closer—

Only it wasn't
that
image that made her slam her eyes shut, but the fact that the man in the vivid image had been one hot, hard Cooper Scott.

Bad. Bad,
bad
Breanne. She picked up a neck massager—uh-huh, right, she just bet that was used only as a neck massager—and then the scented body oils. The label said
edible
.
Chocolate
.

Her favorite.

No! No chocolate body oil in her near future, no way, no how. She needed to get a grip here, a serious grip. No parts of Cooper were going to be a chocolate-flavored dessert. It was not only fattening as hell, but incredibly wrong. Her life was in ruins, and she needed to remember that. She was on a mission to get the hell out of this place and back to civilization, where she could get to a Starbucks in three minutes or less, where she could hail a cab,
where her cell phone worked
.

She headed toward the shower, but on second thought stopped to drag the day couch from the far wall, pushing it against the bathroom door, protecting herself from any interruptions or boogeymen or voyeurs—never mind that she herself had been a voyeur only yesterday.

From the long, narrow windows on either side of the shower she could see only a sea of white. No depth perception, no landmarks visible, nothing but white, white, white.

Unbelievably, the snow was still falling. She turned the shower to scalding, stripped, and stepped in, and in spite of herself let out a little whimper of pleasure. My God, the showerheads were worth their weight in gold, aimed at all the good spots, hitting her already sensitized and aching flesh. For a moment she simply stood there absorbing the sensations. The soap smelled like—
Cooper
. Just the scent had her quivering, and by the time she rubbed it over her body she was aroused all over again.

Or still.

Ignoring it the best she could, she concentrated on her mission—getting out of Dodge.
Fast
.

She turned off the shower, and for lack of another choice, grabbed the lush, thick complimentary terry cloth bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Only when it was on did she drag the couch away and open the door a crack. She had her chin up and was ready to battle wits.

Except she was alone.

Well, not completely. Lariana was making the bed. She wore black again, a snugger-than-snug, low-scooped black blouse, a pair of tight, cropped pants with a tiny white half apron tied in a perfect bow low on her spine, topped off with spike heels that sank into the thick carpeting of the bedroom as she tugged the sheets taut.

Breanne admired the strength and stamina it must take to work in those heels, and thought longingly of the suitcases she'd lost, filled to the brim with her favorite fashions. Hugging the white robe to her still-damp body, she thought of her choices—her jeans and sweater and ruined boots, or Cooper's sweats.

Ugh.

Lariana stopped nipping and tucking and faced Breanne with a holier-than-thou expression that was amusing, given that Breanne knew exactly how the maid had spent her evening.

Panting Patrick's name and giving in to his lusty demands.

“Sleep okay?” Lariana asked innocently, with only the slightest trace of sarcasm. They both knew Breanne hadn't started out in this bedroom.

“Gee, great,” she said, just as innocently. “And you?”

Lariana's own superior smile didn't so much as falter. “
Fabulosa
.”

Yeah, she just bet. “So how often do you get stuck sleeping here?”

“Whenever there's a bad storm.”

“Edward, too?”

Lariana began fluffing pillows. “Except him.”

“Really? Where did he go?”

“I don't know—I'm not in charge of the man. He's in charge of me.”

Breanne sat on the bed, so Lariana had no choice but to stop making it and look at her. “Someone came into my room last night.”

“Yes. Apparently Cooper.”

Breanne glanced at the scene of the “crime,” the huge, luxurious mattress around her. She still couldn't get over what she'd allowed to happen. How stupid she'd been to think that sheet would possibly keep Cooper on his side of the bed.

But to be fair, it hadn't been him alone violating the imposed border. When she'd come all the way awake, she'd been on
his
side. Humiliating, really, that in sleep she'd been so desperate. “Not Cooper.”

Lariana's perfectly waxed brow shot up. “No?”

“No. I fell asleep in that room you gave me and woke up to someone standing over the bed. After a near coronary, I came running in here.”

Lariana frowned. “You sure? Very sure?”

“Sure about what?” Shelly asked, appearing in the doorway with a smile. Her petite frame was in another pair of jeans and a long pink angora sweater that fell to her thighs. She had her hair neatly pulled back in a ponytail and a flush to her cheeks as she looked back and forth between Lariana and Breanne. “What's up?”

“Breanne says she saw someone in her room last night,” Lariana told her. “Standing over her.”

Shelly gasped. “Really?”

“A dream,” Lariana said. “On a night like last night, we probably all dreamed badly.”

Shelly, eyes wide, nodded. “Yes.”

“I wasn't dreaming,” Breanne said.

Lariana and Shelly exchanged a wordless look that probably meant
humor the crazy guest
.

“Forget it,” Breanne said with an irritated sigh.

Shelly patted her arm. “I made breakfast by getting creative with the fireplace. Cooper's already sniffing around the dining room, waiting. Are you hungry?”

She was starving, probably from burning up half a million calories just from trying to inhale Cooper's body a few minutes ago.

But could she face him? Another thing entirely. “I don't have anything to wear.”

“Oh, I have plenty,” Shelly offered. “I'll get you something.”

Everyone looked first at Shelly's tiny frame, then at Breanne's not-so-tiny one, no one pointing out to Shelly the difference between a size one and a size eight.

Okay, a ten, damn it.

“I'll get you something of mine,” Lariana said with a hint of martyrdom. “I brought a small bag with me to work yesterday because of the storm.”

When she'd left, Shelly looked at Breanne. “You ended up here, huh?”

They both looked at the huge bed.

“I didn't sleep with him,” Breanne said.

Shelly lifted a brow.

“Okay, I slept with him. But not
slept with him
, slept with him.”

“Does he kiss as good as he smiles?”

Better
. “Look, I'm not interested in him, okay?”
Trying not to be
. “I gave up on men, remember?”

“Oh, don't say that! You can't. You inspired me, you know.” Shelly smiled. “Today is the day.”

“The day for what?”

“That I get Dante to notice me.” She twirled in a circle and laughed as she fell to the bed. “Any helpful hints?”

“You shouldn't take advice from someone who was dumped at the altar.”
Three times
.

“I'm sure it wasn't your fault,” Shelly said loyally. “Now, come on. Give me a pointer or two.”

Oh boy. She thought of Dante's world-weary, old-before-his-time eyes, and then looked into Shelly's sweet ones. “Are you sure? Because—”

“He's the one for me.”

“Well . . .” Breanne wracked her brain for any advice she'd ever read about and had thought sounded good but hadn't actually tried. “Maybe you should tell him how you feel. You know, go the honest route.”

“Oh, I can't do that! He doesn't think of me as a woman!” Then she flashed that sweet smile. “Yet.”

Breanne took in Shelly's lovely blond hair, her brilliant green eyes, her contagious smile. And then there was that cute, nifty little body any guy would go nuts over. “He'd have to be dead not to think of you as a woman.”

Shelly blushed. “You're the sweetest guest we've ever had.”

Breanne had been accused of being many things, but
sweet
hadn't been one of them. “I'm just calling it like I see it.”

“You really think he'll want me?”

Breanne crossed her fingers and hoped. “I
know
it.”

“Because men are complicated creatures,” Shelly warned.

“Not true. They just don't think with the same head that we do.”

Shelly giggled.

Lariana entered again. “No kidding, men don't think with the same head we do. You can tell a man that in order to get the best sex of his life all he has to do is pay attention to a woman and say a few nice words, and you know what he'll hear? Blah, blah, blah, sex, blah, blah, blah.”

Breanne laughed. “So true.”

Shelly looked like she didn't want to believe this.

Lariana held up a little black skirt and a siren-red, long-sleeved spandex top with metallic sparkles woven into the fabric. Matching high-heeled boots—twice as high as hers were—dangled from her fingers. “This is what I was going to wear on my date tonight, but I don't think I'm going anywhere.”

Oh boy. But Breanne took the hoochie-momma clothes with a combination of acceptance and good humor because there was nothing left to do but just live through this
Twilight Zone
episode.

“You change,” Shelly said to Breanne. “I'll be waiting to serve you downstairs.” She shoved Lariana out ahead of her while Breanne just stared at the outfit. “What the hell,” she muttered, and dropping the robe, pulled on Lariana's clothes.

To torment herself, she looked in the mirror. Oh boy. For starters, the skirt barely covered her ass. The top nearly blinded her and plunged due south nearly to her navel, only an inch above the hemline, which exposed a strip of belly. She tugged at it, but only succeeded in exposing a nipple. Pulling the shirt back into place showed belly again. Settling for somewhere in between, she slipped into the boots and gained four inches in height. Now,
that
she could live with. But while Lariana would look beautifully ethnic and sensual dressed like this, Breanne felt vampy and oversexed. Not a good place to be while trapped in a house with a man who revved her engines with just a single gaze. Much as she didn't want to admit it, she needed Cooper's sweats back, damn it.

Hell, she needed a damn suit of armor, but the sweats would do.

She stuck her head out the bedroom door and checked to see if the coast was clear. It was. She ran/hobbled down the hall, tugging on the skirt as she did, all the way back to the bedroom she'd deserted.

No sweats.

In fact, the bed had been made, and any sign of her brief stay erased. Odd how such a small thing could defeat her, but she was considering crawling back into the bed when a heavenly scent wafted up the stairs and into her nose.

Bacon.

Coffee.

Her stomach rumbled.

Fine
. She'd go—what did she care? She took the stairs in the muted light of the early morning, gripping onto the handrail for all she was worth in Lariana's heels, hoping she didn't make an ass of herself and fall and break her ankle.

She couldn't afford such a thing, not when she planned to use her already-loaded Visa to get on a plane today headed for—

Aruba sounded good. “Or any island where there's no snow,” she muttered. “And no mysterious hotties—”

Dante appeared at the base of the stairs in his usual way—without a sound, making her heart kick up into her throat. “Do you have to do that?” she asked, a hand to her chest.

“Do what?”

“Appear out of the woodwork! Walk without a peep! Show up out of midair!”

In the light of day, he still looked very much like a thug. He had a gray sweatshirt on over loose jeans riding so low on his hips she had no idea what held them up. Once again he wore a knit cap with the hood of his sweatshirt over the top of it, both nearly covering his eyes. His jaw was lean and square and smoothly shaven except for a goatee. His eyes were as dark as his hair, with no visible pupils. And he didn't smile. “Should I wear a bell?”

She paused, having no idea if he was kidding, until she caught the slight quirk of his mouth. “So you
do
have a sense of humor. Shelly mentioned it but I didn't believe her.”