Lightning Strikes

But before taking more medicine, she wanted to quickly scope out the bed, see how it was assembled.

She headed toward the magical, sexy object.

Crackle.

She looked down. She’d stepped on some big leaf.

In her mind, she heard Milly’s raspy voice. “Be careful of his plant.”

Blaine gingerly lifted her foot and eyed the humongous leaf. Had to be the size of a dinner plate. Her gaze traveled to where it was attached to a vine that curled along the floorboard to the far corner of the room. There, it led up to a clay pot, that housed some Jack-and-the-Beanstalk number with more leafy vines that coiled up the wall and along the top of the window.

That’s no plant. That’s a roommate.

Blaine leaned over, and ever so gently, pushed the vine closer to the floorboard so there’d be no more accidental steppages. She momentarily pondered how the delivery guys hadn’t destroyed part of the plant, which only made Blaine feel all the guiltier for stepping on it.

Well, just because I could play sports didn’t mean I was coordinated in everyday life. How many times had she knocked over a vase or tracked mud and dirt into the house?

Setting down her toolbox, she swiped at her suddenly watering eyes.

Damn allergies. She needed to see before she could even scope. She’d take a pill and hope it kicked in fast. With the way she was feeling, she’d wanted to post-pone this bed delivery adventure, but she had to take care of it today because Sonja had hinted about all kinds of maid-of-honor and sisterly tasks up until Saturday, the day of the wedding.

Blaine retraced her steps to the kitchen. There, she opened several cupboards, which were more sparse than the rest of this guy’s apartment. A few plates, bowls, cups and water glasses. She filled a glass with tap water, then retrieved her plastic vial from her shirt pocket. Tapping out a pill, she popped it into her mouth and washed it down.

On the way back to the bedroom, an object on the bookshelf caught her eye. She paused and picked it up. An old, chipped pocket knife. Why keep an old tool around? She loved her tools the way other girls loved clothes and makeup. And one of her pet rules was to keep her tools in mint condition, clean and ready to use. She’d never keep an old, battered pocketknife.

Blaine turned the knife over in her hands. Besides the plant, this object seemed to be the only decoration in this place.

Placing it back on the shelf where she found it, Blaine headed back to the bedroom, yawning.

For the next fifteen minutes, she checked out how the bed was bolted together. Then she opened her toolbox and extracted a wrench.

Sleepy. I’m so sleepy.

Blinking, she positioned the wrench around the bolt. She yawned again, a long tired yawn. This wrench felt so heavy. Her eyelids felt heavier. The medication was unusually strong.

Foggily, she thought back. She took one pill after buying the bed. Another before driving Henry’s truck over here. And one a few minutes ago.

Ohhhhh. Instead of her usual one, she had inadvertently taken three.

Distant thunder broke the silence.

An oncoming summer storm. The rain would be great, but the preceding winds would only kick up more pollen. She could already smell the ragweed, the flowers, the…

Ah-chooo!

She extracted her tissue and blew her nose.

When will that last pill kick in? Better take a breather, rest, wait for the storm to pass.

Besides, if she tried to keep working on this bed in her druggy state, she’d undoubtedly keel over on that plant and do far more than simply crunch a leaf.

Blaine hoisted herself on top of the bed. Ahhhhhh. This mattress was so big and soft, it was like sitting on a cloud. A sensuous, seductive cloud that promised a world of fantasy and dreams come true…

Too hot to sleep in my clothes. She began tugging off her T-shirt.

A few minutes later, Blaine fell back, barely aware of her head hitting the pillow.

2

THE TAXI DROVE AWAY, its motor fading into the night air as Donovan Roy unlocked the door. A breeze riffled the air, infusing it with the rich scent of earth and grass. Must have rained earlier. He was partial to this time of year in Colorado, when an afternoon storm could rush in like a giddy schoolgirl, all breathless and flustered, then unleash its passion like a seasoned woman.

He shifted his overnight bag on his shoulder, catching another scent. Roses. Or was it honeysuckle? No, that had been in San José. Lilacs? Could be. They’d grown in wild abundance, purple and fragrant, outside his hotel room in Cincinnati.

San José.

Cincinnati.

As he shoved the door open with his shoulder, his thoughts struggled. Which city was he in this time?

His memory was always sharp, damn near perfect, except when he pushed himself, mentally and physically, to the limit. Shouldn’t have taken this last job. Should have taken a break. But he’d needed the money.

He paused on the threshold, squinting at the shadows in the room.

Hell, it’s home!

He kicked shut the door behind him and dropped his bag, which hit the hardwood floor with a solid whoomp. He tugged off one of his boots and tossed it next to the bag.

God, I’m wiped.

He reminded himself that despite such dog-tired moments, he liked doing what he wanted, where he wanted, when he wanted. Liked keeping his boots next to the front door, liked tossing back a shot while listening to the blues, liked keeping the ringer on his phone permanently off.

Which was why he liked his consulting gigs. They fit his lifestyle to a T. No playing the corporate games, no molding himself to society’s expectations. As long as he met his deadlines and produced quality work, he could wear his hair longer, dress in jeans and T-shirts, take off a few days when the mood struck.

He yanked off the other boot, then remained bent over, arching his back to release some tension. His body ached from folding his six-three frame into airline seats, taxi seats. This past year, he swore he’d visited more cities than the president himself. Wonder if it’s the same for the big guy— After a while, people and cities blurred into a swirl of shapes and voices.

Especially when Donovan pulled an all-nighter, like he’d done last night in San José.

He straightened, tossing the other boot in the vicinity of the first, then glanced up at the clock on his wall. A slant of moonlight highlighted the chunk of redwood he’d found on the California coast several years ago. Inspired, he’d polished and rigged it to be a clock.

3:00 a.m.

Donovan scratched the stubble on his chin. He’d been up—he squeezed shut his eyes and added the numbers—damn, over forty hours.

His eyes suddenly felt gritty, heavy. Sleep didn’t beckon, it badgered. He absently rubbed his right leg, the damn spot that ached when he pushed his body too hard.

Gotta get to bed. I’ll sleep till noon, maybe later, then make myself the meanest, hottest plate of huevos rancheros this side of the border.

Smiling at the prospect, he trudged toward the hallway as he peeled off his T-shirt. Reaching the recliner, gray and bulky in the shadows, he tossed the shirt over its back. Then he stripped off his jeans, stepped out of his briefs, and dropped both on the floor.

With a drawn-out yawn, he headed for the bedroom.

He started to roll over onto the mattress, but it was…different. He fumbled in the dark. Damn, this mattress was higher off the ground than he recalled. A good foot, maybe two, higher.

He was so tired, it took all his will to keep the shadowy dream figures that toyed at the edges of his consciousness at bay. So tired, the thump-thump of the old pine tree that brushed the side of this apartment building whenever the winds got restless, sounded eerily like the drumbeat of an old Muddy Waters song.

Donovan blinked his heavy eyelids. Too heavy to stay open.

So why in the hell am I still standing?

Oh yeah, the bed. Too high.

He stroked the satiny mattress cover. Felt like that bed at the motel in Cincinnati. Or was it Seattle?

Hell, that’s where he probably was. Cincinnati or Seattle or…

He lifted his good leg, rolled onto the mattress, and stretched out his tired body. Ah, the breezes felt good. Warm. Comforting. Like a woman’s touch…

The shadowy figures in his mind sharpened and withdrew, preparing to start the dream.

Silky strands of hair caressed his cheek. The scent of soap and almonds.

Almonds. Reminded him of Deidre, the airline stewardess in Boston, and her almond-scented body lotion. He flashed on her raven hair, blue eyes…he couldn’t remember much more. Their hit-and-miss relationship had been a long time ago…another lifetime ago…

The image faded.

His leg brushed against another, feminine one.

Yeah, let me dream of a lady.

In the dark haze of his mind, he imagined his fingers touching warm skin. Soft. Supple. As he explored the feminine curve of a back, he was vaguely aware of other sensations.

Warm, dewy skin.

Smooth, taut muscle.

Scented breezes, imbued with a hint of almonds, swirled around them, enveloped them.

Oh, yeah, let the dream come on.

He willingly let his mind slip over the edge of reality into a haze.

The woman liquefied in his arms, her shape conforming to his. He stretched to his full length, relishing the fluidity of curves and bends that molded against his primed body.

Breasts, soft and full, pressed against him. The puckered tips of nipples tightened, grew hard.

Feeling her arousal was like an aphrodisiac.

His fingers explored the terrain. He ran a palm, fingers spread wide, down a taut tummy, played briefly with a navel, then reversed course and crept back up to the soft, round base of a breast.

He stretched open his fingers even wider, sliding them on either side of a pebbled nipple. With a groan, he rolled the nub between his fingers, tugging it gently.

A feminine moan. Ragged, breathy. And when her hips ground a little against him, desire shot through him like a bolt of lightning.

His hand slipped down, instinctively seeking that spot of heat and gratification…

In her dream, Blaine sat on a chair, staring across the cruise deck at Mount McKinley, which rose like a fore-boding monolith to a sky filled with pristine white clouds. So white, it pained her eyes to stare at it.

Cool sea breezes ruffled her hair.

No, fingers ruffled her hair.

She blinked, groggily aware that the sunlight had faded to black. Hazily aware that the wild and rugged Alaskan terrain had disappeared.

The dream had shifted, changed.

She was naked, in the arms of a man.

She felt mesmerized by his warmth and masculine scent. His solid body crushed her close. So close, she couldn’t tell where her skin ended, where his began. It was as though they were one warm, pulsating body.

She shuddered a breath, falling further into the dream. Relinquishing herself to it.

As their bodies shifted, her skin burned and tingled at points where they touched.

She moaned.

A deep, throaty groan responded.

A soothing breeze swept over them. The scent of pine. A dream took shape. Instead of a cruise ship, she lay beneath a tree, the swaying branches sweeping a blue sky. Sweeping, stroking her skin…

…no, the man’s hand stroked her skin. Down, down…brushing the bend of her waist, inching up her torso and sliding over her breast.

She gasped and pressed herself into his warm palm. Flames fanned higher as his fingers played lazily around her breast, circling the nipple. Rough, yet sensuous hands. And oh, so sweet the way they moved magically over her skin. Stroking, caressing, teasing…

Heat swept over her body, then sank through her skin, flooding every cell with a primitive need.

The hand slipped away.

The dream suspended. Savage disappointment shot through her.

His hand wedged between her legs.

Then he touched her there.

The world shrank to a focal point of fiery need where his fingers circled and stroked her sex. She tensed, arching her back, aching for release.

Hot, wet lips suckled her breast and she emitted a soft, guttural cry.

Wave after wave of heat rushed through her. She needed…more. Maneuvering her pelvis just so, she sank herself onto those skilled fingers.

Sizzling need coiled within Donovan as velvety heat enveloped his fingers, which mimicked what other parts of him wanted to do.

Against his chest, he felt feathery shudders of breath.

And where he touched her. God, that was the sweetest. Her hips thrust against him with a small yearning movement that spread fire through his body.

Need skyrocketed through him. Unbearable, exquisite need.

Shadows, like flames, leapt and danced in the periphery of his dream.

He tugged her snug against him, took his hardened member and slid it into her. God…so…tight. She was so wet, so ready. He shifted his hips, inching farther into silky, feminine folds.

She moaned, the sound sweet and anxious.

He slipped deeper until he was fully inside, his desire straining as he fought the urge to explode…to tumble over the edge…

Her body stiffened. A strangled gasp escalated to a cry as her insides contracted, tighter, tighter…

He stilled, holding her against him, as though they were poised on the edge of the world.

And as her insides suddenly convulsed, he buried himself into her, exploding his release.

BLAINE BLINKED. Sunshine, bright and hot, fell across her face. Hundreds of dust particles swayed and danced in the shaft of dazzling light. She sucked in a breath and coughed.

Damn allergies. She sniffed. Double damn. She was hopelessly clogged up.

And hopelessly groggy.

After rubbing her watery eyes, she again squinted into the sunshine. Above her head, a window was open.

No wonder she could hardly breathe—all the pollens in Manitou Springs had probably found their way through that opening last night. Two months ago, when she’d rented this room, her dad had warned her about living in a stranger’s house. People will use your things without asking. People won’t respect the ten-to-six rule. The latter being one of her dad’s favorites as long as she could remember—the “ten-to-six” rule being that you turned down the noise from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. so people could sleep.

But she’d just chalked up his warnings to his worrisome nature.

Except for this morning. Somebody had sneaked into her room and opened her window. That went far beyond simply breaking the ten-to-six rule. That was breaking her fundamental, I need-to-breathe-it’s-allergy-season rule.

Although which of her roommates would open her window was a mystery. Georgio, who’s real name was George but “Georgio” better fit his flamboyant hair-dresser persona, owned the house. But his master bedroom and bath were at the far end of the house and he never entered her room unannounced. Which left the other paying renter, Sam, a sullen college student whose wardrobe consisted of jeans and Star Wars T-shirts and who seemed to subsist on cigarettes and coffee.

Not that Sam seemed like a stealthy window opener, but those Trekkie types sometimes did odd things. She once walked in while Sam and some of his buddies were mixing green Jell-O in the bathtub.

Her gaze shifted to a section of glistening metal below the window. Glistening, cylindrical brass that magically looped and curled.

My beloved bed!

Well, Sonja’s bed.

Blaine smiled lazily and stretched.

Wait. How’d my bed get into my tiny, cramped rent-a-room?

She frowned, vaguely recalling crawling into the bed after too many allergy pills. Well, no wonder I’m having a heck of a time waking up. She strained to remember exactly what happened last night. Images slowly materialized in her sluggish brain. Henry’s truck, Milly, a big leaf…

More images took shape in her mind. Not images exactly, but sensations.

Big, rough hands. Bare skin against bare skin. Roaming, skilled fingers…

A sleepy, and very masculine, groan interrupted her mental inventory.

Someone, no some man, was behind her, on the other side of the bed!

She stiffened, terrified she’d look over her shoulder and discover one of Sam’s Trekkie friends, wearing thick horn-rim glasses, a Jedi outfit and reeking of green Jell-O. God, had she done it with a Trekkie?

She squeezed shut her eyes. Please, Lord, I wanted to be Liv Tyler, not Princess Leia.

She stealthily eased herself off the bed, nearly falling when her foot lost traction on the slick satin-covered mattress. She caught herself, then wobbled to a standing position.

With great trepidation, she turned and looked at her mattress mate.

A guy’s long, muscular, tan body was sprawled naked across the white satin mattress.

Naked. She glanced around the room. Good. No Jedi or Vader gear. Better yet, no Jell-O.

She eased out a pent-up breath, coughing slightly in the process. This room…she eyed the plant, suddenly remembering exactly where she was. This is that traveling guy’s apartment. Where the bed had been misdelivered.

She tilted her head and checked him out. Was this the traveling man? What had Milly said his name was?

Blaine rubbed her itchy eyes as more hot, fuzzy memories of lusty sex coalesced in her mind. She dropped her hands and stared at the guy…the guy she’d…noooo, impossible. I’m a practical, hardworking rule follower—I’m the last person to have hot sex with a stranger!

That was the kind of thing her sister Sonja might have done, but never Blaine. No, Blaine was the one to whom Sonja made such confessions, not the one who committed the deeds. And Sonja had confessed some doozies to her big sis Blaine, who tried to listen with a straight face and an open mind while also amazed at what two people could do with too much time, and lust, on their hands.

And now Blaine had joined this too-much-time, overlusted segment of society.

She frowned. What exactly had they done?

More memories. Sweat-drenched bodies and a moment of pleasure so intense, so exquisite…

She wiped her suddenly shaky hand across her moist brow. Those memories were too real. They must have done exactly what she feared they’d done.

And it all happened on her wedding gift to her sister.

Blaine shut her eyes, giving her head a shake. Forget the bed, you have bigger issues to deal with. You don’t even know this guy’s history, much less his sexual history.

How many times had she counseled Sonja on this very subject. Badgered her about using protection.

Okay, I need to figure out who this guy is, make sure he’s…healthy, then get this damn bed moved.

Blaine did an inventory of her mystery lover. Thick brown hair that curled at his temples and neck.

She tugged mindlessly at her own shoulder-length hair. Wonder if he doesn’t have enough money for a haircut these days, either.

His eyes were closed, which accentuated the fringe of thick lashes that skirted his lids. Coarse brown stubble roughened the lower half of his face.

And what a face.

Square, solid, with a chin that jutted forward slightly even as he slept. As though on guard, ready to take life on the chin. A tough guy. Funny, though, how he slept with his hands clenched into tight balls, as though he were protecting something. What? From what she’d seen of his place, he owned next to nothing. Maybe he was protecting something deep inside himself. A secret.

Her gaze swept back over him. He was tall, if she judged the way his head touched one end of the mattress and his feet almost dangled off the other.

She perused him head to foot again, stopping in the middle…Maybe this was crass, but she wanted a good look for herself, ensure that he looked healthy before she woke him up and asked him if he was.

He looked good. Very good. Normal. No, better than normal, but that wasn’t what she was supposed to be checking.

She released a pent-up breath.

But she’d have to be blind not to notice.

Even asleep, with his body relaxed, he was big. Not that she was a size expert, unless intimate relationships with four different men—well, technically three—made one an expert. Which, at thirty years of age, was an embarrassing admission.

“What are you staring at?” asked a gruff, irritated male voice.

Donovan blinked at the naked woman, who slowly raised her head and stared, wide-eyed, her green eyes nearly translucent in a slant of bright yellow sunlight. It reminded him of the way sunlight filtered through the aquamarine waters in the Caribbean. The rays sliced through those shimmering blue waters, revealing every nuance of life.

She quickly crossed her arms so they covered her breasts—but not before he’d seen their full, pink-tipped beauty. A memory seared through his mind, then faded.

Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. “I’m…I’m…” Suddenly, she dropped back her head, then jerked forward with an ear-numbing sneeze.

He shut his eyes. Gave his head a shake.

He’d woken up bone weary plenty of times before, but it’d been years since he’d woken up with a woman he didn’t even recognize.

And of the two or three fair members of the opposite sex with whom he had woken up and not remembered, this was the first who’d checked out his privates, then sneezed.

He’d try not to read too much into that.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, then squinted open one eye. Coffee. He needed coffee.

He glanced up. She stood there, cross-armed and wide-eyed. As though she were standing at attention.

“What are you doing?” he croaked.

She shrugged. “Waitink…” She coughed, then cleared her throat. “Waiting for you to wake up,” she answered, enunciating each word.

“Well, I’m up.” Barely. He never dealt with the world, especially the people in it, until after he’d had his jolt of caffeine. The opposite of this lady, it appeared, who bounded out of bed and observed the world—and those still sleeping in it—with big, disarming green eyes.

With great effort, he propped himself on his elbow, determined not be amused by this quirky situation. He still wasn’t sure what he was dealing with, but whatever it was, he’d keep his cool until he understood the situation, which was a one-eighty turn from the younger, hotheaded Donovan.

“You sick?” he asked.

“Allergies.”

Naked. Wild auburn hair. Allergies.

And, he thought with an inward smile, impossibly cute.

But nothing clicked. Not a single detail, and he a man who earned good money thanks to his affinity for details. Couldn’t analyze a computer failure unless one had a head for bits and bytes.

And nibbles. Another flash of memory. His lips on her flesh, nibbling.

He squinted one eye at her. For the life of him, he was clueless to identify this emerald-eyed, allergy-ridden woman who stood naked before him.

And if he couldn’t identify her, could he identify where the hell they were?

He jerked his head around.

He was in some fancy brass bed, for starters. He glanced around the room. White, nondescript walls. And his plant.

He frowned and looked up at the slatted blinds, with the missing fourth slat that always looked like a missing tooth. And that’s my window. He shifted his gaze back to the intruder.

“What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?” Okay, so much for keeping his cool. This was his turf. Different rules altogether. Nobody entered his domain, ever, without his permission. Maybe he’d lost a lot in the world, but he still owned his privacy.

Without moving her strategically placed arms, she managed to point a forefinger at the bed. “This belongth to me.”

He paused, unprepared for that curve ball. “This…bed,” he repeated slowly.