Get A Clue, Page 9

  “I told you, I . . . got hot.”

  A fleeting smile touched his mouth at that. “Babe, you’re always hot.”

  She was always hot?

  “Which bedroom?” he asked.

  She was always hot? “Uh, back to that hot comment. I thought I was a pain in your ass.”

  “Yeah, well, you can be both. You can be a hot pain-in-my-ass, how’s that? Which bedroom, Princess?”

  “Coming up the stairs, it was the first door on the right.”

  “Okay, hang tight.”

  “Wait!” No way was she getting left behind again. She leapt out of bed, but a look at the way his gaze heated and she nearly dove back beneath the covers. She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Do you have a shirt I can wear?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you do. You have a big bag—”

  “Do I look stupid enough to cover you up twice in one night?”

  With an exasperated sigh, she tugged the sheet free of the bed. “Men are dogs,” she muttered, wrapping herself up.

  “Wuff, wuff,” he said. “Come on, let’s go find your boogeyman.”

  That slowed her steps, reminding her why they were doing this. Someone had been in her bedroom, someone had wanted to scare her or worse, and all she had for protection was a sheet and this man. She sneaked a sideways glance at his tall, leanly muscled form. That odd sense of awareness he had shimmering around him, coupled with the intensity he could get between the flashes of ridiculous guy humor, made her admit that low as her opinion of men was at the moment, if she had to depend on one even temporarily, she hadn’t done too shabbily.

  However, she’d long ago learned that the more good-looking a man was, the fewer his actual life skills. “You’re not a pencil pusher,” she guessed.

  He looked startled. “Pencil pusher?”

  “Accountant.”

  He let out a low laugh. “No. I’m not an anything pusher.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Nothing at the moment.”

  Not exactly comforting. “But you think you can keep us safe if it comes right down to it?”

  He gave her a funny look. “I think I can manage.”

  Glancing uneasily toward the door, she nodded, having no choice but to trust him. “’Kay, then.” Her voice wavered only slightly. “Let’s go.”

  “Hey.” Stepping close until their thighs bumped, he reached out and slowly, purposely, stroked a finger over her hairline, across her temple, ostensibly to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. She didn’t buy that, though, not with the way he was looking at her, as if maybe he was starving and she was a twelve-course meal, as if maybe he could gobble her up in one sitting.

  Odd how that made her knees wobble, as did the way his own breathing wasn’t any more steady than hers. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Comforting you.” His fingers stroked their way over her throat, then further down, taking the sheet with them, to her shoulder. “Is it working?”

  She slapped his hand away. “I’m fine.”

  “Sure?” he asked in that voice that melted her brain cells at an alarming rate. “Because I have a lot more comfort in me.”

  Damn her wobbly knees anyway. She locked them into place, along with her jaw. No more men! “Positive,” she said through her teeth, afraid to let her mouth stay open for too long because God-knew-what would pop out of it, probably something like “Take me now, please.”

  “You can wait here, you know,” he said.

  “I’m going with you.”

  He studied her for a long moment, and she got the impression he saw far more than she wanted him to. “Suit yourself, then,” he said.

  “Oh, I will. I always do.”

  Wasn’t that just the problem.

  Nine

  People who think they know everything are annoying to those of us who do.

  —Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry

  As they left the bedroom together, Cooper surprised Breanne by taking her hand, leading the way. The hallway was every bit as dark as she remembered, and though she was no longer cold, a shiver shook her.

  Cooper pulled her to his side, sliding an arm around her. She might have protested, but there was something incredibly protective, even possessive, in the gesture, and she was feeling just weak enough to need both.

  She couldn’t see a thing, but Cooper didn’t seem to have the same problem, leading them unerringly to the bedroom she’d just vacated. Once inside the doorway, the glow from the candles on the dresser lit the room.

  Cooper put a hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed, which she took to mean “stay,” and then he walked through the room, checking the bathroom—which was unlocked—the closet, under the bed, and even under the mountain of down bedding.

  When he turned back to her she expected to see amusement, or perhaps even annoyance, but instead he looked quite intense. “I don’t see anything.”

  He hadn’t said she was crazy, or that she had an imagination she needed to turn off. He simply believed her. “Thank you,” she whispered around a suddenly tight throat, fighting a sudden urge to hug him. “I’m just losing it. I can sleep now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Very. Thanks.”

  Looking not quite happy with that, he again lifted the covers, this time for her, in a silent invitation for her to get back beneath them.

  He was tucking her into bed. The sweetness of that didn’t escape her, but her feet just wouldn’t take her to the bed.

  “Breanne?”

  “Yeah. I’m coming.”

  “See, that’s the thing,” he said, watching her very carefully. “Your feet aren’t moving.”

  “I know. Maybe if I give them a minute.”

  He dropped the covers and moved toward her. Reaching up, he entwined his fingers in her hair at the nape of her neck and tugged lightly, tipping her face up to his. “You don’t really want to sleep in here, do you?”

  She started to nod yes, but ended up giving a slow shake of her head. No.

  “Back to the couch?” he asked.

  Another shake in the negative.

  “You can have the suite—you know that, right?” he asked.

  This time she nodded.

  “Is that yes, you want to switch rooms with me?”

  She bit her lower lip.

  His gaze dropped to the movement. “I’m going to need words here, Princess.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d mind hosting a sleepover?”

  His eyes flamed.

  “I meant the platonic kind of sleepover,” she said quickly.

  “Ah.”

  The “ah” was loaded, and the air felt charged as he looked at her. “What if you can’t control yourself?” he finally asked, his fingers still in her hair.

  “I think I can.”

  An almost smile curved his lips. “Sure?” He had fine laugh lines fanning out from the corners of his mischievous blue eyes, and looking into them, she thought, God help me, I’m not. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She backed away from him and grabbed her bag.

  Before she could sling it over her shoulder, he took it and slung it over his instead, then held out his hand. He waggled his fingers, waiting, and when she slipped her hand in his big, warm one, he smiled at her. It was a kind smile, not mocking her fear or her antics of the night, and she felt herself want to smile back.

  No more men.

  Oops. Almost forgot. Damn, how easy was she? One smile and she’d been just about to make another bad, bad decision. Good thing she’d caught herself. Good thing she was strong. Hear me roar.

  They headed back the way they’d come, through the dark, cedar-fragrant hallway, the pictures and equipment on the wall unnerving now instead of quaint. Halfway, Cooper stopped at the third door on the left, his body tense and still.

  “What—”

  He broke off her question with a finger to her lips, his eyes dark and unreadable.

  She heard it then, the
soft scuffle from the other side of the door.

  Goose bumps rose on her body as she turned to face the door, and so did the hair on her neck. Was it the person who went with the scary face? Just the thought had her letting out an involuntary whimper, but Cooper was right behind her, a hand on her shoulder now as from the other side of the door came an unexpected sound—an extremely female moan. It didn’t sound sinister, it sounded—

  “Oh, Patrick . . .” floated through the door in a sexy, familiar Latin accent.

  Lariana.

  “You like that, darlin’?” came an answering Scottish voice.

  “Oh, my God, yes,” Lariana gasped.

  “Then how about this?”

  “Yes! Yes, that, too. There. There!”

  Breanne stared at the wood as a banging came next. “That’s . . .”

  “The headboard hitting the wall,” Cooper said in her ear.

  “Oh.” She felt her face heat. “Right.”

  This was followed by some indescribable, embarrassingly earthy moans and more cries, and then the sound of wet flesh slapping on wet flesh.

  Patrick and Lariana were getting lucky.

  On her honeymoon.

  If that wasn’t just perfect, she didn’t know what was, and she took a step backwards, right into the hard wall of Cooper’s chest.

  Just like that, the night changed. Or the darkness did, anyway, somehow becoming richer, deeper, encircling the two of them with an air of intimacy she hadn’t counted on as the heavy panting on the other side of the door continued.

  “Sounds like fun,” Cooper whispered, stroking a finger over the back of her neck.

  Now her goose bumps weren’t from fear, but something else entirely. She began to heat up, and apparently so did things behind the door.

  “Come,” Patrick demanded of Lariana in a rough Scottish voice. “Come for me.”

  Breanne liked sex—sometimes she even loved sex—but she’d never had a guy tell her what to do in bed, or demand an orgasm from her. It sounded pretentious, rough, and . . . embarrassingly arousing. Her nipples hardened, her belly quivered, and her thighs tightened. Annoyed at herself for the reaction, not to mention desperate to hide it from the man behind her, she tightened her grip on the sheet wrapped around her. She was done with men, damn it, done, done, done. She did not want one in her life, she did not want one in her bed, telling her what to do or otherwise.

  “Come for me right now.”

  Oh, jeez.

  “Yes!” Lariana screamed the word into the night, the rhythmic banging turning even more frantic; along with it came Patrick’s low, serrated groan, and then . . . complete and utter silence.

  Breanne whipped around to face Cooper.

  His eyes burned as they held hers, and in a rare anomaly, she found herself speechless. Pushing past him, she fumbled her way down the hall and into the honeymoon suite. Stopping short, she stared at the large, lush bed and swallowed hard. Her body felt hot from the inside out, sort of achy and pulsing, and she didn’t get it.

  What had happened to her fear?

  “It got to you,” Cooper said softly, almost silkily, from right behind her.

  She stepped away from him because she couldn’t think when he was that close. “That ridiculous exhibition? Please. I’ve heard better on any number of porn flicks.”

  “It got to you,” he repeated, then smiled. “But let’s hear more about these porn flicks.”

  “This isn’t funny.” She hugged the sheet tighter to her body.

  Again he came up behind her, not touching her in any way, but she couldn’t miss that delicious body heat if she tried. Dipping his head low, he leaned in and inhaled her. “You smell so good,” he murmured.

  She’d powdered and lotioned and primped good before the wedding, but if any of it had held to her skin through all the fear and panic and humiliation of her day, she’d be shocked. “I do not.”

  “You’re not supposed to argue when someone gives you a compliment.”

  “I’m not good with compliments.” She turned to face him. “Do you think she was okay? He sounded a little rough. And a lot demanding.”

  Cooper’s eyes lit with humor. “I think she’s going to be just fine, yes.”

  Still hugging herself, she nodded. “Right.”

  “You know . . . you’re all tough and cynical on the outside . . .” He still hadn’t touched her, though she could feel his wanting. Or maybe that was her own. All she knew was that the anticipation was going to kill her.

  Leaning in, he exhaled softly over her neck, making her shiver. “But so soft and sweet on the inside.”

  “I’m just as tough on the inside,” she assured him.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She really, really wished he didn’t smell so orgasmically good, or that he didn’t radiate such confidence, such intensity. Or that he didn’t look like he did, which was too amazing for her fragile state of mind.

  For something to do, she grabbed her bag from him and strode toward a chair. There she pulled out her Palm Pilot.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have to write something down.” She brought up her journal and entered: Either learn self-defense or start carrying a baseball bat. Do not—repeat, do not—ever ask a man to protect you again.

  There. She felt better already. Sort of. She flipped through the files and reread her earlier words:

  No more failures.

  No more men.

  She underscored both two times and then repeated them in her head like a mantra until they blurred.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing, I’m—Hey!”

  He’d snatched the Palm Pilot from her hand. “No more failures,” he read. “No more men.” He eyed her over the digital unit. “Interesting.”

  “I always make myself notes,” she said defensively, reaching for the Palm Pilot, but he lifted it over his head, and by the full-on, knock-’em-out smile he flashed, he was enjoying her efforts to grab it from him.

  “What else do you have in here, I wonder.” Turning his back to her, he began to poke at her files.

  “Stop that.” She shoved at him, but he was immovable, the ape. “Those entries are private.”