About Last Night... (8 page)

Sigh. "No."

"Why not?"

She was like a pesky fly, and he was too tired to flick his tail. "They were out," he mumbled. The haze of sleep was claiming

him again. "Okay, you can get up."

He jerked awake and cast his weary gaze in her direction. "Excuse me?"

"I said you can get up."

He scoffed—a tremendous feat—and shook his head.

"I'm not about to share this bed with you," she said, her voice laced with indignance.

"Relax, Pinky," he muttered, then yawned. "Even if you were my type, which you're not, I'm too tired to take advantage of

you."

"If … think … sleeping … you … another think coming."

He squinted at her because her voice faded in and out. "Suit yourself." It was her fault he was in this worsening mess, her

fault he was in Atlanta, period. Hers and his brother's, dammit. At the moment, he wasn't sure which of them he resented more.

He would sleep on it, Derek decided.

* * *

together in anger. Surely the man didn't expect her to crawl into bed with him. She swallowed. Again. As if he'd sensed her

thoughts, he groaned in his sleep and rolled on his side to face her, hugging the pillow under his head with a bent arm. The

cream-colored towel around his waist parted slightly, revealing corded thighs covered with dark hair and the faintest almost-

maybe-could-be glimpse of his sex. A pang of desire struck her low—or had her corset simply ruptured? Feeling like the most

naughty of little girls, she strained for a better look, but when he shifted again and the towel fell away completely, she squeezed

her eyes shut and whirled to face the wall.

Yesterday she was a yearning bride-to-be, and today she was peeping at sleeping naked men. She was going to hell, she just

knew it.

Bone-deep weariness claimed her and she scanned the room for another place to lie down. She hadn't realized how opulent

the room was, and now she crinkled her nose at the decor, designed more for southern aesthetics than functionality. Being on

the top floor, the room boasted a cathedral ceiling and a garish chandelier with fringed minishades over the lights. Several

bouquets of flowers were situated around the room, emitting a cloying sweetness. The walls were a deep burgundy with a

nondescript tone-on-tone design, broken up with a jutting off-white chair rail. To her left, a large pale-painted writing desk

with curlicued legs and gilded accents sat at an angle. She walked over and tested it for strength, but didn't like the looks of the

distance to the hard parquet floor, at least not the way her luck had been running.

A bulky armoire in the same gaudy style contained a television and colorful tourist guides. A wooden valet sat next to it,

draped with Derek's jeans and sweatshirt, white socks balled on the floor. Janine stared, struck by the innocent intimacy of

those socks.

Past the door, a padded straight-back chair sat mocking her with its stiffness. Next came a fat, curvy dresser with a mirror,

which, to her chagrin, reflected Derek's partially nude figure reclining in the comfy-looking bed. Sprawled amongst the sheets,

he seemed even larger than when standing. He looked absurdly out of place, broad shoulders and long limbs against the ornate

headboard, his feet practically hanging over the end of the mattress.

Despite his massive form, the other side of the bed appeared plenty large enough for her. Perhaps if she slept on top of the

covers and put some kind of divider between them—

What was she thinking? She'd be better off bedding down on the loopy cotton rug situated outside the bathroom door, a small

island against the dark parquet floor. Wanting to wash her face, Janine kicked off her shoes and limped past Steve's and

Derek's suitcases to the oversize bathroom. She squinted beneath the flickering pinkish light over the vanity, but reveled in the

feel of the cool tile against her fiery feet.

The luxurious moss green bathroom—also vaulted—featured a large vanity area, a padded stool, an electric towel warmer

and a skylight over the large tub. The wall seemed curtained with thick cream-colored towels, one conspicuously missing from

the long chrome rack—the one now wrapped around Derek, she presumed.

One look in the mirror brought a flood of exhausted and humiliated tears to her eyes. She looked as though she'd been—what

was the saying,
rode hard and put up wet?
Her hair lay, or rather, stood, in disarray—big yellow loops out of place, and a

rat's nest at the nape of her neck. Black flecks of mascara dotted her cheeks.

The rest of her makeup had faded, leaving her skin streaked and blotchy. Her head hurt and her body ached and her pride

smarted. And she had to get out of this unbearable costume.

She lowered herself to the stool in front of the vanity, surveying her ragged hose, frowning at her short-lived fantasy of Steve

leisurely rolling them down over her knees, calves, ankles. She removed the thigh-highs with a series of frustrating yanks and

tossed them into a little shell-shaped wastebasket. After much tugging and cursing, she was finally able to loosen the lacings of

the bustier. Her ribs ached from their sudden release, and she inhaled deeply enough to tempt hyperventilation. Janine tossed

the offending piece of lingerie onto the vanity and scrubbed her face, then contemplated dragging herself back into the bedroom

to take up residence on the skimpy little rug.

Irritation at Derek Stillman welled in her chest—if it weren't for him, she wouldn't be in this mess. If he hadn't answered the

phone when she called, she would've stayed at her apartment, and none of this would have happened. And if he were half a

gentleman, he would've slept on the floor and given her the bed. When Steve heard about this, he'd undoubtedly find yet another

best man.

Steve.

She moaned and lowered her head, shoving her fingers deep into her hair. How was she going to explain this situation to

Steve? Steve, with his family's ultra-conservative sensibilities? Tears of misery streamed down her cheeks.

After a good hiccuping cry, Janine sniffed and pushed herself to her feet, then buttoned her coat over the ludicrous pink

panties. Everything would look better in the light of day, she told herself, then glanced in the mirror. Well, everything except

her hair, maybe.

Meanwhile, she was loath to go back into the bedroom with that, that … big uncouth man-person. She lifted her head, and

through bleary eyes saw the huge Jacuzzi-style bathtub and brightened. Why not?

It was certainly big enough to sleep in, and if she lined it with towels… She jumped up and spread several of the thick

towels in the bottom of the tub, telling herself it would sound much better if she could tell Steve that she and Derek slept in

separate rooms. And she had to admit, she hadn't discounted the possibility of acquiring Derek's illness—whatever it was—if

they shared the same air. She turned off the light and closed the door, then climbed into the deep tub, feeling only slightly

foolish. After the events of the past few hours, everything was relative.

The air hung damp around her, remnants of Derek's shower. The scent of soap teased her nostrils, evoking thoughts of the

intriguing man lying in the next room. She wondered suddenly if he was married, or engaged, or otherwise attached. Because

for some reason, the thought of her, Steve, Derek and someone else all lying awake thinking about each other seemed very

funny. A split second later, she sobered.

Steve wasn't thinking about her—he was obviously still out celebrating his last few hours of freedom, while she was bunking

down in a bathtub. A sliver of resentment slid up her spine, but was quickly overpowered by the onset of claustrophobia

sloping in around her. Janine concentrated on the stars through the skylight above her until the panicky sensation subsided.

She snuggled farther into the pallet of towels, smoothing out a lump under her left hip, then admitted the tub was more

comfortable than she'd expected. Janine sighed, trying to mine a nugget of philosophical wisdom from her predicament,

concluding instead she was living an
I Love Lucy
episode.

She fell asleep with a vision of her and Steve in black and white, toothpaste smiles, hair perfectly coifed … and sleeping in

twin beds.

7

« ^ »

W
hen Derek started awake, several seconds passed before he remembered he was in Atlanta at the resort where Steve was to

be married on Saturday. Other memories of the previous night were too ludicrous to believe. When he lifted his heavy, aching

head to find he was alone in the room, he nearly laughed aloud with relief. Those were some strong pills he'd taken for his

cold. For a while there—

Derek chuckled despite his headache.
No way.

From the filtered light coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows to his left, he estimated the time to be around 6:00 a.m.

Typically, he'd be rolling out of bed for a bike ride, weather willing, or a run on the dilapidated treadmill that sat less than five

steps from his bed. Then he'd shower and arrive at the office by seven-fifteen.

But at the moment, he needed more cold medicine, hallucinogen or not. He pushed himself out of bed gingerly, tossing the

still-damp towel twined around his legs to the floor. Holding his head so it wouldn't explode, and swallowing to moisten his

dry throat, he stumbled through the semidarkness to the bathroom and pushed open the door. By the illumination of the skylight,

he felt along the vanity for the box of cold medicine, but instead came up with a perplexing object, flat and flexible, with ties

and mysterious textures.

Bewildered, he groped for the light switch and flooded the room with light. He blinked at the pink-and-black thingamajig in

his hand for an entire second before a shriek sounded behind him. Derek swung around to see a person sit up in the bathtub, and

when he registered the dark coat and the blond hair, he grasped the horrifying fact that he hadn't been hallucinating after all.

Gripping both sides of the tub as if she were in a sinking lifeboat, Pinky looked at him and screamed.

As if he'd taken a bite from the forbidden fruit, Derek suddenly realized he was naked. He thrust the top of her costume over

his privates, straining from their morning call, and backed up against the counter. "What the devil are you doing in the bathtub?"

he thundered, grimacing at the pain in his temples.

She pushed a mop of hair out of her eyes. "Sleeping."

The woman was a bona fide nutcase. "I can see that," he said calmly. "But why are you sleeping
in the bathtub?"

"Because," she mumbled, "you were in the bed." She spit hair out of her mouth. "I can see your butt in the mirror."

He clenched and opened his mouth to say something he hadn't yet thought of, but the phone rang. Backing out of the bathroom,

Derek sneezed twice on his way to answer the phone. He flung the corset on the bed and managed to grab a handkerchief before

he yanked up the handset. "Hello?"

"Hey, man, what's going on over there?" Steve Larsen's voice sounded concerned, but a little indistinct, as if his last drink

was not in the too-distant past. "I came back to the hotel a few minutes ago and they wouldn't let me past the gate. Something

about a quarantine?"

Derek stretched the phone cord to reach his jeans on the valet. He jerked them on as he answered Steve. "Yeah, several of

the guests have come down with something, and the CDC put the entire facility under quarantine."

"That's nuts. For how long?"

He sat on the bed and leaned forward to cradle his head in his hands. "The top guy said at least forty-eight hours."

Steve cursed. "Which means we'll have to postpone the rehearsal and the dinner for tonight. Maybe even the wedding." He

swore again, this one causing Derek to wince. "My mother is going to be irate, and I don't know how I'm going to break it to

Janine."

The topic of their conversation walked into the room. With her bare legs and feet sticking out below her wrinkled black

raincoat, she resembled a bag lady. A very fetching bag lady, Derek realized with a start. "Steve," he said, loudly enough to

gain her attention. "Janine already knows about the quarantine."

"What? How does Janine know?" Steve asked. "Wait a minute—how do you know that Janine knows?"

Derek watched her face crumble with dread as he mulled over how best to break the news to his friend. She bit her lower

lip, beseeching him to … what? "She's here at the hotel," he said, nausea rolling in his stomach. Only his brother, Jack, made

him feel this way: protective, yet taken advantage of. He hated it.

"At the hotel?" Steve shouted. "Where? How?"

Janine Murphy, Derek decided, was a big girl who'd gotten them both into a big mess and she and her big blue eyes could

take responsibility for it. "She's … I'll have her call you when I see her," he finished lamely, ridiculously warmed at the

expression of gratitude on her face. "Are you at your place?"

"I'm at a friend's," Steve said. "But I'm going to my folks' to break the news to my mom before she hears it on television."