Best Laid Plans (29 page)

It was a futile attempt. Her mind was busily en
gaged in thinking of a variety of
explanations that would extricate her from this wholly embarrassing
situation. Actually, she
rationalized,
he
was the one who claimed to be
her
Raphael
Morgan. There had to be other men with that same name.

Hmmm…maybe there was still more to this than she realized. Kit shot a
sidelong glance at her quiet
companion, only to find that the low interior lighting cast
a harsh glow on his previously
amused features.

The constipated, British female voice that kept slicing the silence with
her imperious, "Recalculating" had Kit
meditatively gnawing her lower lip. Maybe the GPS
was sending her a message. Rafe Morgan wasn't going
to be as easy to handle as the
school officials and the
nuns had been. Although, she reflected brightly,
tears and humility usually worked
wonders in any
situation!

Oh, yeah, she could do tears. It had taken her a while to learn that
bursting into tears stopped so many things. Men hated tears. Actually, everyone
hated tears. Kit relaxed back into the leather seat, things weren't looking so
bad. Her lips curved into a relaxed smile. Besides, what could he do to her?

Rafe deftly slid the powerful car into a parking
spot in front of her building.
He assessed the neighborhood with a grimace. This was one of the seedier,
rundown areas of older homes that had been turned into apartments. Gang
graffiti tagged the adjacent garage and wooden fence; almost every streetlight
was out but the full moon helped.  He hoped his car alarm would offer some
protection, at the very least the sedan was LoJacked.

Following Kit, he mounted the partially enclosed staircase of the aging
home. With no cross ventilation, it provided a sweltering, oppressive climb. Bu
t the heat wasn't the only thing
causing Rafe Morgan discomfort.

Her
throaty '
get your hand off my ass or
you'll be talking an octave higher'
threat still echoed in his ears. Rafe's brown eyes could focus on nothing else
but her ass. The provocative tick/tock motion seemed natural and not
exaggerated. Her dress hugged a knock-out body, wrapping around every curve.
And the lady was loaded with lush curves. This was not a skinny, boney
woman. 

Well, she was causing one
helluva boner
. The first hard-on he'd
had in a year. Granted it had been a damn busy year. A year that had been spent
taking over a foreclosed ranch and its stock. Building a business, checking on
mineral rights and then striking oil. At least he was stateside and a civilian
no more tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. His fingers combed through damp hair...
Fuck,
it was hot! Hotter than the damn dessert.

Rafe Morgan was growing hotter
and more uncomfortable as he watched her effortlessly climb each step. Kit
Forrester certainly wasn't what he had been expecting - his
fiancée
. He
wiped the sweat off his grin.

Tall, just a few inches shorter
than him. But no lethal-weapon stilettos contributed to her statuesque height,
just low heeled sandals at the end of a pair of gorgeous legs. Legs that
taunted and tantalized as they flashed into view courtesy of the back slit of
her dress. Would those long, dancer's legs feel as sleek and soft wrapped
around his waist? Or on his shoulders? 

Instantly, he remembered how
her curves fit perfectly against his side. Her scent–just clean, nothing
cloying. Her soft blue eyes. Confused. Puzzled. That was no act. She had no
clue who he was. The rich copper hair that formed a sexy tumble and bounced
against her neck and shoulders, however did ring a mental bell that he couldn't
quite still.
Why was the hair so familiar?

He'd puzzle that later because
all he could think about was that delicious mouth of hers. Soft. Warm.
Surprised. But she had let his tongue tease and explore. Briefly. Suddenly, he
ached to touch and taste every inch of Kit Forrester.

Christ, he was sweltering.
Rafe tugged off
his dinner jacket and tie by the second level of
twenty steps. That's when his gaze moved from her ass to focus on the wide silver
zipper that snaked down the spine of the dress. What color was that dress?
Blue? Green? A mix? Whatever, it suited her. He liked it. Liked it on. But
would love to peel it off. Slowly. Very slowly off those luscious curves.

He
rolled up his sleeves and
unbuttoned his
shirt.
Hell, was that a real, working zipper?
His eyes narrowed on the
over-sized decorative pull that was daring him to reach out and yank it down.
Wondering what he'd find underneath became all consuming. She wasn't wearing a
bra, because he'd received an elbow in the gut when he'd cupped her breast and
teased a nipple.
Fast reaction with that!
So what might be covering
that perky ass? Bikini? Thong?
Damn he was hot. And sweating. And horny as
hell.

Kit
became concerned at the third level of twenty steps. She'd had dates bail at
the second level and just call from their cellphone to cancel.
Rafe Morgan
was breathing hard. Was he…wheezing? What if he was a smoker? What if his lungs
seized up?

What
if he had a heart condition? He was a big guy.
She remembered how some of those
enormous football and basketball players suddenly dropped dead – just like
that. Her lips twisted in concern.
What if he collapsed in her apartment? My
God, he was a good two hundred thirty pounds – gosh his body hitting the floor
would shake the entire building! What if her latest lie caused a man to die?
How many years of prayers of penance would that total!

Okay,
relax, the man hasn't died. At least not yet. You can handle this.
Kit inhaled a deep controlling
breath. She had just completed a CPR course. She had done chest compression.
Granted it had been on a dummy, but she could do it.
Stay calm. 911 is
programmed into the phone. Just hit the red button. The ambulance was maybe ten
minutes away tops!

Ten
minutes. She could do CPR for ten minutes. Damn, why hadn't she made time to
download that PocketCPR app into her cellphone!

Relax.
You can do it. Pretend the app is helping you. Visualize. Get on top of him.
Straddle him. Deliver good compressions. Push harder. Maybe push softer. No, it
would have to be harder. He had those massive chest muscles. Push faster. No,
push slower. Faster. Harder. Softer. Slower. In. Out. Up. Down. 

She
swallowed down the sudden stab of physical awareness that clenched her pelvis
and aroused her nipples into hard nubs.
Focus! This is CPR not sex! Sex –
no. No sex. Focus on the proper rate of compression.

What
if he stopped breathing! Relax.
Kit inhaled a third calming breath.
If he
collapses, and has no pulse, and stops breathing - she had done mouth-to-mouth
resuscitation. Granted that had been on a dummy, too. But she could do that.
She could press her mouth against his, force air into his lungs and…well, he'd
already French-kissed her and - her thoughts skidded to a halt.

Resuscitation
and French-kissing was not the same thing! It may be called the kiss of life
but there was no tongue involvement. Let's not even go there.

Mentally
she shook that thought away along with the memory of his palm cupping her
breast and his fingers teasing her sleeping nipple alert and how wonderful his
kisses had been and – crap! There her brain went again? For heaven's sake –
what was her problem? The man probably wanted to kill her!

By the
time they finally reached the attic
apartment,
the rush of hot, stale air that greeted
them
did little to cool the electrically charged atmo
sphere. Kit switched on the ceiling fan and lights. "
Why don't you take a seat," she gestured
toward
the sofa. "I'll get you a cold drink."

"Make it a tall one," Rafe ordered bluntly. He
tossed his jacket and tie on the
wicker rocker and stood
looking around the small room. This was no sex lair. He wasn't sure
what he was expecting but it wasn't four hundred square feet of simplicity.
Clean, crisp, no-clutter – cool green paint on the walls with blue accents and
white wicker furniture.

He ducked his head
under the sharply angled wall when the only other
door in the room proved to be the
closet that led to
a
dormer bath. "Is this it?" Frowning, he settled
his tall frame on the blue plaid cushioned divan.

Kit had quickly filled a tall glass
and returned to the living room. "This is
my
home," she answered
defiantly, her light blue
eyes challenging his probing brown ones.

"Where's the bedroom?"

"You're sitting on it."

"That's convenient." The twinkle was back in his
eyes. She handed him the drink
and took the seat next to him, rationalizing that it would be less of a
strain not to have a direct line
of vision to his obvi
ously
potent charm.

Rafe looked at the dark brown liquid in the glass and frowned.
"What the hell is this?"

"Chocolate milk."

He mimed the words, watching her head nod in agreement, the burnished
waves bouncing on her shoulders. "Chocolate milk?" Rafe repeated.

"Yes, all the athletes use it to recover from exertion. You were
breathing pretty hard on the stairs." She leaned forward, the back of her
hand pressed against his damp forehead. "Are you okay? Does your chest
feel heavy? Like a vice? Like an elephant's sitting on it?" Her palm
rested briefly on his cheek before moving across his pectorals. "Gosh,
your heart is really beating fast. Let me get you an aspirin. I know CPR and
resuscitation, so if you have any chest pains or feel like you can't breathe…

"Stop." He drained the glass in one gulp, all the while
watching the concern evident on her face and in her blue eyes. It was real.
"I'm fine. No heart problems. Healthy as a horse. Just had a complete
physical." He handed back the glass. "But, I may need some mouth-to-mouth
later."

She pointedly ignored that damn twinkle of amusement that again
glistened in his brown eyes, plopped the glass on the wooden floor, then
reached up and dusted his top lip with her thumb. "A little chocolate milk
mustache."

He knew she was stalling, but he was having a helluva good time. Rafe
watched her wriggle uncomfortably on the blue plaid cushion. "Well?"
He failed to hide the hint of amuse
ment in his voice.

She looked up at the ceiling.
How galling.
"I don't
know where to start."

"Try the
middle."

Kit stared straight ahead, coughed, cleared her throat, and coughed
again. She didn't need to pretend tears; instant regret washed over her,
causing her shoulders to slump and her voice to take on a
dejected tone. "I carefully saved
every penny I could and was lucky enough to get a cabin on the
Conquis
tador.
Unfortunately, less than a day
out at sea, I
came
down with the stomach flu that had attacked
most of office, well…the entire city. That and being
seasick provided me with a thrilling five-day cruise in my cabin." She
licked her lips and turned
toward Rafe, hoping to
make him understand. "On my first night back
home, my two friends, the ones you
met tonight…
they…they
stopped in and wanted to hear all
about my glamorous adventure on the high seas, so
..."
Her voice trailed off.

"So you gave them magic tropical romantic nights
with embellishments," Rafe
finished dryly. "How
did you happen to pick me for a partner?"

"I wasn't describing you. I mean you look nothing like the man I
described," she told him in acute discomfort.
Kit flushed, reached over to the
end table,
pulled
out the magazine, the basket of liquor miniatures and half-dozen comic books.
"See…he
re you are."

"Where are
I…" He shook his head. "I mean…where am I?" His ears were
buzzing. "What?"

"You."
She pointed to the objects she had spread on the wicker trunk top. "This
is how I created you. I described the underwear model. Well," she frowned
at the black and white ad, "you may have the same hair style but that's
it."

Kit held the
picture up next to his face. "See? He's got stubble but no sexy
mustache." Her fingertip zigzagged across the thick hair that topped his
upper lip. "Honest, I never mentioned a mustache."

"And…no
sexy dimples." Her thumb and forefinger squeezed the deep indents in his
cheeks. "Never mentioned those either. And look, he's well…like those
swimmers, no sexy body hair." Kit's hand pushed aside Rafe's unbuttoned
shirt to wiggle her fingers in the thick hair that matted his chest.