Calling His Bluff (14 page)

Sometime just after the crack of dawn in hell, where a sadist had positioned her so
that bolts of fire shone straight into her eyes, burning to the back of the hollowed-out
space where her brain had been before someone scraped it out with a dull spoon, she
woke up.

And wished for immediate death.

Thrusting a hand under the sheet twisted around her waist—she needed to hide her face
against the glare—she tried to pull it up. But her hand kept catching on something,
and she couldn’t grip the fabric. She finally tugged her hand free and a ruby glitter
caught her eye.

“What the…” She lifted her hand. Her
left
hand. A long rectangle of a red stone, wrapped in a delicate silver twist, sat on
her ring finger like it belonged there.

“Where did I get that?”

Her head was pounding like tiny marching bands were blaring Sousa as they stomped
through the veins in her head.

“What on earth happened last night?” Her voice was raspy.

“Are you always so noisy in the morning?”

She shrieked and flew off the bed. The owner of the grumpy, masculine voice rolled
into the spot she’d just abandoned. A broad expanse of muscled back,
naked
muscled back, was only partially concealed by the rumpled sheets of her bed.

She looked from the ring on her hand to the naked man in her bed.

“Holy shit. Did we get
married
last night?”

If her voice hadn’t actually crawled with horror at the idea, J.D. probably would
have told Sarah right off the bat that they weren’t married.

Okay. That was a lie.

He wasn’t a saint. An opportunity like this didn’t come along twice in a lifetime.
But he would have let her believe it for only a few precious minutes of practical-joke
bliss before telling her the truth. He would have enjoyed her shock for a moment and
then let her in on the joke. They could have laughed about how startled she’d been
before heading down to breakfast together.

Maybe he would have had to explain what he was doing sleeping in her bed, too. That
explanation alone could have led to them spending some more time in said bed.

But after having spent a terrible night getting almost no sleep—between his overwhelming
awareness of the naked body in bed next to him and the roof-rattling snores that erupted
regularly and with surprising power from such a non-sumo-wrestling-sized woman—he
was in no mood to be considerate. Not if she was going to keep going on and on about
what an awful, horrible, very bad thing it was to have woken up married to him.

“This is impossible. There’s no way I got married to you in the middle of the night.
I don’t care how drunk I was.” Sarah paced back and forth at the foot of the bed.
J.D. was still in it, lying on his side with his head propped up on one hand. He wondered
how long he could pretend not to notice she was naked.

As long as possible, he decided. She had a phenomenal body, long and lean, with just
enough curves to keep it interesting. Her breasts were high and small but perfect.
Like the Platonic ideal of breasts. A gorgeous curve underneath, with small pink nipples
that he remembered responding to the lightest of touches last night, before everything
had gone off the rails. And if his eye was normally caught by a woman whose curves
filled out her jeans, he was discovering the erotic potential of a body that was streamlined
for speed.

“How could you make me do something like this?” She threw her hands in the air and
turned to face him.

“Hey, it was your idea, babe.” Since he was sure that he was going to confess sooner
or later, he saw no point in accepting any of the blame now. There would be plenty
of it later.

“What?” She put her hands on her hips and actually stamped the floor. He laughed at
her and prepared to defend himself when she took a step toward the bed. But that was
also when she finally noticed that she was buck-ass naked. He could tell because she
shrieked again and then grabbed the edge of the comforter from the foot of the bed,
trying to toss it up over his head. “Close your eyes!”

He pushed the heavy blanket away with one hand, still laughing at her. And got a perfect
view of her ass as she pawed through the hangers in the armoire, searching for her
robe, he assumed.

“I believe the law’s on my side, honey. I’ve got a legal right to see you naked now.”
He ducked his head to avoid being clobbered by an electric-blue spike-heeled sandal.
He relented. “Check the bathroom. You brought the robe in there last night to change,
but then just came out in what you’re wearing. Or, you know, not wearing.”

Moments later, she stormed back from the bathroom wearing the short, smoke-gray satin
robe, yanking the sash into a knot so tight she’d need to cut it off to get it undone.
He’d wondered the night before if the smoky color and sheen of the fabric would make
her look like an ice princess, all cool surfaces and smooth curves. As she stomped
back to the bed with murder high on her agenda, he was pleased to see that he’d guessed
right.

“What do you mean this was my idea? That is not possible,” she demanded, standing
over him like his third grade teacher. All she needed was a ruler to slap in her palm.

He shifted a pillow under his head and leaned back, fingers laced behind his head.
Yeah, he was gonna ride this one out for a little while all right.

“Hey, I just bought you the ring as a joke. You know, after what you said to that
woman at the poker table.” Truth was, he didn’t know why he’d bought the ring. And
gone to some effort over it, even asking Mr. Fiorentino to arrange for the Tiffany
& Co. store to be opened for him at midnight. And he’d felt a ridiculous amount of
nerves about choosing the right ring.

He’d told himself that he wanted only to see the look on Sarah’s face when he dropped
the box in her lap and walked away. But then he’d rejected ring after ring for not
being right. In the end, he’d selected the delicate yet fiery piece of jewelry with
far more care than he’d planned. So when Sarah fell asleep on his shoulder on the
way up to her room without even seeing it, he’d been disappointed. He’d put it on
her finger after laying her on top of her covers, knowing she’d probably insist on
returning it when she woke up and saw it. The thought had made him sad. “You were
the one who took one look at the ring when I was trying to carry you up here and decided
that we should run off and get married.”

She took a step back from the bed and looked down at her hand. Twisted the ring around
her finger as her eyes lost focus. He could see her trying to remember.

“I remember you dropping the box in my lap,” she said. After a moment, she shook her
head and pressed her lips together. “Why don’t I remember the rest of it?”

For a moment, he almost caved. J.D. opened his mouth to tell her that absolutely nothing
had happened. That he’d brought her back to her room, that he’d only stayed because
she kept waking up and trying to open the hallway door, insisting it was the bathroom.
The vision of her wandering the casino in her condition had terrified him, so he’d
slept there. But he’d kept his shorts on and, more heroically, had made a valiant
effort not to look at her when she’d stripped off her clothes and weaved around the
room naked. He’d only peeked to make sure she wasn’t making a break for the hallway
again, this time in her birthday suit.

Not a thing had happened between the two of them. And the hurt and confused look in
her eyes, the lines between her drawn-together brows, the way she bit at her lower
lip, all combined to make him feel like a bit of a jerk for letting this ruse continue.

“Sarah, don’t worry—”

“Don’t worry?” She shouted at him and flung her hands in the air. “How the hell am
I supposed to explain this to my family? What am I going to tell my mother?”

“Your mother likes me,” he defended himself automatically.

“She adores you. As her son’s best friend. But as my husband? Are you crazy?” Sarah
flung herself into one of the armchairs by the window and covered her eyes with one
hand. “You’re not exactly a stick-around kind of guy, J.D.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

* * *

Great, now she’d hurt his feelings.

Sarah peeked out from beneath the hand she’d smashed against her face, in what she
assumed was a subconscious enactment of the “if I can’t see it, it isn’t happening”
brand of wishful thinking.

Had she really married him? J.D. had already shown that he was dumb enough to rush
into marriage once, but until right now, she would have said that there wasn’t enough
ouzo in the world to make her that foolish.

J.D. was sitting up in bed now, like a living, breathing Rodin sculpture—all muscle
and smooth golden skin as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs, his
hands twisting the sheet in front of him. He was looking at her like she’d just pulled
the tail of his favorite puppy.

“I just meant that you’re a, you know, globe-trotting Hollywood photographer,” she
said, trying to take her eyes off him. Jesus, with his long hair falling in his face
and the dark shadow of stubble on his jaw, it was like having a pirate in her bed.
But a sexy pirate, one without all those pesky eighteenth-century flaws like scurvy
and no bathing. A man who looked a little dangerous, like he might make a maiden walk
the plank if she didn’t give up her virtue.

Focus, Sarah!

“Look,” she began again, gesturing to him with both open hands. “That’s all beside
the point. If we were madly in love and got married in Vegas, none of that would matter.
But we’re not, so how the hell did you let this happen?” She stopped him before he
could utter the words. “I don’t care if it was my idea. Why would you go along with
it?”

When he grabbed the sheet with one hand and she realized that he was getting out of
her bed, she slammed her eyes shut.

Then cracked one open a second later, a weakness she was sure any woman on the planet
would understand.

Boxer briefs.

Hmmph.
Not quite as good as in the buff, but still very nice. Very nice indeed. And the
white cotton showed off the deep golden tone of his skin to good advantage. When he
lifted his arms to shove them in the sleeves of his wrinkled dress shirt, she almost
swallowed her tongue. What a body. She could have walked her fingers from his shoulders
to his waist, stepping from muscle to muscle all the way down to the waistband of
the slacks he’d pulled on, and beyond. But the sight of him also deepened her confusion.

Guys who looked like J.D. simply did not end up in the beds of women who looked like
her. And she wasn’t denying her own appeal. Far from it. But men who looked like
that
ended up with women who looked like, well, his ex-wife for one. The whole lesbian
thing aside, she was exactly who Sarah would picture J.D. dating. Blonde, built and
visibly sexual.

Sarah Tyler staring at this naked man in her hotel room simply did not make sense.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Was that what you said the first time you did this?” she snapped. She saw him flinch.
Shit.
“Sorry. That was an asshole thing to say.” She shut her eyes, closing off the vision
of all that lovely male flesh. Taking a deep breath, she tried to remember what they
were talking about.

Right. Getting married. To J.D.

J.D. and marriage.

Oh, fuck.

“A good idea at the time, J.D.? Really? You don’t even know if you’re still married
to Lana!”

He crouched down and looked under the bed, keeping his weight off his newly healed
leg.

“I wasn’t in my right mind either, obviously.” Ouch, now why did that sting? It was
no worse than what she’d said. “And I know what Lana wants from me. A crack at a bigger
movie role. We’re not married. I’ve got the divorce papers and the cancelled check
from the outrageous fee to prove it.” J.D. dragged the other armchair away from the
wall and shoved it back. “So, we’ve got some chemistry—” the look he shot her would
have curled the toes of a nun “—I like you. You seem to like me. Most of the time.
I love your family.”

He was leaning over her now, peering behind her chair, and she could smell him, spicy
and warm. The need to slide her hands up his chest and around his neck was overwhelming.
It would certainly make it easier to strangle him. Just what every woman wanted to
hear. How much more her man loved her family than he did her. Although that wasn’t
exactly a secret with J.D. It had been true for at least the past twenty years.

Clearing her throat, she tried to find her voice. And sat on her hands.

“Don’t you have that a little backwards? You’re supposed to
love
me and
like
my family.”

He stepped back from her chair. She resumed breathing. He ran his fingers through
his hair and muttered a curse. “Where the hell are my shoes?”

“Check the floor of the armoire. Left hand side.”

“Why?” he snapped.

“Because,” she snapped back, “that’s where an organized person would put them if she
stumbled across them in the middle of the night.” He yanked open the door and pulled
a pair of men’s dress shoes out of the armoire.

“Oh sure, she remembers the
shoes.
”

She ignored him and got up to find her cell phone. Just standing up made her head
throb again. Digging the razor-thin phone out of her little clutch, she dialed the
toll-free number that was conveniently memorable.

“Who are you calling?”

“The police,” she said, and then decided the morning had been fouled up too much for
bad jokes. “The airline.”

“Why?”

“You have to ask? I want to go home, as soon as possible.” Stupid recordings. She
pushed the zero button repeatedly and tried to bully her way through the system to
a real person.

With a sudden jerk, the phone was wrested from her hand. When she turned, J.D. was
pushing the disconnect button.