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A spring jabbed him in the ribs and he sat up in disgust. Don’t look, he told himself. Do not look at her. But he couldn’t help himself. He looked.
He could just make out her shape, snuggled under the covers of what was possibly the world’s most comfortable bed. It was big and wide with a feather mattress that had been made for long, lazy, snowbound weekends. But he refused to even let himself think about that.
Instead he thought about how very little room she was taking up. She was just a slight little thing right over to one side. Practically the whole rest of the bed was vacant.
And beckoning him.
Although he couldn’t be entirely sure it wasn’t his libido doing the beckoning.
He shifted his gaze to the gray light coming through a kink in the curtains covering a window to the left of the bed. The blizzard had settled, but it was still coming down out there. How many hours had he spent tucked into that bed with his Mom and Dad and Georgia when they’d been kids, playing Go Fish and Scrabble as the snow piled up outside? Happy times. Good memories.
His gaze wandered back to the sleeping woman as he contemplated a whole bunch of new memories. Of the R-rated variety. He shut his eyes, wiping them from his mind. If he got in that bed with her now, it wouldn’t be about making memories. It would be about fulfilling the very basic human requirement of sleep.
He stood, hands on hips. He only needed a couple of hours. For now anyway. Just to recharge the batteries. He could be out of the bed before she even stirred, given the amount of alcohol she’d consumed. He’d stay on his side. She wouldn’t even know he’d been there.
He nodded to himself, decision made. Dropping his hands, he strode over to the bed before battle-honed caution could overcome him. And he didn’t stop to overthink it as he reached the side opposite the sleeping woman. He didn’t think about deep, wet, hungry kisses. Hell, he didn’t even look at her. Just peeled back the covers and eased in under them.
And as his head sunk into a down pillow and the mattress enveloped him like a long-lost friend, he didn’t even have time to feel guilty. He just crashed headlong into sleep.
Chapter Four
Twelve hours ’til midnight
Tamara didn’t know what time it was or how many hours had passed when she woke. All she knew was she felt like hell. As the memories of what had happened just prior to her falling into a coma started to filter back, she couldn’t help thinking how pertinent it was given that she was going directly to a fiery afterlife.
Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.
She shut her eyes as her how about it floated back through the thump in her head. Had she really propositioned her friend’s brother? And then thrown up like some Jersey Shore party princess? This wasn’t her. She didn’t drink to excess and certainly not at nine o’clock in the morning. She’d never even been drunk—not really.
Tipsy, occasionally. Very occasionally.
And she didn’t come on to men. Granted, she was good at the copulatory gaze but she never—never—approached a man first. That may be old-fashioned but it had worked pretty well for her so far.
Except for this last year.
Tamara had learned fairly quickly that copulatory gazes only attracted men who wanted to copulate—not procreate. Settle down. Commit. And she didn’t want one without the other or at least without the potential of the other.
Well...she hadn’t when this had all started a year ago, anyway.
And then Sergeant Luke Jackson had walked through the door. Although, to be fair, she was so hot to trot right now she’d have probably done the yeti had he been the unfortunate one to step into the cabin.
Tamara rolled on her back exhaling on a groan. That’s it—I’m officially desperate.
She opened her eyes. And then, as she became aware of a shape beside her, she froze, her breath stuttering to a halt in her lungs. Very slowly, she turned her head. It wasn’t the yeti, although she almost wished it were because the reality was worse.
Way worse.
The dull light peeking through the nearby window may not have been great but it was enough, and she exhaled slowly as she confronted her worst nightmare. Sleeping in bed. Beside her. Six foot plus of broad, bare-chested man. All smooth tanned skin and latent sexuality. Eyelashes to die for. Lips that could have graced any marble statue. A chin cleft that made her weak in a place that was nowhere near her knees.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Was it possible she was still drunk and he was just a figment of her imagination? She opened them again. Nope, she was one hundred percent sober. And he was very, very real.
She noted that his stubble had gone, leaving just a hint of shadow emphasizing an angular jaw so smooth it begged to be touched. Just like his chest. A sprinkling of hair around dark nipples, then nothing till the tantalizing trail that headed south of his belly button and disappeared behind covers that had been pushed down to his hips.
Tamara’s heart started to pound. Crap. Was he...naked under there?
And then another thought—a really, really bad one—started to circle like a buzzard over carrion. Oh God! Had they...?
Her pulse pounded. Her head thumped.
