How To Pleasure A Playboy(9)

"Even the dirt can't hide how beautiful you are." He didn't realize he was saying it aloud until he heard himself.

Her hand froze. Their faces were very close, and suddenly they were  staring into each other's eyes. He could feel the warmth of her breath.  If he leaned forward just a little, he'd be able to touch her lips with  his. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks flushed. Her gaze flicked to his  lips. She was thinking about kissing him, he knew it with absolute  certainty.

She blinked and drew back, dropping the flannel on the table. "You keep  making fun of me. Calling me Lovely Lacey in your tweets, and talking  about sharing your silk sheets. It's not funny, okay?"

He held up both hands. "The Baxter Games are paused, remember? And it  happens to be true. You are beautiful. I was just pointing it out."

She scowled. "We're adversaries. This is a competition. And you make it harder when you're nice."

"I'll be mean again tomorrow." He stood up, wincing. Maybe he had  cracked a rib, but he didn't want to bother with a hospital tonight. He  could have his doctor drop by in the morning. "Right now, I'm going to  take a shower."

Lacey stood too. "There's the question of where you're going to sleep now that I don't have a spare room."         

     



 

He measured her two-seater couch with his eyes. It was ridiculously  small. There was no way he'd fit. Looking up again, he could tell she  was thinking the same thing. Her mouth twisted.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but you can take my bed," she said in a  strangled voice. "You're injured, and if you sleep out here, I might  find you dead in the morning. Killed by your own stubbornness, because  you refused to get checked out."

He raised his eyebrows, trying not to smile at her expression. This  time, even through all the grime, it was obvious she was blushing.

"Don't look at me like that," she snapped. "I'm going to take the couch.  Just for tonight, and only because I owe you one. Every night after  that, it's all yours."

He shook his head. "That's the smallest couch I've ever seen. A  three-year-old might be able to stretch out on it, but you won't get any  sleep."

"I'll take my chances."

"Don't be silly. We can share your bed." He put his hand up,  forestalling the arguments he knew were about to come. "It's the only  reasonable solution. I'll even promise to keep my hands to myself." Her  expression made him fight to keep from laughing. She looked like she'd  swallowed a slug. "Come on, Lacey, I won't bite. Where's your sense of  adventure?"

Glancing back down at the tiny couch, she let out a long breath. "If we share the bed, I have conditions."

That was a surprise. He hadn't expected her to agree so easily.

"Number one," she continued. "You don't get to tweet about it, or tell  anyone. Not a single hint that we're in bed together. It has to stay our  secret."

"Agreed."

"Number two, don't put any fingers, toes, or other appendages on my side of the bed. Not even your pinky."

"Anything else?"

"That's it."

He limped to the door of the room that had collapsed and looked in. The  dust had mostly settled. The hole in the floor was jagged, the wood torn  into cruel splinters. He'd been lucky not to impale himself on the way  down.

"My suitcase must be down there in the rubble." He turned to face her.  "I'll get some new clothes delivered tomorrow, but for tonight, I'll  need a towel."

She fetched him one, and he went to the bathroom to ease himself into  shower water that was tepid and little better than a dribble. Hardly the  therapeutic heat he'd been hoping for. The skin around his ribs was  puffy and already going dark. His leg, too. By tomorrow, he'd have a  hell of a set of bruises.

His clothes weren't good for anything but the trash, but he reluctantly  put his boxer briefs back on after the shower, then wrapped the towel  around his waist.

"Shower's all yours," he said to Lacey, who was lying back on the couch.

Her eyes widened as she took in his naked torso. Well, what did she expect? He wasn't going to sleep in filthy clothes.

"Yes." Her voice sounded high and a little strained. "I'll do that.  Shower, I mean. Before bed. Um. You're quite bruised, aren't you? Not  that I'm looking, but I can't help but notice you're swelling. I mean,  around your ribs, not anywhere else." She scrambled up, her face bright  red. "I'd better go now."

He frowned. Was she in shock? "You okay, Lacey? Sit down and I'll get you something to drink."

"No thanks, I'm fine." She disappeared into the bathroom and shut the  door, so he left her to it. If she was still acting strangely after  she'd showered, he'd get the doctor to come over and check on her.

Lacey's bedroom turned out to be a sanctuary of comfort that brought  home just how dismal the rest of the apartment was. Her bed linen was  bright and cheerful, the room had a pleasant floral scent, and she'd  pinned an arrangement of photos to her walls. It was warmer in there  too, and he spotted a small heater tucked into one corner.

A lot of the photos showed Lacey laughing with friends. There was a  graduation portrait where she wore a cap and gown, and another of her as  a gothic-looking teenager, with her wild hair died as black as her  clothes. A woman who had to be Lacey's mother took pride of place in a  large, framed portrait on the dresser. There were a few shots of Lacey  and her mother together, but only when Lacey was small. Lacey's father  was in some photos, looking stern and unsmiling. In one shot, they were  at a worker's protest rally, holding placards. Lacey's father had his  fist raised and was mid-shout, while Lacey looked up at him, eyes  shining behind her thick-rimmed glasses.         

     



 

The photos spoke of a woman whose friends and family meant a lot to her.  Lacey hadn't mentioned her mother, and judging by the photos, she'd  either died or disappeared from Lacey's life when she was young. No  wonder Lacey's father was so important to her. He couldn't see anyone in  the photos who looked like a sibling, so it had probably just been the  two of them when Lacey was growing up.

A shelf on one wall held a dozen or so paperbacks. Seemed Lacey had a  liking for historical romance novels. One bedside table held an open  book, face down to save her place, a box of tissues, a packet of  chocolate candy, and an alarm clock. That had to be the side she slept  on. He smiled to imagine her lying in bed, weeping over a duke and  duchess. Lacey came across so confident and strong that getting a  glimpse of her softer side was like peeking behind the curtain. It made  him feel warm toward her, probably a lot warmer than he should.

Leaving his towel on a hook behind the door, Bronson slid into her bed.  The sheets smelled of her perfume and he took a deep breath of her  scent. In spite of his aches and pains, his blood rushed to his groin.

"Lovely Lacey," he murmured aloud. "You smell too good to resist."

She was wrong about the Baxter Games being on pause for the night.  Sleeping next to her without touching might be the biggest challenge  yet.





Eight





Son of a motherloving gun, she was in bed with Bronson Reyne.

Lacey had fallen asleep with that thought, and she startled awake with  it, flicking her eyes open to stare at his still-sleeping face.

On his side, facing her, he looked peaceful. It was seriously unfair  that he was so gorgeous. His hair was messy, and his dark lashes looked  long and soft, in contrast to the hard, sharp angles of his cheekbones.

It was a face she'd hated. But now, she was just confused. Why did he  have to be so charming? It wasn't fair that her body reacted to him like  it did. It wasn't right for her to have melted into a puddle of horny,  nonsense-babbling goo when he'd come out of the bathroom wearing only a  towel. It wasn't good to have spent so many hours last night picturing  that body lying mostly naked next to her in bed. And it was all kinds of  wrong that now she had an overwhelming urge to take a peek under the  covers.

Crap, what was she thinking? The Baxter Games had barely started and  she'd only known him for one night. He might be charming, but serial  killers were too. Wasn't it common for neighbors to say, ‘but he seemed  such a nice man', as the police dug up mutilated bodies from the nice  man's backyard?

Bronson's eyes opened, and he gave her a smile that threatened to  puddle-fy her all over again. "Morning," he murmured. But when he moved,  he winced.

"Sore?" she asked.

"Not too bad. How about you? Did you sleep well?"

"Um. I'm not used to having someone else in my bed." She spoke without  thinking, then felt her face warm. Should she have admitted that to a  man who was a serial dater? Maybe he didn't have bodies buried in his  backyard, but he'd probably tortured plenty of female hearts.

"Good to know." His voice took on that familiar teasing tone that seemed to be his default setting. "So you don't date?"