The contrast of warm skin and cool water, the tickle of hair against her thighs and stomach, and the heavy air above the refreshing water all combined with Donovan’s kiss to send her senses into overload.
Oh, yeah. She was definitely impressed.
Once again Lorelei woke in a strange bed with a man sleeping beside her. Her brain was faster this time in making sense of the situation—and she lacked the massive hangover from last week—but the feeling of déjà vu couldn’t be shaken.
Weak daylight peeked in around the curtains, telling her it was early yet. She could hear Donovan’s deep, even breaths beside her, and one heavy leg had hers pinned to the bed. She was very glad Donovan was still asleep, otherwise this morning would end up being equally as awkward—but hopefully not as hostile—as the last time.
At least this time she remembered all the details—even if she was still a little fuzzy on the “why” part. Well, not completely fuzzy. She knew why she’d had sex with him: because she’d wanted to. Why she’d wanted to was a bit trickier to nail down.
It was all very confusing. And not something she really wanted to deal with right now.
Slowly and carefully, she slid her legs out from under his. Donovan mumbled and rolled over, but didn’t wake, so she slipped out of the bed and took her clothing to the hallway to dress.
Once again she’d be going home in evening wear, but the chances of her being noticed were pretty slim, actually, since she knew which streets to avoid to keep accidental encounters to a minimum. Tiptoeing down the stairs, she grabbed the rest of her things. The sight of the alarm keypad next to the front door gave her pause. Had Donovan set the alarm last night?
Cringing the whole time, she opened the door and waited for sirens to blare and announce her exit. Nothing. With a sigh of relief she stepped outside, pulling the door closed and making sure it locked behind her. Cursing her footwear, she started the trek home.
It was early enough not to be miserable, but the day was already promising to be a scorcher, and the humidity was already high enough to have her hair sticking to her neck. She couldn’t say the Quarter was waking up, since it never actually slept, but there were few people on the streets, and some of them looked worse than she did.
Normally the walk home wouldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes, tops, but her shoes slowed her down and that gave her more time to think. Pretty soon she was starting to wonder if bolting had been the best idea—and not just because her feet hurt.
Sneaking out like that made her feel as if she had done something wrong, something she regretted, and that really wasn’t the case. But she was darned sure she didn’t want to do the morning-after bit. Not with Donovan, at least. They’d agreed it was just about the sex, and she was okay with that, because she wasn’t looking for anything more. She had too much on her plate at the moment to get involved with anyone beyond a physical thing. She needed to focus—not look for distractions—but she had to admit Donovan had been an excellent stress-reliever.
Even sweaty and sore-footed, she felt better than she had in quite a while. She’d needed last night, needed that release.
Her feet were dying as she got to the sidewalk in front of her house, and she slipped the shoes off before climbing the stairs to her porch. The blast of air-conditioning that greeted her felt even better. Dropping her stuff, she headed straight for the shower and then into bed.
As she closed her eyes she realized the stress relief hadn’t been just physical. Last night’s surrealism, that step outside of the norm, had been exactly what she needed. And that was all Donovan.
How very disturbing.
Yeah, she’d done the right thing by getting out of there. She really didn’t need the complication.
CHAPTER FIVE
LORELEI SMILED ALL THE way through the awards dinner, applauded politely as the names were called, and gave a simple yet heartfelt speech on Vivi’s behalf as she received a plaque for her gallery’s support of young and upcoming artists. Where Vivi would find room to hang the plaque was an excellent question, as the walls of her office were already lined with dozens of other awards of appreciation.
She ran her fingers over Vivi’s name and felt a small twinge of regret. If only she could send a message back in time to her younger self, explaining how not all attention was good attention, that infamy was not the same as respect, and that there was such a thing as a permanent record—at least in people’s minds—it might be her name on that plaque instead of Vivi’s. One day …
She’d accepted the fact she’d never be the saint Vivi was a long time ago, but she was slowly making inroads, repairing the damage. This insane schedule had its benefits. She would have met pretty much every single important person in New Orleans by the time Vivi returned. Not that she didn’t know them already, but there was a difference in knowing someone socially and seeing them as a professional. That was her goal.