About Last Night... (10 page)

tub, naked and slippery, their legs entwined. She lazily lowered her toe to the shiny chrome faucet and outlined the square

opening. Feeling uncharacteristically wanton, she cupped her breasts, reveling in the textures—silky smooth and achingly hard.

Long-denied sensations seized her, and she gave in to the lull of the warm bubbling water. After a moment's hesitation, she

closed her eyes and slipped a washcloth to the apex of her thighs.

Holding it from corner to corner, she drew the wet nubby cloth over the folds of her flesh, sighing as tremors delivered

wonderful, quivering sensations to her extremities. This was how she wanted him to touch her, with gentle, firm strokes,

knowing when to take his time and … and … and …
when
to speed up.
She pressed her lips together to stifle the moans of

pleasure that vibrated in the back of her throat. As the waves of release diminished, she sank farther into the luxuriously warm

water to enjoy the lingering hum.
Oh, Derek…

* * *

seen was her face, surrounded by hunks of wet blond hair, but with little imagination he could picture her slender body on the

other side of that shower curtain, buoyed by the water. He ground his teeth against the image, then realized the doctor had said

something and was waiting for a reply.

"Excuse me?" He put a finger to his temple to feign the distraction of a headache.

Dr. Pedro smiled as he scrutinized the box of medication Derek had handed to him. "I said I'm glad Ms. Murphy is still

feeling well."

"Oh, yeah, right." With a swift mental kick, Derek reminded himself that while they were in the middle of a serious medical

situation,
he
was obsessing over his unexplainable attraction to Steve's bride. With sheer determination, he pushed all thoughts

of the woman from his mind.

Dr. Pedro directed Derek to keep taking the medicine for his symptoms. Afterward he quickly drew a blood sample from

Derek's forearm, then stood to leave. "If your, um, friend starts exhibiting symptoms, please call the front desk and I'll be

notified."

Mr. Oliver extended a sheet of green paper. "These are a few guidelines concerning movement about the property during the

quarantine, how your meals will be delivered, how information will be disseminated, et cetera."

Derek exhaled noisily, then accepted the sheet. "How serious is this situation?"

Dr. Pedro's mouth turned down. "We had to transport three people to the hospital this morning, but we're optimistic they'll

respond to an antibiotic IV."

Derek sobered. "How long will we be confined?"

"Until the source of the bacteria is detected, the method of contagion identified and the incubation period has passed."

"Worst-case scenario?" he asked.

The doctor shrugged. "Two weeks."

Derek felt a little rubbery in the knees. "I have to sit down." He dropped to the side of the bed, reeling. He was going to have

to resist Janine for two weeks? Plus, in two weeks the Phillips Honey account would be long gone, and possibly his company's

viability.
Jack, where the hell are you?

"But that's worst-case scenario," Dr. Pedro added. The men walked toward the door, the general manager saying something

about free phone calls. When the door closed, he lay back on the bed, holding his head and wondering if the situation could

possibly get more bizarre.

"Derek?" Janine yelled from the bathroom. "Derek!" Her voice held a note of panic that roused him to his feet in one second

flat.

He raced to the door and pressed his cheek against the smooth surface. "What's wrong?"

"I'm stuck."

Derek frowned. "What do you mean, you're stuck?"

"I mean my big toe … it's stuck in the bathtub faucet. Help me!"

8

« ^ »

W
arm sudsy water lapped at her mortified ears. Janine stared down at the end of the tub where her leg arched up out of the

water—bent at the knee, dripping foam, and ending in a union with the shiny gold faucet. Trapped toe-knuckle deep into the

opening of the chrome fixture, her big toe was as red as a cherry tomato from several minutes of futile tugging—a fitting end to

her outrageous behavior, she decided. For fantasizing about another man, she was now trapped in this bathroom, a realization

that did not sit well with her preference for open spaces. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.

She hadn't heard the door open, but suddenly Derek's big body was silhouetted through the shower curtain.

"Janine, from the other side of the door it sounded like you said—"

"My big toe is stuck in the bathtub faucet."

He scoffed. "That's impossible."

"I beg to differ," she said miserably, then moved the curtain aside to peep out, and up. "Are you going to help me or not?"

The man looked harried. And not well. Guilt barbed through her. She should be looking after him instead of getting into

scrapes. At the moment, however, she had no choice but to don the most pitiful expression she could conjure up.

It must have worked because Derek threw his hands in the air. "What do you want me to do?"

"Hand me a towel so I can cover myself, then try to get my toe unstuck."

He looked up, as if appealing to a higher power, then sighed and handed her a towel.

"Thank you." She dunked the thick towel under the water, dissolving mounds of bubbles, and spread it over her nakedness.

But her heart thumped wildly at the thought of Derek seeing her yet again in a state of near undress, especially when she was so

recently sated on thoughts of him. "Okay, I'm ready."

His large fingers curled around the edge of the shower curtain, and he pushed it aside slowly. The cool air hit her bits of

exposed skin and sent a chill down her neck. She shivered, an all-over body shimmy, although she conceded she couldn't blame

her reaction entirely on the elements. The man was huge, especially from her angle, his proportions nearly those of a

professional athlete. A memory surfaced that Steve had once told her he had a pal who had played college football. Perhaps

he'd meant Derek.

He ran a hand down over his face and looked at her through his fingers.
"What
is a person thinking when she shoves her toe

up a faucet?"

Janine averted her eyes. She certainly couldn't tell him what she'd been doing. "I wasn't thinking."

"Obviously," he said, his expression bewildered. He slid the curtain to the wall, then lowered himself to one knee.

She felt at a terrible disadvantage at this lower level, not to mention naked and submerged. The towel covered her, but clung

to her figure in a manner that belied its purpose. Of course, it didn't matter, since the man seemed completely unfazed. He

leaned close to the faucet, so close she could feel his breath on her bare leg. Thank goodness she'd shaved them earlier.

He swept a soap wrapper and an empty miniature shampoo bottle from the side of the tub into the trash to clear a spot, then

picked up the dripping metal razor and gave her a pointed look. "You used my razor?"

She bit her lower lip. "To shave my legs. I thought it was Steve's."

His jaw tightened as he set aside the razor. "It isn't."

He didn't have a girlfriend, she realized suddenly. At least not a live-in. Not even a lady friend who occasionally spent the

night, else he would be used to sharing his razor. Then she frowned. Not that she'd ever used Steve's.

"Would you please turn off the motor so I can think?" he asked, his voice strained.

"I can't reach the switch," she said, pointing over his shoulder.

He stabbed the button in the corner of the tub ledge and the rumbling motor died abruptly, taking the soothing bubbles with it.

Suddenly the room fell so quiet, she could hear the calling of birds outside the skylight, where daybreak was well under way.

The eve of her supposed wedding day. She felt light-headed and realized she hadn't eaten in hours. And Derek's imposing

nearness was tripping her claustrophobic tendencies.

He gripped the side of the tub and perused her foot from all directions, then he glanced back at her. "Can't you just pull it

out?"

She scratched her nose, realizing too late her hand was covered with suds. Sputtering the bubbles away from her mouth, she

said, "If I could, I wouldn't have called you."

He pursed his mouth, then said, "I'm not a plumber."

"Do something," she pleaded. "The water's getting cold, and I'm shriveling up."

"Really? Gee, and you've only been in here for an hour."

She frowned at his teasing. "You were the one who suggested I take a long, hot bath."

He laughed, then turned his attention back to her foot. "Except I don't recall suggesting that you insert your toe into the metal

pipe coming out of the wall."

She pressed her lips together and braced for his touch. He clasped her foot gently, but firmly, and his fingers sent arrows of

tingly sensations exploding up her leg, reminiscent of her climax. She grunted and he looked over his shoulder.

"My leg is asleep," she explained.

He isolated his grip to the base of her toe, wriggling it side to side. The inside lip of the faucet dug into her tender skin.

"Ouch! Not so hard."

"I'm sorry," he said, seemingly at a loss for what to do next. "I need something slick to lubricate your toe." He looked around.

"Where's the soap?"

Janine lifted her hand and held her thumb and forefinger close together. "You mean that little bitty bar of soap the hotel

provided?"

Derek nodded.

A flush warmed her cool cheeks. "I used it all." He flicked a dubious glance over her towel-covered body. Maybe he thought

she didn't look clean enough to have used an entire bar of soap. Her skin tingled, and not from her leg being asleep.

"Shampoo?" he asked.

She lifted a shaky finger to point to her hair, wet and plastered to her head. "I have a lot of hair."

A wry frown tugged at his mouth. "I can see that."

"Don't you have soap or shampoo in your toiletry bag?" she asked, pointing to the black case on the vanity she'd mistaken for

Steve's.

He shook his head. "I travel light and expect hotels to have those things." Then he snapped his fingers. "But I do have shaving

cream."

Janine smiled sheepishly and reached behind her to hand him the empty travel-size can of shaving cream. "You were almost

out anyway," she offered in her defense.

He depressed the button to the sound of hissing emptiness. The side of his cheek bulged from his probing tongue. He rimmed

the can into the trash, then pushed himself to his feet. "Maybe Steve will have something in his bag."

The bathroom seemed cavernous in his absence, and she wondered briefly how Steve would have handled this predicament.

With much less good humor, she suspected, and the realization bothered her.

Derek returned with Steve's black bag, set it on the vanity and ransacked it for several minutes. "Nothing," he said, defeated.

"I'll call the front desk and have something sent up."

The water had taken on a distinct chill, the last cloud of bubbles were fizzing away and her leg was beginning to throb. "Tell

them to hurry," she called.

But a few minutes later, he was back in the doorway. "The line is still busy. I'll have to go downstairs."

"I thought we weren't supposed to leave our rooms."

He smirked and gestured toward her foot. "I'll leave it up to you, but I'd say this constitutes an emergency."

"Don't you have
anything
in your bag that would do? Hair gel? Lotion?"

"Nope."

"Petroleum jelly? Body oil?" He shook his head.

"What would happen if you turned on the faucet?"

A tolerant smile curved one side of his mouth. "Believe me, you don't want to do that. But I can let out the water if you're

cold."

"I think the water is helping to support my weight."

His gaze swept over her again. "What weight? I thought you southern women were supposed to have a little meat on your

bones."

She scowled. "Do you mind? I thought you were going to help. Don't you have anything that might work?"

"I told you, I—

" He stopped and his dark eyebrows drew together, then his mouth quirked.

"What?"

He shook his head, as if he'd dismissed the thought. "Never mind."

"No, what is it? Tell me!"

"It wouldn't work."

"For crissake, Derek, spit it out!"

"Honey butter."

"What?"

"I have a pint of honey butter."

Janine angled her head at him. "Are you feeling worse?"

He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "Yes."

"You really shouldn't do that."

He stopped rubbing, gave her a silencing glance, then whirled and disappeared into the bedroom.

She stretched her neck, but he'd moved out of her line of vision. Had he said honey butter? The man was incoherent, she

decided, but her worry over his deteriorating symptoms was overridden by her immediate concern of being left alone to die a

slow death in this bathtub. She laid her head back and stared at the skylight. At least the view would be nice.

But Derek returned in a few seconds with a small container in his hand, reading the label. "This stuff has butter in it, so

maybe it'll work."