Chapter 6

DEREK HAD heard of being too tired to sleep, but he thought he might have reached the point where he was too tired even to breathe. He lay still on the bed, eyes closed, waiting for a burst of energy that would allow his lungs to expand. Meanwhile, he listened to the perpetually frazzled Janine murmur and moan and otherwise fret up her nerve to speak to her mother. Unfortunately for him, hearing was the only one of five senses that required no energy whatsoever.

"Mom?" Her voice squeaked like a cartoon character's. "I'm fine—yes, I'm sure. I just walked back into the room. Uh-huh."

She must have a decent relationship with her mother, he noted, else she wouldn't be so eager to reassure her.

"How did you know I was here? Oh, I forgot about your police scanner. You called Marie? And she told you I was here. Ah. Hmm? Yes, we're definitely under a quarantine." She cleared her throat. "Yes, we might have to consider p-postponing the wedding."

A screech sounded through the phone. He opened one eye to find her holding the handset away from her ear. When the noise subsided, she pulled it closer. "Mom, I said 'might.' I'll know more in a few hours. Right now I really need to go to bed."

An unfocused thrill rumbled through his beleaguered body at her words—a base reaction to a woman's voice, he reasoned. Any woman's voice.

Her gaze lowered to meet his, and she blanched. "I m-mean, I really need to get some rest, Mom. Not necessarily in bed. A person doesn't have to be in bed in order to rest. Hmm?" Her eyes darted around. "The man who answered?"

He might have laughed at her predicament if he'd had the energy. As it was, he was having trouble keeping the one eyelid half-open.

She was staring at him, chewing on her lower lip. "That was, um, the, um..."

"Best Man?" he prompted, barely moving his lips.

She scowled and turned her back. "That was the... be—llman. Yes, the bellman."

He wondered briefly what the bellman's job paid and how it compared to advertising.

"Why am I here?" Another fake laugh, except this one sounded a tad hysterical. "I'll tell you all about it later, okay?" She bent over, still talking as she moved the handset closer to the receiver. "Good night, Mom. Okay... okay... okay... bye." She jammed the phone home with a sigh, leaving the only sound in the room the faint whir of the air conditioner, which he'd turned up. He closed his one eye. Man, was it hot down here.

"I assume you requested a cot."

His eyes flew open at the accusing tone in her voice. She still wore the black raincoat, rendered even more ridiculous because he knew what lay underneath. Her arms were crossed, and with her blond hair falling in her eyes, she looked like a cross between Rapunzel and Columbo.

He closed his eyes again to summon enough strength to speak. "Yes."

He'd nearly drifted off to sleep when she broke in again. "And are they sending one up?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She was like a pesky fly, and he was too tired to flick his tail. "They were out," he mumbled. The haze of sleep was claiming him again.

"Okay, you can get up."

He jerked awake and cast his weary gaze in her direction. "Excuse me?"

"I said you can get up."

He scoffed—a tremendous feat—and shook his head.

"I'm not about to share this bed with you," she said, her voice laced with indignance.

"Relax, Pinky," he muttered, then yawned. "Even if you were my type, which you're not, I'm too tired to take advantage of you."

"If... think... sleeping... you... another think coming."

He squinted at her because her voice faded in and out. "Suit yourself." It was her fault he was in this worsening mess, her fault he was in Atlanta, period. Hers and his brother's, dammit. At the moment, he wasn't sure which of them he resented more.

He would sleep on it, Derek decided.

* * *

JANINE WASN'T certain he'd fallen asleep until one of his pectoral muscles twitched, causing her to jump. She pressed her lips together in anger. Surely the man didn't expect her to crawl into bed with him. She swallowed. Again.

As if he'd sensed her thoughts, he groaned in his sleep and rolled on his side to face her, hugging the pillow under his head with a bent arm. The cream-colored towel around his waist parted slightly, revealing corded thighs covered with dark hair and the faintest almost-maybe-could-be glimpse of his sex. A pang of desire struck her low—or had her corset simply ruptured? Feeling like the most naughty of little girls, she strained for a better look, but when he shifted again and the towel fell away completely, she squeezed her eyes shut and whirled to face the wall.

Yesterday she was a yearning bride-to-be, and today she was peeping at sleeping naked men. She was going to hell.

Bone-deep weariness claimed her, and she scanned the room for another place to lie down. She hadn't realized how opulent the room was, and now she crinkled her nose at the decor, designed more for southern aesthetics than functionality. Being on the top floor, the room boasted a cathedral ceiling and a garish chandelier with fringed mini-shades over the lights. Several bouquets of flowers were situated around the room, emitting a cloying sweetness. The walls were a deep burgundy with a nondescript tone-on-tone design, broken up with a jutting off-white chair rail. To her left, a large pale-painted writing desk with curlicued legs and gilded accents sat at an angle. She walked over and tested it for strength, but didn't like the looks of the distance to the hard parquet floor, at least not the way her luck had been running.

A bulky armoire in the same ornate style contained a television and colorful tourist guides. A wooden valet sat next to it, draped with Derek's jeans and sweatshirt, white socks balled on the floor. Janine stared, struck by the innocent intimacy of those socks.

Past the door, a padded straight-back chair sat mocking her with its stiffness. Next came a fat, curvy dresser with a mirror, which, to her chagrin, reflected Derek's partially nude figure reclining in the comfy-looking bed. Sprawled amongst the sheets, he seemed even larger than when standing. He looked absurdly out of place, broad shoulders and long limbs against the fancy headboard, his feet practically hanging over the end of the mattress.

Despite his massive form, the other side of the bed appeared plenty large enough for her. Perhaps if she slept on top of the covers and put some kind of divider between them—

What was she thinking? She'd be better off bedding down on the loopy cotton rug situated outside the bathroom door, a small island against the dark parquet floor. Wanting to wash her face, Janine kicked off her shoes and limped past Steve's and Derek's suitcases to the oversize bathroom. She squinted beneath the flickering pinkish light over the vanity but reveled in the feel of the cool tile against her fiery feet.

The luxurious moss green bathroom—also vaulted—featured a large vanity area, a padded stool, an electric towel warmer and a skylight over the large tub. The wall seemed curtained with thick cream-colored towels, one conspicuously missing from the long chrome rack—the one now wrapped around Derek, she presumed.

One look in the mirror brought a flood of exhausted and humiliated tears to her eyes. She looked as though she'd been—what was the saying, ridden hard and put up wet ? Her hair lay, or rather, stood, in disarray—big yellow loops out of place, and a rat's nest at the nape of her neck. Black flecks of mascara dotted her cheeks. The rest of her makeup had faded, leaving her skin streaked and blotchy. Her head hurt and her body ached and her pride smarted. And she had to get out of this unbearable costume.

She lowered herself to the stool in front of the vanity, surveying her ragged hose, frowning at her short-lived fantasy of Steve leisurely rolling them down over her knees, calves, ankles. She removed the thigh-highs with a series of frustrating yanks and tossed them into a little shell-shaped wastebasket. After much tugging and cursing, she was finally able to loosen the lacings of the bustier. Her ribs ached from their sudden release, and she inhaled deeply enough to risk hyperventilation. Janine tossed the offending piece of lingerie onto the vanity and scrubbed her face, then contemplated dragging herself back into the bedroom to take up residence on the skimpy little rug.

Irritation at Derek Stillman welled in her chest—if it weren't for him, she wouldn't be in this mess. If he hadn't answered the phone when she called, she would've stayed at her apartment, and none of this would've happened. And if he were half a gentleman, he would've slept on the floor and given her the bed. When Steve heard about this, he'd undoubtedly find yet another Best Man.

Steve.

She moaned and lowered her head, shoving her fingers deep into her hair. How was she going to explain this situation to Steve? Steve, with his family's ultraconservative sensibilities? Tears of misery streamed down her cheeks.

After a good hiccupping cry, Janine sniffed and pushed herself to her feet, then buttoned her coat over the ludicrous pink panties. Everything would look better in the light of day, she told herself, then glanced in the mirror. Well, everything except her hair, maybe.

Meanwhile, she was loath to go back into the bedroom with that, that... big uncouth man-person. She lifted her head, and through bleary eyes saw the huge Jacuzzi-style bathtub and brightened. Why not?

It was certainly big enough to sleep in, and if she lined it with towels...

She jumped up and spread several of the thick towels in the bottom of the tub, telling herself it would sound much better if she could tell Steve that she and Derek slept in separate rooms. And she had to admit, she hadn't discounted the possibility of acquiring Derek's illness—whatever it was—if they shared the same air. She turned off the light and closed the door, then climbed into the deep tub, feeling only slightly foolish. After the events of the past few hours, everything was relative.

The air hung damp around her, remnants of Derek's shower. The scent of soap teased her nostrils, evoking thoughts of the intriguing man lying in the next room. She wondered suddenly if he was married, or engaged, or otherwise attached. Because for some reason, the thought of her, Steve, Derek and someone else all lying awake thinking about each other seemed very funny. A split second later, she sobered.

Steve wasn't thinking about her—he was obviously still out celebrating his last few hours of freedom, while she was bunking down in a bathtub. A sliver of resentment slid up her spine but was quickly overpowered by the onset of claustrophobia sloping in around her. Janine concentrated on the stars through the skylight above her until the panicky sensation subsided.

She snuggled farther into the pallet of towels, smoothing out a lump under her left hip, then admitted the tub was more comfortable than she'd expected. Janine sighed, trying to mine a nugget of philosophical wisdom from her predicament, concluding instead she was living an I Love Lucy episode.

She fell asleep with a vision of her and Steve in black and white, toothpaste smiles, hair perfectly coifed... and sleeping in twin beds.