Chapter 9

FRIDAY 8AM

JANINE ADJUSTED her borrowed clothes. Derek's gray sweatpants—the counterpart to his University of Kentucky sweatshirt, she assumed—swallowed her. Sans underwear, the cotton fleece nuzzled her skin, which was satiny smooth and warm from her prolonged bath. Rolled cuffs helped shorten the pants while a drawstring held the waistband just below her breasts .

She was forced to go braless until Marie or her mother could drop off reinforcements. Derek's plain black T-shirt fell to her knees, so she knotted it at her waist to take up the slack. She gazed at her reflection and nodded in satisfaction. The shapeless clothes were a far cry from the costume she'd shown up wearing last night, which was just the way she wanted it. After an evening of prancing around like a Frederick's of Hollywood reject, and after a morning of wrangling naked in the bathroom, big and baggy was just the look she needed to keep her body under wraps and her urges under control. She sniffed a sleeve that fell past her elbow, then pursed her lips in appreciation at the mountain-fresh scent—the man used fabric softener, so he had a sensitive side.

Either that or his mother still did his laundry.

The bathroom was equipped with a blow-dryer, but she opted to detangle her wet hair with a small comb from Derek's toiletry bag to allow the long strands to dry naturally. She stared at her hair for several minutes, perusing the arrow-straight center part and waist-length style, knowing her hair was hopelessly out of date, while acknowledging it suited her. The color wasn't as blond as it used to be, but she felt no compulsion to lighten the honey-hued strands. And other than having to buy shampoo by the gallon, her long hair was low-maintenance, more often than not secured into a low ponytail with her favorite tortoiseshell clasp. For now, it would have to hang loose.

She wriggled her liberated big toe. Other than some tenderness and a few scratches in the pink nail polish—a gift pedicure from Marie—her toe seemed to have escaped permanent damage from the bathtub incident.

But her psyche, well, that was another story.

Derek Stillman had shaken her. For proof of that revelation, she needed to look no farther than her cheeks. Even in the absence of makeup or lotion, they bore an uncommon blush that marched across her nose and tingled with a fiery intensity. So she was attracted to the man. Okay, make that wildly attracted to the man. She had a simple explanation: Didn't it make sense that the sexual feelings she'd brought with her for Steve, she might now be projecting onto Derek?

No, came the resounding answer. It didn't make sense at all.

The body might be a fickle instrument, not caring who or what stimulated it, but the mind should be able to tell the difference between right and wrong. Carrying enough guilt on her shoulders to fill a cathedral ten minutes before Mass, she opened the bathroom door, hoping against hope that Derek would announce the quarantine had just been lifted. Or perhaps discover that her eyes had played tricks on her—her Best Man wasn't a great-looking, incredibly built specimen with whom she had to share four walls, but a homely, broken-down gnome who would take up residence under the bed if they had to spend another night together.

But Derek glanced up from his seat on the end of the bed and dispelled her hopes in one fell swoop with the concerned frown pulling at his appallingly handsome face.

"We're making headlines," he said, gesturing toward the television. Resisting the urge to sit next to him, she hovered a few steps away, riveted to the screen. The tag line on the bottom of the picture read: Quarantine Crisis, Green Stations Resort, Lake Lanier, Georgia. A grim-faced reporter wearing a yellow windbreaker, with a surgical mask dangling around his neck, stared into the camera as he delivered his report.

"A spokesperson for the Centers for Disease Control reports some form of Legionnaires' disease may have broken out among the guests at a resort near Lake Lanier, north of Atlanta, where a quarantine is in effect. An infirmary has been set up in the hotel workout facility to monitor and care for those who have fallen too ill to remain in their rooms, and other measures are being enacted to protect the many guests who were taken completely by surprise." The general manager appeared on-screen, holding a microphone with a gloved hand. The interview had been shot through a window.

"The resort enjoys a brisk business this time of the year," Mr. Oliver said. "So not surprisingly, we were booked solid. Including employees, we have around six hundred people inside the grounds, and we're going to do our best to make sure everyone is as comfortable as possible during the confinement period."

Dr. Pedro appeared next, with similar protective clothing. "As of about 5:00 a.m. this morning, approximately four dozen guests were exhibiting symptoms, with three of those cases serious enough to require hospitalization—" The clip of the doctor was cut short, obviously edited, and the reporter's dour face appeared once again.

"The resort has been inundated with calls and deliveries from relatives and well-wishers, but officials asked the media to inform the public that no objects, such as clothing, food, or flowers, will be allowed inside the resort. Meals are being prepared in another facility and delivered under the supervision of the CDC." The man lowered his chin for dramatic effect. "Except for CDC personnel, no one is allowed to leave or enter the resort, unless, of course, a body needs to be moved to the hospital... or to the morgue." The reporter lifted the surgical mask to cover his mouth. "Reporting live from Lake Lanier. Now back to you in the studio."

Derek made a rueful noise. "According to that guy, we should be making out our wills."

She nodded. "I would've liked to hear what the doctor had to say that didn't make it into the news segment. Did he insinuate to you this morning that the situation is worse?"

"Just that three people in the hospital, although he said he didn't think their lives were at risk."

His voice was conversational and sincere, his demeanor fatigued. What was it about this man that made her want to touch him? His boy-next-door chivalry? His all-American looks? His aloof attitude? Despite being close to Steve's age, Derek seemed decades more mature. Worry lined his serious brown eyes. Was he more concerned about his health than he let on? She felt compelled to comfort him, to ease the wrinkles from his forehead. Angling her head, she circled to stand in front of him. "How are you feeling?"

"About the same," he said with a shrug.

"Still congested?"

He nodded.

She stepped forward and placed her hand on his forehead. With him sitting and her standing, they were nearly eye to eye. More like breast to eye, although she tried not to dwell on it. His skin felt smooth and taut, and she liked the silkiness of his short bangs against the pads of her fingers. His temperature felt normal, but hers had definitely risen a couple of degrees, even higher when she realized she was standing between his open knees.

Her gaze locked with his and awareness gripped her, electrifying her limbs and warming her midsection. His brown eyes were bottomless, and she realized with a start that she'd always equated dark eyes with thoughtfulness. And sincerity. And comfort. And sensuality.

"You don't have a fever," she whispered, then wet her dry lips. Her hand fell to the muscled ledge of his shoulder, a natural resting place, it seemed.

Something was happening, she could feel it. The energy emanating from his body pulled at her, and she had to go rigid to keep from swaying into him. But his face belied none of the sexual force vibrating between them. His mouth was set in a firm line and his eyes were alert. The only indication that he was affected by her nearness was the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

She lifted her hand to probe the soft area of his neck just beneath the curve of his jaw. He stiffened, but she pretended not to notice. She could best smooth over the awkward moment by continuing to check his vital signs. "Your pulse is elevated."

He exhaled. "I guess I can chalk it up to all the, um..."

"Excitement?" she finished.

"How's your toe?" he asked, effectively changing the subject.

She looked down at her small feet situated between his two large ones, and experienced an odd sense of intimacy. "Fine," she said. "I never thanked you for rescuing me."

He returned her smile, which made her heart lurch crazily. "Glad to pinch-hit for Steve," he said. Then his smile evaporated, and he added, "In that one particular instance."

At the mention of Steve's name, she relaxed, feeling firmly back on platonic footing. "Thanks, too, for the clothes. You're a lifesaver." Impulsively, she leaned forward and dropped a quick kiss on his cheek. Janine realized her mistake the second she drew away. Derek's mocha-colored eyes had grown glazed and heavy-lidded. The worry lines had fled, and his lips were open in silent invitation. Blatant desire chased reason from her mind. Acting purely on instinct, she lowered her lips to his for an experimental kiss. Just one, she promised herself. One last illicit kiss for comparison.

If indeed he hesitated, it wasn't for more than a heartbeat. His lips opened to welcome hers, and the tide of longing that swept over her left her breathless. Their tongues darted, danced and dueled in a coming together that could be described as anything but platonic.

Her knees weakened and she became aware that his hands were at her waist, and her arms around his neck. His taste was as foreign and delicious as exotic fruit, and she wanted to draw more of him into her mouth. Derek angled his head to deepen the kiss and she moaned in gratitude. Pulling her forward, he melded her body to his, and she was conscious of his hands sliding beneath her shirt. He splayed his hands over her shoulder blades, kneading her skin with his strong fingers in long, determined caresses that gave her a glimpse into his body rhythm.

She shivered and might have buckled had he not imprisoned her legs with his knees. Janine reveled in the strength and possession of his touch. She arched her back and rolled her shoulders, then slipped her hands inside his shirt and ran her hands over the smooth expanse of his back, kneading the firm muscle. His guttural sounds propelled her excitement to the highest plateau she'd ever endured. The world fell away around them, and Janine felt completely, utterly safe. She pressed her body against his, sure in the knowledge that he could fuel the flames licking at her body to an all-consuming fire, much more satisfying than her earlier release.

When he stiffened, her first instinct was to resist, but when she heard the knock at the door, she straightened and stepped back, disentangling herself from him. The look he gave her still smoldered from their heated kiss, but he wore his remorse just as plainly.

The full extent of her shameful participation flooded over her. She backed away and clapped a hand over her traitorous mouth, sucking air against her fingers to fill her quivering lungs. If her skin hadn't still burned from his touch, she might not have believed what had just transpired. Regret nearly paralyzed her. What had she done? What had she nearly allowed Derek to do?

He was watching her. She stared at him, at the body she could now call familiar, but she didn't know what to say. Janine suspected, however, that her face reflected her horror at her own behavior.

Another knock sounded at the door. Derek panned his hand over his face, then stood, visibly trying to shake off the effects of their encounter. Her gaze flew to the telltale bulge in his pants that he didn't attempt to hide as he limped a half circle in the room. Hair tousled, shirt askew, and hard for her... Derek Stillman was simply the most devastatingly appealing man she'd ever met. Best Man, she corrected. Steve's Best Man. She might as well run headlong into a train tunnel while the whistle sounded in her ears.

Realizing Derek was in no shape to answer the door, she cleared her throat and murmured, "I'll see who it is."

"Thanks," he said over his shoulder, his big hands riding his hips as he headed toward the bathroom.

Still reeling, she walked to the door and, through the peephole, saw the general manager standing in the hall, sporting a mask over his nose and mouth. Shot with relief without really knowing why, she swung open the door. "Hello, Mr. Oliver."

A cart loaded with great-smelling covered trays flanked him. He took in her ill-fitting garb with only a blink and a smile. "Call me Manny, Ms. Murphy."

She felt warmed by the friendly tone in his voice. "Then call me Janine."

The blond man nodded. "Glad to see you're still with us. How are you feeling?"

Shoving a fall of hair away from her face, she pulled a smile from nowhere to hide her shaky emotions. "F-fine."

His penetrating blue gaze seemed all-knowing, but he didn't contradict her. "Mr. Stillman said this morning you had no symptoms."

"That depends—is irrational behavior a symptom?"

"I don't recall, but I can mention it to the doctor."

She sighed. "Don't bother, I'm fine."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't skip a beat. "Good. I've brought breakfast, not a typical resort meal, I can assure you, since our chefs didn't prepare the food, but not bad if you're hungry."

"I am… we are."

The door across the hall opened and Maureen Jiles stepped out, perfectly coifed and wrapped in a coral-colored silk robe. "I heard voices."

At eight o'clock in the morning, the woman was stunning. Janine inclined her head politely. "Maureen Jiles, this is Manny Oliver, the general manager."

He smiled. "I'm delivering breakfast, Ms. Jiles."

"Something low-carb, I hope," she said in a voice reserved for lowly help.

"We have a keto option," Manny replied smoothly.

"That will do," she said, then turned back to Janine. "Is your friend Derek up and about?"

Is he ever. "Um, yes."

Maureen appeared to be chewing on her tongue as her face slowly erupted into a mischievous smile. "I love a good challenge, and I decided I'm not going to let his being gay get in the way."

Manny erupted into a fit of coughing but when he turned to face Janine, she could see he wasn't choking at all—he was laughing.

Oblivious to their exchange, Maureen crossed her arms. "Does Derek cut hair? Because I could use a trim."

Manny rolled his eyes at Janine over the stereotypical comment, then turned back to Maureen. "Guests aren't supposed to be in each other's quarters."

Maureen stepped back into her room and harrumphed at Manny. "Probably want him for yourself." Then she closed the door with a bang.

Manny gave Janine a pointed look. "Explain."

She took a tray from him and walked it inside, then glanced at the bathroom door to make sure Derek was out of earshot. "Maureen is a sales rep who calls on the clinic where I work. She knows a lot of the same people I do. I had to think of something to keep the gossip down, so… I told her Derek is gay."

"Looks like it backfired," Manny observed. "She's determined to convert the man."

One lie led to another, she realized. She set the tray on the writing desk, feeling perilously close to tears. She was having a nervous breakdown, she was certain.

"Hey, come on now, it's not that bad," Manny soothed.

"You see what a predicament I'm in here. No one can know I'm sharing a room with Derek."

"I'm sure all this will be over soon. As long as you and Mr. Stillman agree to keep it quiet, who will be the wiser?"

"You're right," she said, sniffing. "It's just that I don't know how much more I can take."

"Is he overbearing?"

"Oh, no," she said, waving off his concern. How could she explain her raging feelings about a man she barely knew to a man she barely knew? "It's the close quarters, no privacy—you know."

Manny studied her face, then gave her hand a comforting pat. "Janine, emotions run high during a crisis, and people can behave in ways that are out of character."

"You think?"

He nodded. "You have a lot on your mind, with the wedding and all."

Janine sighed. "I guess we'll have to call it off."

He angled his head. "You mean postpone it, don't you?"

She straightened her shoulders. "Yes. Of course. Postpone it."

"Is there anything I can do to make this situation more bearable?"

"I need clothes and toiletries... and a cot would be nice."

He opened the desk drawer and removed a sheet of stationery and a pen. "We're completely out of cots but write down whatever else you need, and I'll see what I can confiscate from the gift shops."

"Thank you," she whispered, then jotted down a dozen or so items.

He gave her a brief wink before he left.

Janine glanced toward the bathroom door. What was she going to say to Derek about the kiss? How was she going to explain that she was so overcome with lust that she was willing to indulge in a few hours of unfettered sex, despite being on the verge of exchanging vows with a friend of his? What must he think of her? Probably no worse than she thought of herself, she decided, and walked to the bathroom door. Perhaps the words would come if she didn't have to talk to him face-to-face.

Janine rapped lightly on the door. "Derek? Derek, I'm so sorry for what just happened. The kiss was my fault, and I can't give you a good excuse, because I have no excuse." She sighed and leaned her cheek against the door. "Please know that I do love Steve, despite the abominable way I've behaved. If you feel compelled to tell him what happened, I'll understand and I'll accept full responsibility." She closed her eyes. "Thank goodness we stopped when we did."

When the silence on the other side of the door stretched on, she rapped again. "Derek?" No answer. "Derek?" she asked louder. Making a fist, she knocked harder. "Derek, answer me to let me know you're okay." Fingers of panic curled low in her stomach. What if he had grown more ill? What if he'd passed out and hit his head when he fell?

She turned the doorknob, relieved when it gave easily. After cracking the door open, she called his name again, but he didn't respond. Her heart pounded as she inched the door wider, but she didn't see his reflection in the mirror. Janine opened the door and stepped into the bathroom. The shower curtain was pushed back, just as she'd left it—he wasn't there. In fact, the huge mass of man was nowhere to be found.