Chapter 8

KEN'S BEDROOM was as hot as a boiler room on the sun. The apartment manager had promised his building was next on the list for cooling system repairs, but the entire city was under siege. He threw his legs over the side of the waterbed, then felt his way to the window and propped it open with a book in a futile attempt to catch a breeze.

He hadn't yet slept. His mind kept replaying the events of the past twenty-four hours, which still seemed too fantastic to believe. The only conclusion he'd reached was that his behavior on the phone the previous night had been abominable. The worst part was that he didn't regret it as much as he should, partly because the woman intrigued him, partly because the woman infuriated him.

Ken ran his hand down over his face. But Georgia Adams's crankiness did not exonerate him. He dropped back onto his waterbed—just as the phone rang.

He shot back up, his heart pounding, then relaxed with a laugh. He'd looked up Robert Trainer's listings and discovered their numbers were one digit off from each other's. What were the chances she'd dial it wrong again? Besides, she'd said that Robbie Boy was out of town. It was probably the station dispatcher and, hell, he wasn't sleeping, so why not go on duty a few hours early?

Ken yanked up the phone on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Oh. Hi, it's... me."

He instantly recognized her voice, and his body stirred.

"I didn't expect you to be home," she said quickly. "I was going to leave you a message."

Ken bobbed up and down on his mattress. He could tell her she had the wrong number and hang up. She'd never know it was him. He could do the right thing, right now. The words hovered at the back of his dry throat.

"Wh-when did you get back in town?" she asked.

Or he could do the compelling thing, right now.

Ken swallowed and held the phone away from his mouth. "Not long ago. I came back because... because I wasn't feeling well." He pushed down the rising guilt. He'd run a quick info sheet on Rob Trainer today and uncovered the bare essentials of the man's life—employment, address, background check. Did Georgia know everything about her boyfriend? Her own history was squeaky-clean, including volunteer work with the Red Cross.

"Are your allergies bothering you again?" she asked.

"Um, I guess." He manufactured a cough.

"I thought your voice sounded a little strange," she said, "but I figured it was my new phone. If you're under the weather, though, I'm doubly sorry to wake you. This can wait until you're feeling better."

"No!" he practically shouted. "I mean, um, I was already awake and I'm glad you called."

"Actually, I called to apologize," she murmured.

He wet his chapped lips. "For what?"

"For... disturbing you last night."

He smiled into the phone. "Don't apologize. I... enjoyed it."

"You did?"

"I've been thinking about it all day."

"You have?"

Especially when we were together. "Yes."

"I... was afraid you'd think I was being too forward."

Her little laugh was the breeze he'd been waiting for all night long. Ken closed his eyes. Rob Trainer didn't deserve her. "Not at all. You were wonderful."

She sighed, a silky sound that made him bite back a groan. "I wish you were feeling better," she said, her voice wistful.

Ken sat up straighter, careful to keep the phone away from his mouth. "I feel well... enough."

"Well enough?" She laughed again, and his body hardened. "Well enough for an encore?"

He slid back against the pillows and exhaled. "Absolutely." A protest swam in the recesses of his mind, but desire chased it away. Desire for Georgia Adams. Because as wonderful as his fantasies had been the night before, now he knew what she looked like, how her skin glowed, the way her hands moved. "What are you wearing?"

"Nothing," she whispered. "It's too hot."

He groaned, imagining her lying in bed, arms stretched overhead, her back arched. She reached for him, bringing him to full erection within seconds. "Georgia, my God, you're so beautiful. Come to me."

"I'm here," she said. "Kiss me... touch me."

"My hands... on your shoulders, arms, stomach."

"Mmmmmm... lower."

"Oh, you're killing me."

"That's it. There."

Her string of telltale moans tested his endurance. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he said, "Wrap your legs around my waist."

"Mmmmmm. Make love to me... now."

The quick sultry request nearly put him over the edge, but he held back, wanting to prolong their encounter. Her hair spilled all around, long and dark against her tangled sheets. Her breasts jutted, her thighs... welcoming. Oh, heaven help him. "Ahhhhhh," he breathed, easing inside her tight channel. "Oh, yes."

"Mmmm... all the way," she urged. "Yes, deeper… faster."

He obliged, gritting his teeth to match her rhythm without losing total control. "Georgia, I can't... last long. You're too much."

"Oh, I'm almost there... yes..." She gasped, then cried out, a desperately divine sound that drained his energy and his restraint. Ken yielded to her intensity, then matched it, their moans mingling into one song. His muscles bunched, then eased with diminishing spasms.

A comfortable silence stretched between them as they slowly recovered. His eyelids drooped. Georgia's sighs were definitely the cure for his insomnia.

"Are you sleeping?"

He blinked awake. "No." Then he laughed. "Well, almost. That was... incredible."

Her laugh was musical, like a wind chime. "Want to meet for lunch tomorrow in your office building?"

He plummeted back to earth, remembering that she believed she'd just shared an incredible experience with her boyfriend. Her lyrical laughter was meant for Rob. "Um, I think I'll stay home and try to shake this cold."

"I thought you said it was allergies."

"Yes. No. I'm not sure." He coughed as if a lung were in jeopardy.

"You sound terrible. I'll come by tomorrow to check on you."

"No! I mean, I wouldn't want you to catch something. I'll be fine, really."

"Are you sure?"

He felt weak with relief. "I'm sure. Your calls are all the medicine I need. Besides, not seeing each other in person for a few days will make things more… interesting." Was that him talking, purposely perpetuating a fraud?

"But you're still planning to go to Stacey's wedding Saturday afternoon, aren't you?"

When in doubt, dig thyself deeper into a hole. "Um, sure."

"I'm going early to help the bridesmaids dress, so I'll meet you there."

"Okay." He made a mental note to check for a gas leak since he'd obviously lost a few brain cells.

"Meanwhile, I hope you're feeling better soon."

She had the voice of an angel. "I'm feeling better already."

"Good. I'll let you go," she said softly. "Call me when you're back on your feet?"

Ken hesitated. Being on the receiving end of her misdirected phone calls was one thing, but initiating contact and impersonating her boyfriend... "Why don't you call me instead... tomorrow night?"

"Okay," she agreed. "I'll be working the blood drive tomorrow evening at the municipal building, but I'll call you when I get home."

"Great," he said, his mind already leaping ahead.

He kept the phone to his ear until the dial tone sounded, then fumbled around in the dark to replace the handset. He limped to the bathroom and turned on the light, squinting under the harsh illumination. A ten-minute shower did little to erase her from his mind. He toweled off quickly, his body still thrumming from their encounter, his ears still ringing with the cries of her release.

Leaning on the sink, he stared at himself in the mirror and rubbed his darkened jaw. Women had called him handsome, even rugged, but all he ever saw in his reflection was a too-big guy whose opportunities had been based more on his brawn than his brain. And, from his conduct of late, he was definitely proving everyone right who believed a big guy couldn't be a mental heavyweight.

Remorse descended on his bare shoulders, bowing them. What was he thinking? He wasn't, of course. He, the man of steel who'd vowed never to let his libido get in the way of good sense, had succumbed to a soft voice with an erotic vocabulary.

His watch lay on the sink. Ken smiled wryly. Today was his birthday—thirty-seven. Did men have a biological clock? He laughed. He'd have to ask Klone, who spouted all that touchy-feely stuff when he wasn't playing practical jokes. He winced in the mirror, hoping his partner hadn't planned a birthday surprise. Good old Klone, always trying to set him up with a cousin or a niece of Louise's, although frankly, he hadn't met anyone who piqued his interest and his mind enough to make the rigors of romance worthwhile.

Until now. And as luck would have it, she had no clue how good they were together. In fact, she didn't even like him. And to make matters worse, he was helping to further the other guy's cause. A guy who, from Ken's cursory check, had a slightly blemished past.

A whine from his bedroom broke into his thoughts. He wrapped the towel around his waist and padded to the nook next to the dresser where he'd made a bed for Crash, the pooch he'd accidentally struck. "Can't sleep either, boy?" Poor little guy—he probably missed his owner and was confused about his immobility.

The battered dog gave a little bark in response, then lowered its head.

Ken stroked the spot between Crash's ears that he seemed to like. The ad he'd placed in the newspaper for a found dog wouldn't run for another week. "Until then we're stuck with each other," he murmured. "Hey, remember that lady doc who bandaged you up?"

The dog looked at him with shining eyes.

"Well, besides being gorgeous, she's really hot, but there's this other guy, see, and—" Ken stopped and laughed wryly. "And let's just say if she ever finds out what I've done, I'd be lucky to be in the doghouse."

Crash lifted his head and barked his apparent agreement.