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Naughty By Nature
Jule McBride


SHE WAS IN THE WRONG BED…Reputed bad girl Vanessa Verne is ecstatic when Morgan Fine seduces her–even if it is a case of mistaken identity. After all, she's been trying to get the sexy bodyguard in bed for weeks! She'd even sent herself steamy letters from a "secret admirer" to get his attention. And now that she has it, she'll do anything to keep this fine man in her bed…!AT THE RIGHT TIME!All Secret Service agent Morgan Fine wanted was a bedtime romp with Senator Verne's maid. How was he supposed to know she had swapped beds for the night with his boss's daughter? After that one night of incredible sex, he can see that Vanessa's reputation as one of D.C.'s most scandalous socialites is no exaggeration. Yet he can't wait to experience it again.…









Morgan groaned in satisfaction


Listening to Lucy bustle around the room, a pleased smile claimed his lips as he recalled their passionate lovemaking in the pitch-black room the night before. “Lucy,” he murmured, “is that you?”

“This is my room. Were you expecting someone else?” she replied in an uncertain voice.

He emerged from the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, exposing his naked body. Lucy’s brown eyes were wide and startled. “Meet me in broad daylight, Lucy,” he chuckled. “I don’t know how you feel about last night,” he continued, “but that was the best sex I ever had.”

She gasped. “The best…what? Have you lost your mind, Morgan?” she whispered furiously, staring now at the pile of rumpled sheets on the bed behind him.

From where he was sitting he could swear he heard the covers rustle, but that was impossible. Lucy was standing in front of him. The duvet wiggled again as Morgan jumped to his feet.

A slender hand appeared from under the covers and whisked the covers back, revealing a head tumbling with long red curls. Morgan could barely register what he was seeing. He was staring at the lust machine with whom he’d spent the night.

Vanessa Verne. His client’s daughter.


Dear Reader,

Imagine the astonishment: You’ve had a one-night stand in a very dark room. In the morning, your heart is swelling with love and the rest of you tingles with anticipation. You turn your head on the pillow, ready to confess your deepest feelings—only to find you’re staring at somebody you can’t stand!

Sexy bomb expert and bodyguard Morgan Fine finds himself in exactly this situation in Naughty by Nature. I love Temptation’s THE WRONG BED stories, and I hope you’ll enjoy this humorous, sensual addition, which proves that when the chemistry’s right, love just might follow!

Enjoy!

Jule McBride




Books by Jule McBride


HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

761—A BABY FOR THE BOSS

830—A WAY WITH WOMEN

840—NIGHT PLEASURES

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

733—AKA: MARRIAGE

753—SMOOCHIN’ SANTA

757—SANTA SLEPT OVER

849—SECRET BABY SPENCER


Naughty by Nature

Jule McBride






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Susan Pezzack for being so helpful.




Contents


Chapter 1 (#ude6d8e04-a0ca-572f-8b2e-796c29501eb7)

Chapter 2 (#u653b7878-6b80-5b02-adc0-807ad56aa4bd)

Chapter 3 (#u5a5abadc-deee-509f-824a-37d3c5472d84)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)




1


February 14, 2002

Happy Valentine’s Day, Vanessa.

Do you know you’re pure dynamite? Right now, I’m exploding with desire. Ever since I first saw you in the Blues Bar in Georgetown, I’ve thought of it as our special place, and I hope we’ll see each other there soon. At the Presidential Kids fundraiser last week my fingers were itching to pull down all those russet Botticelli curls you’d clipped back with jeweled pins. Maybe I would have, but that bodyguard—the Secret Service agent who looks like a Hulk Hogan-size Antonio Banderas—was glued to you, his dark eyes glowering. So, I was left to my fantasies. Right now, I’m remembering how beautiful your neck looked that day—swanlike and succulent—banked by dangling diamond earrings. I’m shutting my eyes now and imagining flicking my tongue down…down…down…

Oh, Vanessa, I’m hungry to taste every tall, lanky, elegant inch of you. I want you to imagine my lips dipping beneath the faux fur collar of that gold lamé coat you were wearing. Slowly, I’m exploring the backless gown underneath. Feel the warmth of my hands as they glide over each vertebra until my touch dips, cruising over your backside. My mouth’s going dry, Vanessa. Is yours? You’re not even in the same room, but you’ve got me moaning as I write….

THERE WAS MORE to the letter. Lots more. But Secret Service agent Morgan Fine wasn’t going to torture himself by reading it again. Not the part where the writer finished relieving Morgan’s client, Vanessa Verne, of her sexy gold gown. Not the part where he discovered that she wore no panties and that the soft moist curls there were the same astonishing, fiery russet as her hair. Not the part where the writer lost control by giving in to temptation—a temptation Morgan had avoided for the past two weeks—and ripped Vanessa’s stockings down to her ankles using only his teeth.

No, this letter was the last Morgan would be seeing of Vixen Vanessa. Now that he’d checked today’s mail for explosives and fingerprints, he could finish delivering it. And then it was bye-bye Vixen.

“Vanessa Verne,” he murmured, wishing he wasn’t so distracted by her as he leaned back in a roller chair and traced his dark eyes over the wall of T.V. screens before him. “Three words. You’re dangerous, lady.” Ruefully shaking his head, Morgan lifted a remote and flicked the buttons, viewing various angles of the downstairs rooms in the Verne home, the kitchen, living room, dining room, a weight room, pool and sauna. Finally, a room hung with photos of Senator Verne’s late wife, the peach-painted study where Vanessa, the senator’s daughter, often did work pertaining to the breast cancer foundation bearing her mother’s name. “At least she’s doing something worthwhile. Otherwise, not even I could keep that woman out of trouble,” Morgan said, chuckling softly. “Even if I am a Hulk Hogan-size Antonio Banderas.”

He’d have to relate that description to his three little sisters. They’d appreciate it. Meantime, his gaze settled on a high-angle shot of a state-of-the-art kitchen that seemed bigger than his apartment in Georgetown, which just went to show that Secret Service men didn’t command the salaries of senators. Or ex-senators, he corrected, since Ellery Verne had retired from government ten years ago, at least officially. As Morgan’s eyes settled on a red-carpeted stairway leading from the kitchen to the live-in maid’s private suite, a slow, wolfish smile spread over his lips. During the time he’d worked here, Lucy had flirted with him shamelessly, as had Senator Verne’s troublemaking daughter, Vanessa, whom Morgan wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. But Lucy…

Suffice it to say Morgan felt he deserved to spend tonight with her. If the senator hadn’t demanded the best the Secret Service had to offer—meaning Morgan—then Morgan could have spent these weeks in the line of fire, catching the Valentine Bomber, instead of living at the Vernes’, opening mail and installing their new security system. Anyway, no male needed to defend his right to seek satisfaction, and this was the first time since he and Cheryl broke up that Morgan had really been in the mood. Glancing down, his gaze caught the words, I’m so hungry to taste every tall, elegant inch of you….

Vanessa Verne was definitely mouthwatering, but Lucy Giangarfalo was far less risky, and as a Secret Service agent, Morgan prided himself on playing it safe.

“Call it a kiss goodbye,” he murmured, lifting the in-house intercom phone and eyeing the stairwell to Lucy’s suite. “A valentine for staying out of Vanessa Verne’s legendary clutches.”

He was only half joking. Vanessa had a reputation with men that made Medusa look like the tooth fairy. Fortunately, Morgan’s two-week stint was over, so he’d be leaving the Vernes’ without having slept with Vanessa. “Good job,” he commended himself.

As Lucy’s phone rang, he thought about the Valentine Bomber case, which had started a month ago when three prominent ex-senators formed a lobbying committee to review national maternity-leave policies. Because their first meeting had been planned for today, Valentine’s Day, they’d dubbed themselves the Valentine Committee, and a media blitz followed.

Everybody had an opinion about whether or not U.S. businesses should extend maternity leaves from three months to six—including an unidentified extremist. He felt longer leaves would encourage women to be in a workforce where he said they didn’t belong, and he’d begun sending letter bombs to dissuade the ex-senators. The first, a red heart pasted to a white lace doily, had exploded beside a mailbag on David Sawyer’s porch in Connecticut; the second, a white heart mounted on red felt, was discovered by a trained dog at Samuel Perkins’s home. Because it seemed likely that a third bomb would be delivered to the Vernes, Morgan had been called in to tweeze open the mail and dust for prints.

In addition to becoming privy to the senator’s wild daughter’s private erotic correspondence, he’d established mail-opening protocols for whoever would replace him tomorrow, as well as set up state-of-the-art security that could be operated from switches on a wall in the kitchen. Listening to the continued ringing, he frowned. “C’mon, Lucy. Don’t disappoint me.”

He was about to hang up when a sleep-scratchy female voice came on the line. “Who’s this?”

“Sorry,” he murmured, straining to hear her barely audible words. “You asleep, sweetheart?”

Her soft, raspy voice sent warmth swirling into his groin. “Morgan?”

“You sound different.”

“Different?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, his chest tight. “Sexy as hell.”

“I’m not usually sexy?”

“Oh, but you are. That’s why I thought I’d take a chance tonight. See if you wanted company.”

“Uh…sure.”

He chuckled with satisfaction, the heat in his groin spreading to his limbs. “It wasn’t appropriate to call you before now,” he explained, “not while I was working here, but tomorrow morning, I’m being transferred back to headquarters.” After that, who knew? Maybe he and Lucy would hit it off tonight and keep seeing each other. That would be nice. At thirty-four, Morgan was the oldest of the Fine clan—there were five kids—but he was the only one who hadn’t yet found a life partner. “I can be there in five minutes,” he added, his voice husky with anticipation. “Can you keep the sheets warm?”

“Do you know where to find me? I’m—”

“I’m with the Secret Service,” he teased. “I know everything.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

After hitting Disconnect, he replaced the receiver, not feeling too surprised at his success, given how Lucy had been flirting with him. He glanced through an adjoining door into the bedroom he’d been using. His packed duffel bag was beside the antique four-poster bed. By eight a.m. he’d be back at headquarters. He hoped that catching whoever was sending the bombs would mean a promotion for him into administration, out of the field. He’d seen what happened to men who waited too long to take desk jobs. They got tired and couldn’t keep up the pace.

Lifting the letter to Vanessa, he began slipping it into its envelope, taking in the masculine, caramel-colored stationery and crimped, no-nonsense print that read, My fingers were itching to pull down all those russet Botticelli curls.

Morgan knew the feeling. But the poor guy didn’t know what he was getting into. Doing double duty as Vanessa Verne’s bodyguard during his stay here had sure opened Morgan’s eyes. He could almost hear her voice. Morgan, could you just check the clasp on my necklace? If you could just help me with this itsy-bitsy top button…

She was six feet tall in silk stockings, all sharp angles and long limbs. Not particularly busty nor conventionally pretty, she reminded Morgan of how sixteenth-century royalty was portrayed in Hollywood movies. She looked like the actresses in the big-costume productions made by Merchant and Ivory that his mother and three sisters went so gaga over.

Spiral curls the rusty color of autumn leaves cascaded to her waist, and her skin was the color of cream. Everybody said she had flair. Panache. Because her penchant for wearing oddly matched but tasteful vintage clothes made her stand out among Washington’s elite, Morgan had been surprised to find that, at home, she dressed like his sisters, in tight stretch pants, bulky sweaters and wool clogs from L.L. Bean.

“You’re tall enough for me, Morgan,” she’d commented during the Presidential Kids fundraiser, where he’d accompanied her as a guard. “Most men aren’t.”

Before he caught himself, he’d winked and said, “I’m not most men, sweetheart.”

It was the closest he’d come to flirting. While she’d dazzled him with a hundred-watt smile that made his heart pound, he’d realized she was right. Even with gold high heels encasing her slender feet, he was taller. Where her gown made her glow, however, his gray suit made him melt into wallpaper. Every time she’d smiled at him, he’d suddenly felt too huge, too dark and too male. Not that she minded. Between his name, his short, tousled black hair and dazzling dark eyes, people generally took him for what he was, black Irish. And around Washington, his watchful demeanor and physical stature quickly pegged him as an agent. Vanessa had obviously liked the overall package.

But Morgan hadn’t given in to temptation. Except for that one slip, he’d been curt, even cold. He was determined to leave here with his job intact.

Not every man had.

Feeling relieved his duty would end in eight more hours, he rose and headed down a long hallway toward Vanessa’s bedroom. Naughty by nature, one tabloid had called her. Just last month, she’d been caught in a compromising position with her Russian tutor, Ivan Petrovitch. When a tabloid photo alerted INS, Petrovitch had been deported, and after that, his wife left him because of the affair with Vanessa.

What a mess.

And everybody in the Secret Service still talked about Kenneth Hopper. Hired by the senator to keep an eye on Vanessa when she was flunking out of school after her mother’s death two years ago, Kenneth had barely stopped her elopement to a gardener. Ever since, he’d been pulling embassy duty overseas.

Fortunately, Morgan was the kind of guy who learned from others’ mistakes, so he’d steered completely clear of Vanessa. Halting his steps, he glanced down. Seeing no light shining from beneath her bedroom door, he leaned to slip the love letter through the crack. As it left his fingertips, he wondered who the writer was and if the besotted guy was aware of Vanessa’s bad rep. Morgan had been to the Blues Bar himself, an artsy, smoky joint in Georgetown where saxophones wailed until the wee hours, so he figured the writer was the kind of guy who usually hung out there, rich and looking to meet manor-born types.

As he headed downstairs, Morgan sifted through the male faces he’d seen at the Presidential Kids fundraiser. Which man had written the letters? And why didn’t he sign them? “Forget about it,” Morgan muttered. Unless the guy was sending explosives, he wasn’t Morgan’s problem.

Frowning, he realized it was pitch-black in the stairwell leading to Lucy’s suite. He figured she’d at least turn on a light for him, but maybe she’d fallen asleep again. Or maybe she didn’t like having sex with the lights on. Some women didn’t. Or maybe she figured Morgan could find his way in the dark since he’d memorized every inch of the house for security purposes. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he peered into the inky darkness. “You in here?”

That scratchy, sexy voice floated toward him. “I don’t know. Let’s see if you can find me.”

He grinned, letting the rustle of covers guide him while he visualized the brass bed he couldn’t make out in the dark. By the time his thigh hit the mattress, he’d pulled the shirt tails from his slacks and loosened his tie. Chuckling, he tumbled into bed, and a stunned second later, she’d grabbed his shirt tails and ripped his shirt off. Gliding his hands over the duvet, he got more aggressive, too. He massaged her feet, then her calves, then her thighs. When she didn’t protest, he began to explore.

She was different than he expected. Way different. Her legs longer. Her sighs softer. Her breasts smaller. Amazing how deceptive women could be until you got them into bed. Her bold responsiveness, however, didn’t surprise Morgan in the least. For weeks, her glances had offered the pleasure he was about to take.

Encouraged by slow moans Lucy wasn’t bothering to conceal, Morgan reached to rake his fingers through her hair—only to find it bound in something that felt like a turban. Giving up, he caressed her neck instead, then gently pushed back the duvet, his heart missing a beat when he discovered a skimpy nightie. Given Lucy’s practical uniforms, the sexy nightie, which revealed most of her, came as a pleasant surprise. It was every bit as silken as the endless, bare legs he began to stroke…every bit as smooth as the never-ending tongue kiss he glided over her collarbone…every bit as inviting as the involuntary whimper she released in tandem with the dragging sound of his zipper.

She whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Morgan.”

“It’s turning into one,” he whispered back. Kicking his remaining clothes from the bed, he wished the light was on so he could see her, but he quit worrying about that once she was naked. He set to work then, delivering a string of wet kisses that ended with a tongue swirl to the pebbled tip of a breast. Sucking in a ragged breath, he said, “Why don’t you shut your eyes again?”

Her voice melted into the darkness. “Shut my eyes?”

“Yeah,” he returned, her sighs spurring him on until his mouth was delivering such sweet torture that she began arching her hips, seeking him. “Shut your eyes,” he repeated, his warm lips hovering just above hers, his huge hand settling firmly between her legs. “Because everything that’s about to happen to you, sweetheart, is going to feel like a dream.”

VANESSA VERNE was not about to argue. It was a good thing Morgan had figured out she was sleeping in Lucy’s bed. Otherwise, they’d be missing this exquisite pleasure, since he was being reassigned to headquarters tomorrow. Her lips curling into a smile, she did exactly as he commanded, relaxing all her muscles until her limbs felt loose as liquid.

From the first moment she’d seen this man, she’d told Lucy she was sure there was something worth exploring. She’d imagined it would be exactly this way, easy, uncomplicated, satisfying. As he trailed his fingertips from her knees to her thighs, the electric sparks in the caress seemed nothing more than a warning for the lightning bolts to follow. She grinned in the dark, thinking maybe she should have worn her tennis shoes.

And then she startled. The phone rang, and her mind protested at being called back from a place of warm, dark bliss. “Sorry,” she murmured, fumbling for the phone and wondering who it was—her father or Lucy. Trying to disguise her voice, she kept her words brief so she’d sound more like Lucy. “’Lo?”

It was her father. “Are you in bed, Lucy? Before you turned in, I meant to discuss the menu for tomorrow, because Mrs. Bell called in sick.” Mrs. Bell was the cook. Vanessa half listened as her father offered excuses for the late-night call, the real purpose of which was to see if Lucy was really in bed—which of course, she was, just not in her own bed. Lucy had snuck to the garage apartment to sleep with her fiancé, which was why Vanessa was here—to cover for her. Fortunately, the call was brief, and as soon as Vanessa replaced the receiver, the hands that had stilled on her thighs began moving again.

“Everything okay?” he whispered.

“Now it is.” She smiled in the dark. “Weren’t you saying everything’s going to feel like a dream?”

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“Show me,” she urged, the sudden raggedness of her own voice surprising her, her hands exhibiting unusual urgency as they threaded into his hair.

And show her, he did.

THE NEXT MORNING, Morgan sighed with satisfaction. Downstairs in the kitchen someone was rattling pots and pans, which meant he’d better get a move on, but he didn’t want to open his eyes, not yet. He’d slept like a baby. And no wonder. He couldn’t believe how many times he’d done it with Lucy. Or how many different ways.

Listening to her bustle around the room, a well-pleased smile claimed his lips. How had she gotten up without alerting him, though? Usually, the slightest sound awakened him. The Secret Service taught a man to sleep with one eye open. If Morgan didn’t know better, he’d think his new lover had just come in from outside. “Lucy,” he murmured, his voice throaty as he opened his eyes. “Is that you?”

“This is my room. Were you expecting someone else?”

The low rumble of his voice was a testament to how content he felt. “Only you.”

“Is that right?” Lucy Giangarfalo was standing uncertainly near the doorway, squinting at him as if he were the most forward man on the planet, which, he guessed, last night he’d proven he was. His smile broadened.

Surveying the woman he’d loved so lavishly, he felt his heart stretch, warming. She was already wearing her uniform, leaning in the door frame, her large, doe-like brown eyes wide with surprise, as if she couldn’t quite believe Morgan Fine was naked in her bed. He couldn’t believe it, either. But here he was, naked as a jaybird.

Since he didn’t know Lucy very well, he’d secretly suspected sex with her might be lukewarm. Instead, she’d knocked off his socks—and every other stitch of his clothes. Another rumble of breath brought her tantalizing scent from the pillows, and when he spoke, he could barely keep the disappointment from his voice. “You’re already dressed.”

“What did you expect? To find me naked in my bed?”

“A man hopes.”

She was wearing her black uniform dress, and he feasted his eyes. He realized her cheeks were flushed, as if she’d been outside, and that she looked guilty as hell. Morgan didn’t blame her. If the senator discovered them, their jobs would be on the line.

Still, he couldn’t force himself to leave, not yet. Even he and Cheryl had never experienced pleasure like this—and he’d almost married Cheryl. Before last night, he’d thought Lucy was attractive and interesting, of course, otherwise he’d never have spent the night, but now that he knew how hot she was sexually, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. During the night, she’d told him the turban she’d worn was covering a moisturizing treatment, and now he could see that she’d rinsed out the cream. “Your hair turned out great,” he assured her, his eyes tracing the straight brown shoulder-length strands brushing her shoulders.

She frowned as if she had no idea why he’d mention her hair. “Uh…thanks, Morgan.”

He loved that she didn’t preen at the compliment, the way some women would. Lucy was so practical, so down-to-earth. And petite, he noted. Naked beside him, she’d seemed to meet him, part for body part, but really, she was much smaller, only about five foot five. Thinking once more of what they’d shared, heat coursed through him, stirring his groin. The sheet draping his hips slipped a notch, but it hardly mattered, since Lucy had already acquainted herself with everything beneath. Lazily reaching up, Morgan absently threaded his fingers through a black tangled thatch of chest hair, and his dark eyes turned hungry. “That dress really looks great on you.”

She was watching him oddly. “It’s my uniform, Morgan. Uh…what are you doing here?”

She must have gone downstairs, and in the interim, he guessed, she’d expected him to get up and leave. Ignoring that, he said, “After last night, you could wear a potato sack and I’d never know the difference, Lucy.”

She looked confused. “Last night?”

He laughed softly, loving how she was pulling his leg. Last night, she’d definitely exhibited a maddening, inventive sense of humor. Suppressing a shudder, he fixed his gaze to pretty lips that didn’t look nearly as sinful as they’d felt last night when they were circling the choicest part of his anatomy.

“Usually, I get up at five,” he confessed, uttering a rough, very male sound of longing, “but right now, Lucy, I can’t move.” He clasped his hands behind his neck. “Wish we could have breakfast in bed. Maybe an omelette and English muffins, with some champagne.”

“A rose in a discreet little bud vase?” Lucy queried dryly. Her gaze was slowly panning the room, widening in disbelief as she assessed the damage—condom wrappers on the floor, rumpled clothes, a cell phone, an overturned wastebasket. He couldn’t help but release another soft chuckle. “It was a hell of a night.”

“I’ll say,” murmured Lucy.

Glancing at the tangled bedding heaped beside him, he discovered that, in the light of day, the matching sheets and duvet were printed with pink whales and ocean waves. He bit back a grin. The covers were such a piled mess that, if he didn’t know better, he’d think somebody else was hiding under there. “A hell of a night,” he repeated, his heart tugging when he remembered how, on an emotional level, what he’d experienced with Lucy had been raw and passionate, then slow and tender. Occasionally, of course, it had gotten downright pornographic. And here, ever since his little brother Conner’s engagement to Sharon McConnell, Morgan had been thinking he’d never meet the right woman. But maybe he and Lucy would wind up together. She was so down-to-earth, his family would love her. They hated snobs. He eyed her. “What time is it?”

“Six.”

No wonder she looked so distressed. There was no time to sample another taste of what they’d feasted on last night. Drifting a potent gaze over her, Morgan didn’t stop until he’d traversed her uniform and support stockings and was staring at the toes of practical white crepe-soled shoes. “It’s risky, but maybe we could take a few more minutes….”

During a long, contemplative pause, Lucy crossed her arms, and when the movement lifted fuller breasts than what she’d possessed last night, Morgan credited himself for knowing she wore Wonderbras. He’d overheard his sisters Meggie and Fiona discussing their enhancing abilities.

“Morgan,” Lucy finally said, looking exasperated. “Do you mind telling me what you’re doing in my bed?”

“You’re so right,” he murmured apologetically. By hanging around, he was tempting fate. The Vernes didn’t usually get up this early. Vanessa, vamp that she was, stayed in bed until Morgan’s lunchtime, which meant ten. But what if today was an exception? He nodded. “The last thing I want to do is get us pink slips.”

“Then I suggest you leave.”

“Good point.” That was another thing he liked about Lucy. She was smart. Forward thinking. Reaching a long, well-muscled arm over the mattress, he fished around on the floor until he found his briefs. The sheet slid off his thigh as he moved, and when he glanced up, Lucy’s brown eyes were wide and startled, riveted between his thighs.

He chuckled again. “Meet me in broad daylight, Lucy.”

Her eyes lurched drunkenly upward, and she stared at him, slack-jawed. She whispered, “Have you lost your mind, Morgan?”

“No,” he assured her. “I’m leaving. I promise. As much as I’d love to stay, we’d better finish this later tonight.”

“Finish…?” Lucy managed to speak faintly, her eyes alighting briefly between his thighs once more before studiously focusing on the wall behind him.

“I don’t know how you feel about it, Lucy.” He couldn’t help but say it since after last night, he didn’t understand her shyness. “But that was the best sex I ever had.”

She gasped. “The best…what?”

Cursing his male insensitivity, he winced, then his eyes pierced hers significantly. “I know,” he assured her quickly. “I shouldn’t have called it sex. It was more than just sex. Much more.” He wasn’t inclined to divulge feelings this early in a relationship, but last night was so special that he gave in to his impulses, tossed aside his briefs and continued. “Two words,” he said. “You’re amazing.”

“Amazing?”

Her uncertainty was heartbreaking. “Don’t you know that about yourself, Lucy?”

She looked flabbergasted. “Well, I guess, Morgan, but—”

“Amazing,” he repeated. Surely from his response, not to mention her own, she’d realized how unusual last night had been. Smoothing a hand over his head, he tried to tame the hopelessly disheveled curls, and while he searched for the right words, he recalled how her long fingers had caught his hair in fistfuls, how she’d cooed his name during orgasm after orgasm. “I never experienced anything like this,” he admitted, taking another deep breath. “I don’t know what to say, where to begin….”

“Maybe it’s better if you don’t say anything more because—”

“I know it seems like too much, too soon, Lucy,” he interjected, feeling compelled to bare himself with her as he had with no other woman, “but after last night, we owe it to ourselves to be honest.” Pausing, he laid it on the line. “Lucy, with you, I don’t want to play the usual male-female games. There’s something more here, something real.”

Her eyes had fixed behind him again, on the piled covers, making Morgan realize how shy she was. Probably that was why she’d left off the lights last night. “You’re such a sweetheart,” he murmured.

“No, I’m not,” she denied hoarsely, taking a weaving step toward the bed. “And I think something really strange happened here last night. I think you’ve misunderstood….” Her voice trailed off. “Morgan, I really don’t think you should say—”

“Anything more?” Gently, he pushed aside the covers. Forgetting his nakedness, he rose and strode boldly toward her. “You’re wrong. What happened in this bedroom last night wasn’t strange. Just better than we expected. Maybe we didn’t count on it being the beginning of a relationship. Maybe we figured it would only turn out to be a one-night stand. But that’s why we need to talk about this, Lucy.”

Seeing how overwhelmed she was, his heart went out to her. “What are we going to do?” he asked reasonably, molding his hands over her shoulders and gazing deeply into her eyes. “Make a casual date? Go out to dinner? Start all over again and pretend we haven’t already made each other insane with lust?”

“No, Morgan,” Lucy whispered, rapidly shaking her head. “No!”

“That’s right,” he agreed, relieved she was on the same wavelength. “We can’t pretend we didn’t share the kind of passion that keeps people together forever.”

“Morgan.” She ground the word out.

Something in her tone stopped him. “What?”

“Get a grip!”

Why was she getting so upset? “We don’t need to get a grip. We need to let go, Lucy, to follow this wherever it takes us.”

Her face had turned sheet-white. “Morgan,” she said in a rush, “there’s something I have to tell you.”

Was there another man—as there had been with his ex-fiancée, Cheryl? Or had Lucy taken a job in another city? Was she moving? This didn’t sound good, but Morgan wanted to earn her trust. “You can tell me anything, sweetheart. After last night, nothing you say could change how I feel.”

“I doubt that,” Lucy announced ominously.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, Morgan suddenly realized that even though she was practically in his arms, she no longer had any effect on him physically. That was weird. Just a few hours ago, the simplest touch had aroused him beyond compare. Had the sparks already burned out? The magic vanished?

His fingers curled more possessively over her shoulders, and he bit back a curse, wanting to recapture those feelings and wishing she’d quit staring behind him. Last night’s intimacy was serious stuff, but was she really so shy that she couldn’t even look him in the eye this morning? Suddenly, he froze. From behind him, he could swear he heard the covers rustle, but that was impossible.

Lucy’s in front of me, he thought. He was touching her, so he knew he wasn’t dreaming. No, somebody else was in the room! Just as another rustle sounded, he realized that Lucy’s dress felt as cold as ice. Maybe she really had come from outside. In tandem with a missed beat of his heart, Morgan’s eyes widened, and very slowly, he turned and craned his neck to stare at the bed.

Behind him, the covers wiggled. Because of the print on the sheets and duvet, bright blue waves seemed to be undulating and pink whales seemed to be swimming as whoever was buried under there punched their way out. Quickly, Morgan tried to tell himself that he, not the covers, was moving. He’d almost convinced himself that he was just woozy from having too much great sex when, with mounting horror, he saw evidence that he’d slept with someone other than Lucy.

Her hand appeared first.

Slender, pale and long-fingered, it groped over the pillow, extending French-manicured nails that Morgan instinctively knew had left the welts pleasantly tingling on his shoulders. When the covers were whisked back, bare skin flashed right before a whale and cresting wave respectively were pressed to breasts that were definitely smaller than Lucy’s.

No WonderBra was involved, after all. A blue turban was half tangled in hair that was plastered to a head with dried green goop the color of split pea soup, but Morgan barely noticed that because his worst fears had just been realized. He was staring at the lust machine with whom he’d spent the night.

“Three words,” he whispered.

It’s Vanessa Verne.




2


LATER, VANESSA would curse herself for not throwing Morgan out of Lucy’s bedroom immediately, but when she dragged herself from wildly sensual dreams, punched her way out of the covers and saw him standing there stark naked, her response was to feel so soft, warm and female that the hands clutching the sheet to her breasts loosened a fraction and her throat constricted, aching with emotion. Had she really spent the night in those strong arms? Pressed to that naked, muscular, hairy body that had a temperature hotter than molten lava?

Later, after Vanessa fully registered how Morgan felt about her, she’d berate herself for feeling shivers prickling between her shoulder blades at that moment and she’d deny she sighed wistfully while staring with unchecked adoration at the dark, devilish and very naked angel who’d shamelessly pleasured her until dawn.

He had rich, brown-black hair that curled like chocolate shavings on the world’s most delectable dessert. He had dangerously dark, gleaming eyes. For a second, everything in their expression said he enjoyed last night’s fall from grace, but then the look vanished, leaving only high cheekbones. Long smooth cheeks. A straight nose and a mouth that was by turns petulant or bemused. An indentation in a rounded chin as if gently pressed there by a loving thumb.

Even in dark lackluster suits, Morgan Fine was…well, fine, but now he was stripped to the buff and towering over Lucy, one of his huge, strong hands enveloping her shoulder. His bare skin was sleek and glowing, except where wild black hair erupted, looking far coarser than Vanessa recalled it feeling against her fingertips. Inhaling sharply, she averted her gaze, since it landed where he was unabashedly exposed…

Meet me in broad daylight, he’d said.

“Indeed,” whispered Vanessa, her eyes widening.

Suddenly she realized Lucy was trying to inch away from his grasp. “Uh, hi, Vanessa,” Lucy managed to say.

Lucy! Only now did Vanessa register that, when they’d made love, Morgan thought she was Lucy! Not that the misunderstanding would matter, she assured herself—she and Morgan had been so perfect together—but Vanessa felt self-conscious. She was still nude in Lucy’s bed, and when she casually raised a hand to her hair—realizing in the process she’d broken a nail—she dislodged the turban, which fell to the mattress. Wincing, she gingerly probed the green-coated strands of hair plastered to her head and almost groaned out loud. Why had she chosen last night, of all nights, to use this overnight conditioner? And why did it happen to be the same green color as aliens from Mars?

Feeling like a cross between Lisa Kudrow in a screwball comedy and Medusa, she hoped she didn’t look too ridiculous, but it was hard to gauge Morgan’s reaction. Only his eyes moved, following dried green dust as it sprinkled from her hair, flaking over her bare shoulders. Otherwise, he remained stock-still, each of his stone-hard, well-toned muscles tense.

Lucy cleared her throat loudly, as if trying to retrieve her voice from as far away as the stratosphere. “Hey,” she suggested in an overly bright tone. “Why don’t I leave you two alone? I bet you’d like to talk!”

There was a long, otherworldly silence as if the planet had spun to a stop on its axis. And then Morgan growled, “Oh, no, you don’t, Lucy. You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here.”

Ignoring his commanding tone, Lucy stepped backward, attempting an escape toward the stairs to the kitchen, but Morgan flexed his fingers and tightened the grip on her shoulder in a way Vanessa imagined had to hurt. Still groggy from lack of sleep and confused because he didn’t seem to want to be alone with her, Vanessa rapidly blinked, another thrill coursing through her when she saw all the empty condom packets strewn across the red carpet.

“Roll out the red carpet,” she whispered in shock, more images of last night racing back to her. That many condoms? Drawing a wavering breath, she counted five. Feeling renewed awe over Morgan’s unparalleled virility, she made a mental note to thank Lucy for stocking the drawer in the bedside table so adequately. There would be a special thanks for the ribbed condoms, which, from reading the wrappers, Vanessa now knew came in neon colors. Yes, she and Morgan had definitely added new meaning to the phrase rainbow coalition.

“Vanessa?” Lucy prompted. “Are you awake yet?”

“Huh?” Vanessa’s eyes bounced from the condom packets to Morgan, who stared back as if he’d never seen her before. That didn’t bode well. When she averted her gaze, biding her time, she was staring through the windows. Someone had pulled back heavy red velvet drapes, and outside, the winter sky was milky-white. Water had frozen in a fountain on the lawn, and snow flurries were lazily falling through bare tree branches. Two floodlights, which were on an automatic timer, snapped off.

But what was happening in here? Vanessa was starting to wake up. Just a minute ago, hadn’t Morgan announced he cared about her? Yes, she recalled, still rousing herself from the dazed, stuporous afterglow left by his lovemaking. He’d said theirs was the best sex he’d ever had. The kind of passion, he’d assured, that kept people together forever.

Vanessa’s thoughts exactly. But the atmosphere had changed. Snuggled under the covers, listening to Morgan’s compliments, she’d felt ecstatic, but she’d better face facts. Morgan had meant to sleep with Lucy. Glancing over her shoulder and judging the distance to Lucy’s bathroom, where she’d left her clothes, Vanessa considered making a run for it. Maybe she could lock herself in there until Morgan left. Or at least wear something other than this sheet while they addressed the misunderstanding.

It was a lost opportunity, however. Morgan, who was still staring at her dumbly, hoarsely said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Verne. Honestly. I had no idea it was you.”

And clearly, if he had, he wouldn’t have slept with her. Vanessa exhaled shakily. What did he expect her to say? That she was sorry, too? She wasn’t, so she settled on saying, “Uh, under the circumstances, why don’t you call me Vanessa.”

Morgan managed a curt nod. “Whatever you say.”

Given his tone, he might as well have said, You’re the boss. What did the man have against her, anyway? After last night, how could he treat her this way? Was he rejecting her because he was an employee?

“I’d better get to work,” Lucy said chirpily, embarrassed pink spots splotching her cheeks. “You two need some alone time.” You two. She’d said it as in you two lovebirds, which only worsened an already delicate situation.

“Alone time?” Morgan echoed in his most professional, discreet, Secret Service voice. “With Ms. Verne?”

“Vanessa,” she emphasized.

With images from their past night of alone time still in her mind, Vanessa forced herself to scoot from the bed Morgan’s mouthwatering body had left so warm. Flattening the covers to her chest, she started toward Lucy and Morgan, hoping to straighten things out. Unfortunately, her foot tangled in the dragging tail of the sheet, and as she lurched Morgan edged backward, his gorgeous body retracting like a crab into its shell instead of lunging to catch her.

“Some Secret Service agent,” she huffed.

“Sorry, Ms. Verne,” he said stoically as she regained her balance. It was as if the man couldn’t get out of this bedroom and away from her fast enough. A man, she tried not to remind herself, whom she’d been trying to get into bed for weeks.

“Don’t worry—” her gaze locked into his, and she wondered how much longer she could bear this humiliation “—I realize you’re not on duty right now. So, why should you save me from tripping?”

“You didn’t trip.”

“Not this time,” she returned darkly. “But it’s not like I was going to bite you. I promise, Mr. Fine.”

“Morgan,” he corrected, his mouth quirking in something resembling a smile. “Under the circumstances.”

“Morgan,” she repeated.

And then he raised a thick eyebrow as if to say, You did bite last night—which, of course, Vanessa had. Drawing a calming breath and hoping he wouldn’t guess at her mortification, she tried to ignore the stubbled jaw she’d nibbled and the slightly curved lips she’d caught between her teeth. The next thing she knew, she was recalling other, more private places she’d found tasty.

She couldn’t believe it. She’d never even had oral sex with Hans Breakman—and she’d almost married him. Another voice followed in the wake of that thought. Morgan thought I was Lucy! What am I going to do now?

You’ll think of something. She was Senator’s Verne’s daughter, after all. Sure, she’d been a party animal, at least according to the tabloids. And sure, she’d been booted from three colleges without graduating, but she’d learned social skills along the way. Still…what were you supposed to do when you’d slept with somebody who’d only slept with you because he thought you were somebody else?

At a loss, Vanessa wrapped a steadying hand around Lucy’s unengaged arm, the one Morgan wasn’t gripping. Vaguely, she realized her heart was beating dangerously fast and that she and Morgan were each holding Lucy’s dangling limbs as if intending to tear her into two even pieces.

Lucy read her mind. “Am I being drawn and quartered?”

“No,” Vanessa said, surprised at how absurdly stern her usually well-modulated voice sounded. “But Morgan’s right, Lucy. You’re not going anywhere. Not until we, uh, figure this out.”

Lucy looked uncertain. “What’s to figure out?”

Lucy had a point. Vanessa and Morgan had enjoyed amazing sex, but the whole time, Morgan thought Vanessa was Lucy. “Right.” Vanessa could barely find her voice. “This is a pretty clear-cut case.”

“Case?” murmured Morgan. “Of what?”

Mistaken sex, Vanessa thought, but didn’t say it.

Very slowly, Lucy was tearing her eyes from Morgan’s bare, hairy chest and staring where Vanessa’s fingers were digging into her upper arm. “What?” she said indignantly. “Are you pulling rank on me, Vanessa? Because if you are—”

“Oh, please,” Vanessa interjected, tamping down her temper and piercing Lucy with a long, level stare. “Give me some credit.” This was no time to argue with her best friend. Couldn’t Lucy see they were in a jam? One for which they were equally responsible? Trying to disguise her pleading tone, she added, “I just think it’s best if you wait while Morgan gets dressed.”

“Best for whom?” challenged Lucy, speaking as if Morgan wasn’t even there. “I don’t want to…watch.”

“Fine by me,” agreed Morgan, shaking his head as if to say he couldn’t believe their situation. “Why don’t you both keep your eyes shut?” Abruptly releasing Lucy, he strode around the room. Under the circumstances, Vanessa didn’t blame him for being upset, but she still thought he looked magnificent as he retrieved his clothes.

“I have to go downstairs,” Lucy argued in a faint whisper, keeping her eyes trained on a far wall. Vanessa didn’t bother with modesty, but remained studiously absorbed with Morgan as he searched for his briefs in the remaining bedcovers. Chippendale men had nothing on Morgan Fine.

“Your dad’s in the kitchen,” Lucy continued urgently. “Apparently Mrs. Bell called in sick, so the senator’s down there, making Pop ’n’ Serve biscuits—”

Vanessa’s knees were nearly buckling from the exemplary view of Morgan’s honed male physique. Still using her grip on Lucy to support her body weight, she managed to speak in a breathless-sounding voice. “I know. Daddy called up here last night, to say Mrs. Bell wouldn’t be coming to work.”

“If we don’t get your father out of the kitchen,” Lucy insisted, “you two are trapped up here. He’s going to see Morgan leave or realize you slept here. Have you gone crazy, Ness? You know how your father feels about—”

“Premarital sex?” Vanessa asked.

“He doesn’t even approve of postmarital sex.” Lucy huffed.

So true. This was hardly the first time the women, both staunch Democrats, had wished the retired senator was something other than a family-values Republican. Ellery Verne had gone to great lengths to separate Lucy from her boyfriend, Bjorn, and Vanessa from any living, breathing male. “He can’t find out about this,” Vanessa acknowledged slowly, still unable to tear her gaze from Morgan or release her hold on her friend. “But it’ll be okay,” she added. “Right? I mean, this isn’t the first time we’ve been in a jam.”

“I never would have guessed.” Morgan tossed the words dryly over his shoulder, his voice calm and too controlled.

“Not this kind of a jam,” Vanessa assured him, feeling a need to defend herself at his tone. “It’s not as if I sleep with every cute Secret Service agent who works here.”

The man didn’t even pick up on the hint, grin and say, “Do you really think I’m cute?” Instead, in a disbelieving voice, he said, “Really?” He’d stepped over the trail of condom packages and into his briefs, and she watched as he upended the overturned wastebasket, scrounged inside it and lifted out a cell phone and rumpled shirt.

“Lucy’s mother worked here since before I was born.” Vanessa found herself explaining as she watched him shrug into the shirt. “She was a single mother, so my father was naturally protective of her and Lucy, who’s three months older than me. Anyway, Mrs. Giangarfalo recently moved to Arizona, where she’s pursuing a career in real estate, but Lucy and I have always been best friends. We don’t get into trouble, not really, but we did grow up together, in the same house, and so naturally—”

Suddenly aware she was rambling like an idiot, she lost her voice. Morgan’s fingers had stilled on a buttonhole, forcing her to remember how she’d lustily grasped the shirttails and tugged, ripping off his shirt. Had she really done that? Yes, she realized. The evidence, a trail of small white buttons, gleamed in the red carpet. As she stared at them, tactile memories of smooth pectorals and the tangled hair between them made her palms tingle.

“And…well, I suppose we pulled our share of silly pranks.” Lucy plunged on with a helpful, nervous chuckle, her eyes following Vanessa’s as they trailed, one by one, over the buttons. Lucy edged backward, but Vanessa held tight.

“Innocent pranks,” Vanessa added, watching Morgan pull on gray suit slacks that were wrinkled beyond repair. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure which was the worse of two evils this morning—Morgan or her father. “Just stay another minute,” she whispered to Lucy, tightening her grip and trying not to notice how desperate she sounded. “Please, Luce.”

Lucy looked torn. Vanessa only used the nickname when things were serious. “This is how you repay me?” Vanessa asked, uncharacteristically stooping to guilt tactics. “I slept here so you could go out to the garage and see Bjorn.”

“This is not my fault,” replied Lucy.

Morgan had stopped zipping his pants. “Bjorn?”

He wasn’t supposed to overhear, but at least the conversation was taking a rational turn. “Bjorn and Lucy are engaged,” Vanessa explained.

At the news, the sexiest mouth she’d ever kissed compressed into a grim line. “She’s engaged?” Morgan’s zipper continued its upward trek. “To Bjorn? Your father’s chauffeur?”

Vanessa was wishing Morgan didn’t look quite so shocked about Lucy’s engagement and wondering what he’d think if he knew Lucy was also pregnant when Lucy started in with her own apology. “I’m sorry, Morgan,” she began. “I know I’ve been flirting with you. Pretty shamelessly, I admit it. But ever since we got engaged, Bjorn’s become distant, and he never gave me a ring, just a promise, so I’m worried. You see, something’s happened that will change my relationship with him forever, and so I need to feel closer to him before I tell him—”

“You were flirting with Morgan?” interjected Vanessa.

“Yes,” admitted Lucy. “But it didn’t mean anything, Ness.”

Because Vanessa wanted to preserve any remaining dignity, she didn’t glare at her friend. She did, however, use her eyes to ask, How could you? As soon as Morgan arrived, Vanessa had shared her intentions about getting to know him. “Some friend,” she whispered.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” Lucy said.

“Let me get this straight.” Morgan was glaring at Lucy, and Vanessa felt a rush of pleasure she wasn’t proud of, since it was probably what Lucy deserved for her disloyalty. “You were using me to make your boyfriend jealous?”

“Fiancé,” Lucy corrected him as if it should change matters. “And not jealous,” she clarified judiciously. “Just more attentive. He loves me, and I know it, but as I said, I don’t have a ring. I’m afraid he’s getting cold feet. He hasn’t been…”

The flash of Morgan’s eyes stopped her. Seeing how it made him look as swarthy as a pirate, Vanessa suddenly felt bad for Lucy, and even though she was angry at the betrayal, she softened and decided she’d better smooth things over. After all, Lucy was right. Lately, Bjorn hadn’t been paying enough attention to Lucy, and after much discussion, she and Lucy agreed things needed to be on track before he was told about the baby. “Lucy and Bjorn have been together for some time,” Vanessa said, “and because my father suspects they’re sleeping together—”

“They are sleeping together,” Morgan interjected, sounding uncompromising, just as a government agent should, something that sent a thrill through Vanessa.

“The senator calls my room late at night.” Lucy picked up the thread. “Just to make sure I’m really in bed, because he’s afraid I’m sneaking to Bjorn’s apartment—”

“Which you are,” clarified Morgan.

“See?” Vanessa managed to muster a bright smile. “It’s all so simple. I sleep here sometimes and answer the phone, pretending to be Lucy. That’s how you and I wound up, uh, uh—” Her words stuttered to a halt, and she settled her gaze on the bed, which, she decided, said it all.

Morgan held up a staying hand. “I get the picture.” As graceful as a panther, he dropped to his flat belly and swept a long arm under the bed, looking for his shoes.

All conversation ground to a halt.

“Anyway,” Vanessa continued lamely, watching wistfully as he rose, sliding huge bare feet into polished black oxfords. Vaguely, she wondered what had happened to his socks. “I…” Staring at him, she forgot what she’d been about to say, mostly because she was vowing never to think again of the criminal lengths to which she’d gone to get him into her bed. Lucy’s bed, she corrected.

A rumbling bass, her father’s voice, suddenly cut through the silence. “Lucy? Are you up there?”

“Two words,” muttered Morgan, looking none too happy.

When his dashing eyes fixed on hers, Vanessa croaked, “Which two words?” And then prayed her father wouldn’t venture upstairs.

Morgan mouthed, “I’m fired.”

“Three words.” Vanessa couldn’t help but reply, unable to stop herself from pointing out his self-centeredness, given what was starting to feel painfully like rejection. “So is Lucy.”

Morgan’s gaze traced her bare shoulders, and sparks of awareness came into his eyes. “You’re safe.”

“No,” said Vanessa. “If my father finds me here, naked with you, he won’t fire me, he’ll kill me. I’m his daughter.”

Before Morgan could respond, Lucy called, “I’m on my way, Senator!” Her eyes bugging a final time, she stared around—at the evidence on the floor, at Vanessa, who was still clad in a sheet, and at Morgan, who was seated on the bed’s edge in wrinkled pants, a shirt without buttons and shoes without socks. “I know Mrs. Bell called in sick.” Lucy continued in nervous falsetto, prying Vanessa’s fingers from her arm so she could go downstairs. “And I’m on my way!”

“Hurry up,” intoned the senator, adding one of his usual aphorisms. “He that riseth late must trot all day, Lucy.”

As soon as Lucy was gone, Vanessa realized the sheet wasn’t adequately covering her. Her bare behind was facing the stairs her elderly father had just threatened to climb. Reaching behind herself, she grabbed a flap of the sheet and fashioned a toga. Her eyes settled on Morgan’s fingers, which were lacing the left shoe, and she steeled herself against memories of those fingers gliding along her bare thighs, parting them, stroking between them. Straightening her shoulders, she could only hope she didn’t look anywhere near as humiliated as she felt.

He must have read the lift of her chin as haughty, because he glanced up and cautioned, “Don’t look at me like that, Ms. Verne.”

His not calling her Vanessa was driving her crazy. “Look at you like what, Mr. Fine?”

“Like I’ve done something wrong.”

Actually, she thought with a shudder, the problem was that Morgan had done so many things just fine, and during the long seconds they eyed each other, she dwelled on each and every one of them. From the moment she’d watched him drive up to the house, she’d decided he was her dream man. His easy humor and air of quiet competence had impressed her, and soon enough she’d decided the competence would extend to the bedroom, which it had. His rejection was nearly killing her. “Maybe next time—” she couldn’t help but speak stiffly, wishing they weren’t alone “—you should check to see who’s in bed with you.”

For the endless moment his gaze held hers, she tried not to notice the sleek black curls dancing around his face and how sharp his cheekbones looked under taut skin. “I thought it was Lucy.”

“It,” she whispered, wishing she didn’t sound so miserable. “Do you think I’m an it?”

He blew out an exasperated sigh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Do you really like Lucy?” It was horrible to ask, but after feeling how he’d made love, Vanessa had to know. Hovering by the door, she held on to the toga knot and waited.

He gave a very male grunt. “No, I don’t like Lucy.”

“Maybe that’s even more offensive.” She couldn’t help but say it. After all, Lucy was Vanessa’s best friend, had been since they were babies. Feeling the toga slip, Vanessa curled a hand more tightly over the knot between her breasts and hiked up the sheet. “Anyway, what does that mean? Do you usually sleep with people you don’t like?”

Looking annoyed, he placed his palms on rock-hard thighs, rose from the bed and moved toward her, stopping when he was close enough that her every breath was drawing in a fresh, wind-in-the-pines scent. “Watch it.” She couldn’t help but taunt him, holding out her flattened palm. “If you come any closer, I might bite. And if I trip over a sheet and almost break my neck, like I did a minute ago, you definitely shouldn’t help me out. Heaven only knows what could happen to you if you did.” She paused for effect. “You might turn into a gentleman.”

He ignored the gibes. “I do not sleep with people I don’t like,” he assured her. “And I do think last night you could have stopped me.”

What was she supposed to do now? For a second, she was so stunned she forgot she was standing there looking like an idiot with green goop in her hair. “When? When I was half asleep and you climbed into bed with me? When you undressed me?”

“In anticipation of my visit,” he reminded her, his voice growing husky in a way she would have found arousing under any other circumstance, “you weren’t wearing much.”

“I was in bed when you called! You woke me up!” He was acting as if she’d worn a sexy nightie just for him. “If I was calculating,” she said, “I would have washed this stuff out of my hair.”

“Good point,” he conceded, making her feel even more ridiculous. “Still…”

“What was I supposed to do?” she asked, her jaw slackening. “Manacle your hands when they…” Her voice trailed off at the memories of what those hands had done. Suddenly starting, she forged on. “Muzzle you when you kissed me like a man possessed?”

When his gaze lingered a second too long on the mouth he’d plundered so senselessly, she fantasized him grinning and saying, “You think I kiss like I’m possessed, huh?” Instead, he said in a deliciously smooth baritone, “Look, the sooner we forget all this, the better, Ms. Verne.”

Whichever poet said hell had no fury like a woman scorned was probably right. She was definitely getting testy. “That’s a far cry from passion that keeps people together forever,” she retorted dryly.

Looking perturbed at having his words used against him, Morgan glanced toward the stairs and cocked his head, listening to her father and Lucy. “Sounds like your father’s leaving now.”

The words stung. For weeks, she’d flirted with Morgan, and when he’d climbed into bed with her, Vanessa had naturally assumed he’d succumbed to her charms. Sure, she’d tried to trick him into bed—she could admit that much—but he was acting almost as if she’d knowingly pretended to be Lucy. For Morgan Fine, she’d stoop, but never that low.

“Last night,” she began, feeling forced to defend herself, “I thought you knew it was me.” And their joining had been so perfect and complete she’d felt sure there would be a future for them. Or at least a formal date. Or maybe just a wild, passionate fling. “I thought you didn’t flirt because you were working, and since you were going back to headquarters today…” Her voice trailed off. “I thought you knew Lucy snuck out at night to see Bjorn—”

His eyes dropped over her. “How would I know that?”

Wishing she wasn’t feeling body heat seep from beneath the shirt she’d torn from his chest, she tried not to gape at him. “Because you’re from the Secret Service, that’s how.”

“We don’t know everything.”

Her tone stopped just shy of acid. “Obviously.”

There was a long silence. While she hated striking a nerve by attacking his competence, she suddenly couldn’t fight the urge to get a rise out of him. She’d like to evoke enough reaction that he’d tumble back into that big, warm, mussed bed, taking her with him. She couldn’t help it. She’d never felt anything like what they’d experienced last night, and now he looked like a man emerging from a seedy bar after a wild drunken night—his clothes wrecked, his hair sticking straight up and thick dark stubble coating his jaw. Every rakish inch of him was making her knees turn to jelly.

“A lot of men find me charming,” she added. In case he didn’t quite get all the implications, she continued, “Men have slept with me, knowing it was me.”

He murmured, “So I’ve heard.”

Her fingers tightened anxiously around the sheet. “Heard what, exactly?”

Assessing eyes glinted with what might have been male need, and during another prolonged silence, she heard the tick of a clock and muted dialogue as Lucy marshaled her father from the kitchen. Devastating and liquid, Morgan’s eyes were traveling over her with such hungry, bold possessiveness that she was sure he was going to take it all back. He was going to say he’d known it was her, not Lucy, all along….

“Let’s forget what happened,” he said.

“Last night’s not the kind of thing most people forget.”

“True,” he admitted. “But we’re not most people, are we?”

He made things sound so reasonable, but she wanted to protest, to say she’d never forget their hours of pleasure. “I just want to know one thing.”

“What?”

“Well…you said we owe it to ourselves to be honest.”

Looking miffed at having his words used against him again, he edged aggressively closer. “Okay,” he muttered, his eyes lashing into hers. “I’ll be honest. Perfectly honest. What do you want to know?”

With him so close, her heart started hammering. She hated humbling herself, but after last night, she agreed with him that they had no choice but to be honest. “Why?” she asked. “What’s wrong with me? Why are you sorry it was me, not Lucy?”

He seemed unaware he’d gripped her arm and was using a thumb to rub deep circles on her bare skin—or that he did so until she felt so hot, she was half convinced she was wearing an electric blanket instead of a sheet. “I know what you’re thinking,” he finally said. “You’re smart, you’re rich, you’re gorgeous, right? So, why shouldn’t the hired help be happy to do whatever you want?”

Including sleep with her? As much as she appreciated the back-door admission that she was smart, rich and gorgeous, she instinctively backed away—only to pull him with her. “You’re wrong,” she managed to say as her back hit the wall. “And I’m no snob.”

“If anything—” he agreed with a readiness that fueled her temper “—maybe you’re too undiscriminating.”

She thought of how brazenly her tongue had swirled over every inch of him. “You’ve got a point there,” she admitted shakily. She’d certainly never shared her body with somebody who didn’t even like her. “I definitely should have gotten to know you better before—before…” She couldn’t force herself to say the words before we made love. “Before, well, you know.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve made this mistake, is it?”

She felt a sledgehammer knock the wind from her. “What?”

“A little truth bothers you?” His gaze was tracing her lips, the expression in his eyes a little lost, as if he couldn’t stop thinking about kissing her again. “At least you’ve got a conscience.”

“Just because I slept with you,” she said, color flooding her cheeks, “and just because it was good doesn’t mean I do it all the time.” Before Hans Breakman, she’d only had one other lover, a boy she’d met in high school. “You say that as if I’ve slept with every Tom, Dick and—”

“Ivan Petrovitch.” Morgan cut in. “What about him?”

Had Morgan Fine stooped to believing what he read in the tabloids? Before she could ask, he added, “And let’s not forget Kenneth Hopper.”

Apparently Kenneth Hopper had told his Secret Service buddies about the most humiliating incident of her life. For a second, the present fell away, and with it a piece of her heart. Vanessa was reliving the months following her mother’s death. Slowly, she was watching her father withdraw to hide in his work. Since he kept forcing her to attend school, she’d kept flunking out so she could come home and take care of him. With her mother gone, she’d had no shoulder to cry on except Lucy’s—and Hans’s. Mrs. Giangarfalo had left for Arizona. Vanessa had been so sure Hans loved her that, even now, the betrayal made her voice falter. “What did Kenneth say?” How could the agent who’d been kind enough to bring her home lie to his coworkers?

Morgan’s eyes turned cold. “Not much. He’s never worked in this country again.”

“Kenneth wanted to work overseas.” She defended herself. “And I don’t know what you heard, but I was…was in love with Hans.”

Morgan shrugged. “He was the gardener, right?”

She was starting to think better of making herself vulnerable to Morgan, but after last night, she still felt compelled to try. “You’re the one coming onto me as if I’m a snob. What’s his job got to do with anything?” Before he could answer, she plunged on. “Is that what’s bothering you this morning? That you’re working for my father?”

“I work for the Secret Service.”

And he thought she was a flighty woman looking for flings—with men who worked here. Well, so be it. She had more pride than to let him know how he’d gotten to her last night.

At least until he said, “What about your lover?”

Once more, his words took the wind out of her sails. “My…what?”

“Lover.” Seemingly impulsively, Morgan lifted the hand from her arm and glided a finger down her cheek, the touch leaving a furrow filled with longing for him. “‘Oh, Vanessa,”’ he murmured, the sexy words coming from his lips affecting her more than they should have as he quoted one of the letters, “‘I’m hungry to taste every tall, lanky, elegant inch of you….”’

No matter what happened, Morgan Fine could never discover who wrote those letters. Not after last night. She’d sooner die than have him discover the truth. Luckily, he was leaving this morning. “Those letters aren’t signed,” she argued quickly. “They’re anonymous. I don’t know who’s sending them. The…the writer’s not my lover.” She shook her head adamantly. “Definitely not.”

He eyed her for what felt like an eternity, and when he spoke, he sounded very convinced. “You’re lying.”

She was. “That,” she said, “or you’re very suspicious.”

He didn’t deny it. “You met him at the Blues Bar, right?”

“No,” she replied. “Not knowingly, anyway,” she clarified. “Maybe he met me there but, if so, I don’t remember it. He’s a…a secret admirer. Nothing more.”

Morgan’s voice was just gentle enough to remind her how it sounded when he whispered sweet nothings. “You really expect me to believe that, Ms. Verne?”

“Of course I do.”

But he thought she slept around. He believed she’d taken him to bed when she already had another lover. She couldn’t defend herself, either. The truth was, she had written the fool letters. After Morgan had been there a week during which he hadn’t seemed to notice her, she’d solicited Lucy’s advice. Lucy thought Morgan might become more interested in Vanessa if he thought another man was in the picture. “You know what they always say in Cosmo.” Lucy had coached her. “If there are no cars parked in front of a restaurant, a man won’t go inside.”

Sending herself a couple of love letters that she knew Morgan would open seemed harmless, and Vanessa had done it in a spirit of good, clean fun. In fact, when she’d surreptitiously watched him read the first, she’d doubled over laughing at the practical joke.

But now the joke was on her.

Silently, she cursed herself for listening to Lucy. Giangarfalo women, Lucy’s mother included, were hopelessly Italian, which meant when it came to men they thought everything boiled down to love triangles and hot-blooded jealousy. It wasn’t the first time Vanessa realized she’d be better off following her safer, Anglo-Saxon impulses.

“Yes.” She finally continued, trying to find a way to end this encounter before it worsened. “I have a secret admirer. I do not know who he is. And while you were so busy disparaging me, blackening my reputation and raking me over the coals, Mr. Fine, I noticed my father and Lucy quit talking downstairs. Since he’s no longer in the kitchen, maybe you should leave now.” When he didn’t move, she knew her only hope was to give him a taste of his own medicine. “You really didn’t know it was me?”

His dark eyes surveyed her with the same caution he used in crowds while protecting a client. “No.”

“Well, before you gossip like Kenneth Hopper, you might want to think twice,” she cautioned, a slight smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Your Secret Service buddies might point out that I don’t look anything like Lucy. I’m taller. She’s bustier.” Pausing for effect, she added, “And it wasn’t really all that dark, now, was it, Morgan?”

His glance was wary. “It was pitch-black.”

“My voice is deeper.”

He was watching her so carefully she could have been a bomb about to explode. “I’d had a long day.”

“Pardon me for mentioning what we’re supposed to forget,” she returned coolly, “but you didn’t seem all that fatigued to me last night.”

He considered a long time, and when he spoke, she felt the soft rasp of his voice in her blood. “I guess you’ve got a point there.”

At the admission he’d enjoyed their evening, something fluid attacked her knees, making them flimsy as noodles. Once more, she was sure Morgan was about to break down, confess he’d really known it was her and repeat every sweet, heartfelt confession he’d made to Lucy. Right before the part about passion that kept people together forever, his hot, hard mouth would settle over hers….

Instead, he said, “You’re right. I think Lucy finally got your father out of the kitchen.”

“I hope you’ll be more discreet than Kenneth and not share the intimate details of my life,” she said, mustering one last shred of dignity. “You said we couldn’t pretend. But apparently we can. So, let’s pretend last night never happened.”

Sighing in relief, he nodded. “I’m expected back at headquarters by eight this morning. If I’m ever assigned to your home in the future—”

“You won’t be,” she assured him, thinking fate could never be so cruel. She managed a curt nod, and then, having no idea what to do next and being too well-bred to turn away, she thrust out her hand. After a second’s hesitation, he shook it, and from the sigh that left his lips—this one quick and involuntary—she could tell the touch affected him, too. Not that their uncanny attraction stopped him from leaving. He headed downstairs, his parting words floating over broad shoulders that spanned the stairwell. “See you around, Ms. Verne.”

“Looking forward to it, Mr. Fine.”

But both of them knew it was a lie.




3


WHAT HAD HE DONE? Morgan slipped into an overcoat, shouldered his duffel bag and headed for the Vernes’ front door. He had to get out of here. If Vanessa Verne was lying about those letters to protect a man in her life, it wasn’t Morgan’s problem. “Tell my Secret Service buddies about this?” he whispered with a wince, straightening the silver silk tie he was wearing with a fresh gray suit. Was she crazy? Morgan wouldn’t confess this adventure to a hearing-impaired priest who didn’t speak English. Meet me in broad daylight. Had he really said that? And We made each other insane with lust. We need to follow this passion wherever it takes us.

Fortunately, he wouldn’t be seeing Vanessa again. But how could he forget her? By four o’clock this morning, when she’d done that mind-bending, over-the-top thing where her tongue twirled around every inch of him, Morgan had suspected he’d never again crave another woman. Every tantalizing tidbit he’d ever heard about Vanessa had turned out to be true. And boy, oh boy, he’d loved every minute of it.

“Two words,” Morgan whispered, resting his hand on the doorknob. “Forget her.”

Vanessa Verne was rich, smart, gorgeous and played with fire, something that could cost Morgan the job he loved. Just as he swung open the door and realized Bjorn hadn’t brought his car around front as he’d promised, the senator’s bass voice sounded behind him. “You won’t be needing your car.”

Morgan got a sinking, no-way-out feeling. Two minutes later, he was ensconced opposite Vanessa in a leather armchair in the late Nora Verne’s study, and his worst fears were realized. His eyes trailed from floral draperies to peach walls lined with photographs of the nationally renowned socialite who’d befriended countless dignitaries and achieved fame for her tastefully lavish parties—and then to Vanessa.

She’d inherited her mother’s looks. Her father, who was pacing between them in front of a teak desk, was a full five inches shorter than she. He was known for his taciturn manner, and he had heavy sagging jowls and watery dark eyes that hid in the fleshy folds of his eyelids. If it weren’t for the navy suits that barely buttoned over his portly girth and the conservative ties he favored—this one printed with sailing ships—Ellery Verne would look more like a Mafia don than an aging, eccentric, retired U.S. senator.

Bjorn, a big blond with a Swedish accent, was lingering by the door looking confused, still holding the keys to Morgan’s car. Lucy, doubling for Mrs. Bell, was hustling into the study, setting down a tray of drinks.

“Lucy, you’d better stay.” Senator Verne spoke so thunderously that the chairs seemed to quake, making it easy to imagine him commanding voters to the polls. “I know how close you and Vanessa are, and I’m worried.”

“Worried?” Lucy sidled next to Bjorn, and even though they were trying to be discreet, it was no wonder the senator suspected the affair. Even from here, Morgan felt the sparks. He hoped the senator didn’t pick up on the flares between himself and Vanessa.

“Mr. Fine,” the senator said, “you’ve met my daughter during your brief stay in our home, of course?”

Thinking of how shamelessly she’d flirted with him and about last night, Morgan couldn’t help but seek her gaze, feeling more in control now that they were dressed. “We’ve…” He let the pause linger. “Met.” He wasn’t proud of it, but given how thoroughly she’d unsettled him last night, it felt good to tease her, to wrestle back some of the control.




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