Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(158)

“What do you know? You’re a vet.” A naked vet. She groaned again as she tried to sit upright.

He pushed her back. “Give yourself a minute. I want you fully recovered before I call the police and have you arrested.”

“Bite me.”

He gazed down at her, then sighed. “You need a serious attitude adjustment.”

“Stuff it, Bonner. You’re not going to have me arrested, and both of us know it, so just give it up.”

“What makes you think I won’t?”

“Because you don’t care enough to call the police.”

“You think I don’t care that you’ve broken into this house in the middle of the night?”

“A little maybe, but not much. You don’t care much about anything. Why is that, by the way?”

She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer. The world began to steady around her. “Look, would you mind putting some clothes on?”

He glanced down at himself as if he’d forgotten he was naked. Slowly he rose to his feet. “This bothers you?”

She gulped. “Not at all.” Her gaze locked on that most amazing of all his body parts. Was it her imagination, or was it getting larger? She began to feel fuzzy again. Maybe she had a head injury after all. Except the fuzziness didn’t seem to be in her head. It was in her legs. Her stomach. Her breasts.

“Rachel?”

“Um?”


“You’re staring.”

Her head shot up, and she could feel herself blushing. That made her mad. But she got even madder when she saw the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth and realized that something had finally struck Mr. Sourpuss’s funny bone. Unfortunately, it was her.

She struggled into a sitting position. “Just get your clothes on, will you? You look revolting naked.”

He splayed his hands on his hips. “You’re the interloper! I was sound asleep when you broke into my bedroom. Now tell me what you’re doing here.”

She wobbled to her feet. “I’ve got to go.”

“Sure you do.”

“Really, Bonner. It’s late, and I’ve had a swell time seeing you naked and all, but—”

“Move it.” He steered her into his bedroom, and another crystal chandelier sprang to life as he hit the switch.

“Don’t do that.”

“Shut up.” He pushed her down on the bed, which rested on a large dais befitting the king of the religious airwaves, then snatched up a pair of jeans from a straight-backed chair that had once been in her bedroom. She watched every motion as he thrust in first one leg and then the other. She didn’t fail to note that he hadn’t bothered with underwear. Dwayne had worn paisley silk boxers tailor-made in London. She barely repressed a sigh of regret as Bonner drew up the zipper. He might be a bastard, but he had one killer body.

The sizzle of sensual awareness she felt in his presence aggravated her. Her body had been dead to the world for so long. Why had it finally come alive now? And why with him?

She forced her attention away from him and took a quick survey of the room. The Kennedy chest was nowhere in sight, but the furniture was as dark and heavy as she remembered. Red velvet draperies decked out with black and gold tassels covered the windows. Although she’d never been in a whorehouse, she’d always believed this room would have fit right in.

The worst feature was the mirror surrounded by the red velvet canopy that hung over the bed. Since Dwayne had never brought other women here, and he’d kept the lights out when he had intercourse with her, she could only imagine what kind of kinky thrills that mirror had given him. Eventually she’d grown to suspect that he needed to see himself the moment he awakened to make certain God hadn’t sent him to hell overnight.

“All right, Rachel. How ’bout you tell me what you’re doing here?”

Some men, she decided, were better seen than heard. “It’s late. Another time.” He came over next to her, and a shiver passed through her as she gazed up into those implacable features. “I’m really not feeling well. I think I might have a head injury after all.”

He brushed his hand over her face. “Your nose is cold. You’re fine.”

Now he had to turn into a comedian. “This is none of your business, you know.”

“You want to run that one by me again?”

“This has to do with my past, and my past doesn’t involve you.”

“Stop stalling. I’m not letting you go till you tell me the truth.”

“I was feeling nostalgic, that’s all. I thought the house was empty.”

He gestured with his thumb at the mirror mounted in the canopy over the bed. “Lots of good memories here?”

“This was Dwayne’s room, not mine.”

“Yours must have been next door.”

She nodded and thought of the pretty sanctuary she’d made for herself in the adjoining room: the cherry furniture and braided rugs, the pale-blue walls with chalk-white trim. Only her old bedroom and the nursery didn’t bear Dwayne’s imprint.

“How did you get in?”

“The back door was unlocked.”

“You’re a liar. I locked it myself.”

“I jimmied the lock with a hairpin.”