Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(32)

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.”

“That hair of yours hasn’t seen a pin in months.”

“All right, Bonner. If you’re so damned smart, how do you think I got in?”

“Jimmying locks works great in the movies, but it’s not too practical in real life.” He studied her, then, moving so swiftly she had no time to react, ran his hands down the sides of her body. It only took him a moment to find the key in the pocket of her sweatshirt.

He dangled it in front of her. “I think you had a key that you conveniently forgot to turn in when you were evicted.”

“Give that back to me.”

“Sure I will,” he said sarcastically. “My brother loves having his house robbed.”

“Do you really think there’s anything in this house I’d want to steal?” She jerked her sweatshirt back up on her shoulder, then winced as a shaft of pain shot down her arm.

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean, what’s wrong? You threw me into a wall, you moron! My arm hurts!”

Guilt flickered across his face. “Damn it, I didn’t know it was you.”

“That’s no excuse.” She flinched again as he began moving surprisingly gentle hands along her arm, checking for injury.

“If I’d known it was you, I’d have thrown you over the balcony. Does this hurt?”

“Yes, it hurts!”

“Damn, you’re a crybaby.”

She lifted her foot and kicked him in the shin, but he was too close to do much damage.

Ignoring her, he released her arm. “It’s probably just bruised, but you should have it X-rayed to be safe.”

As if she had the money for an X-ray. “If it’s still bothering me in a couple of days, I will.”