Breaking The Rules. Jamie Denton

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      3

      Rule 3: A lady will never openly seek an invitation, but will wait until one has been extended to her.

      CONSCIOUSNESS returned with a vengeance.

      Carly eased her eyes open to mere slits, then quickly squeezed them closed against the blinding sunlight streaming through an open window. A series of jackhammers pounded on the street, or somewhere.

      Her head?

      Sweet Mary, what had she done?

      Like a bad movie, the events of the previous day swam through her muddled and pounding head. Her panicked flee from the church. A hastily written note with virtually no explanation as to why she couldn’t go through with the wedding. The drive into Chicago. Her car breaking down in front of a bar, followed by far too many Scotch on the rocks for someone who’d never tasted anything stronger than sacramental wine.

      She opened her eyes and groaned, grabbing her head in both hands, hoping to still the memories and lessen the pounding. She failed on both counts.

      A flash of color caught her attention. Carefully, she opened one eye. Blue. Navy blue cotton?

      She sat up quickly—too quickly—and heard the sound of a pitiful moan. Good grief, was that her?

      One hand continued to hold on to her head, while the other shot to her rolling stomach. A few deep breaths later, she eased her eyes open again and looked down.

      She was wearing a T-shirt.

      A man’s T-shirt?

      Frowning took too much energy, so she simply looked around the unfamiliar room. Where was she? Nothing snagged a memory. Worse, there just weren’t any memories, no clues as to how she ended up in a strange room dressed in a man’s T-shirt.

      She spied her wedding gown laid carefully over a wooden ladder-back chair in front of an old student desk and gasped. Not only her wedding gown but her stockings, garter and corset, as well, all neatly folded and sitting on the corner of the desk. Had someone undressed her? Had she…?

      “Oh, sweet Mary.”

      Carefully, she eased her legs over the side of the twin bed and stood, the hem of the T-shirt reaching a few inches above her knees. Thankfully, the room didn’t spin. She vaguely recalled spinning, but not here, not in this room. It had been somewhere cool that smelled of bleach and disinfectant.

      She shook her head, then groaned when a fresh flash of pain stabbed behind her light-sensitive eyes. She crossed an old braided rug to the door, then quietly stepped into a short hallway. The dulled hardwood floor was cool beneath her feet as she debated heading down the corridor toward the intoxicating aroma of fresh-brewed coffee or making use of the bathroom directly across the hall.

      The bathroom won.

      She took care of her immediate needs, then splashed cool water on her face. Studiously avoiding her reflection in the mirror, she opened the medicine chest in search of toothpaste. A tube with the cap snapped firmly in place sat on the lower shelf beside a single toothbrush, a container of floss and a bottle of inexpensive aftershave. Whomever had taken her home was neat, and single.

      Since her own toothbrush and other toiletries were still in her car in the overnight bag she’d snagged before bolting from Homer, she made use of her unknown host’s toothpaste by spreading it on the tip of her finger. She snapped the medicine chest closed, then further invaded his privacy by liberating a comb and attempting to restore a bit of semblance to her hair.

      Feeling about as refreshed as she could without the benefit of a hot shower and a change of clothes, she left the sanctity of the small tiled bathroom and slowly made her way down the corridor. To her immediate left, a door stood open. Ignoring everything she’d ever been taught about good manners, she peered inside, hoping to gain any amount of knowledge possible about the identity of her host. All she received was further confirmation of his cleanliness, which pretty much eliminated Benny or Joe, based solely on their scruffy attire.

      Still clueless, she left the corridor and entered a comfortably and neatly furnished living room. No newspapers cluttered the old but shining surface of a square coffee table. Not a single magazine lay near the vinyl recliner or was tossed carelessly on the shelf of the wall unit, which doubled as an entertainment center and bookshelf. Even the CDs and videocassettes were arranged in neat rows and—she peered closer—in alphabetical order. The only occupant in the wood-paneled living room was an overweight white cat, stretched over the back of the sofa. His big, round green eyes shot her a look of disdain before the furry beast hopped off his perch and meowed his way into another room.

      Hoping the cat would offer some sort of clue as to her whereabouts, she followed. She stilled at the sound of a deep, masculine voice chastising the cat affectionately.

      She knew that voice from somewhere.

      Before she had time to resurrect the memory, the owner of the voice, followed by the cat, rounded the corner and stopped. Carly stared at a wide chest. Her gaze dipped to faded denim hugging lean hips and long legs, to bare feet. She didn’t need him to turn around to know his backside was one incredible specimen of masculine perfection. She’d spent enough time last night admiring that view.

      Dragging her gaze away from all that perfection, she tipped her head back and looked into eyes the color of dark chocolate. She stifled a groan. Of all the people in Chicago, she had to end up half-naked in the grumpy bar owner’s apartment.

      Had he undressed her? Just the thought of those hands on her body, her unconscious body, made her skin heat.

      The missing pieces of her memory fell rapidly into place, particularly how rudely she’d behaved to him. Even telling herself he deserved it considering he’d been equally rude, not to mention judgmental, did nothing to lessen her embarrassment.

      Not knowing what else to do, she extended her hand. “How do you do,” she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes with her left hand. “I’m Carly Cassidy, and I don’t think I’ve ever been more embarrassed in my life.”

      She wished he would at least smile. She vaguely remembered his was one of those breath-stealing types. Sweet and sexy enough to make her heart flutter in her chest. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in a smiling mood this morning. He СКАЧАТЬ