Nobody's Princess. Jennifer Greene

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      It wasn’t as if a bomb had exploded. Or Congress had balanced the budget. Absolutely nothing monumental had happened to explain this sudden, strange break from reality she was suffering from.

      So fast, so mystifyingly fast, his arms had swept around her. Regan could have handled an unwanted pass blindfolded in her sleep. But this was nothing like a pass. The accidental physical contact acted like tinder for a spark in a dry, dry forest.

      His fingers sieved and then clenched in her hair. And suddenly his mouth was just there. Covering hers. Warm. Mobile. Evocatively and distinctly male.

      She swayed against him because she would have lost her balance if she hadn’t. He wasn’t rough. She couldn’t even imagine Alex being rough. The texture of his mouth was as gentle as the disarming, winsome caress of a spring breeze...or it started out that way.

      That first soft kiss deepened and darkened, scooping up momentum like the electric charge in a lightning storm. His lips sealed against hers with a pressure that made moonbeams dance under her closed eyes and the blood sluice through her veins in a giddy rush.

      She wasn’t going to call it magic. She knew perfectly well that physical longing and a bunch of ragtag, amoral hormones could hoodwink a woman into believing silly, irresponsible things.

      But this nonmagic thing he was doing was alluring and startling and terribly unsettling. One kiss whispered into another, chained into another and another. Alex was supposed to be a gentleman. Not an inspired kisser. She’d been so positive he was on the shy side, if not downright inhibited around women, but that illusion bit the dust, too. His tongue bribed hers into trying a taste. He tasted like mint juleps and need...a raw, urgent, honest need to touch and be touched, hold and be held. He treasured her mouth, exploring, tasting, sipping her responsiveness as if he’d never sampled this gold before, as if nothing were more important in the whole paltry universe but finding her.

      Images of a strong, protective knight sweeping away his lady slinked into her mind. The fantasy images appalled her. The feeling scared her far worse. She was a feminist, for Pete’s sake. In her head she had no problem understanding that being swept away was unrealistic, irresponsible and outright stupid.

      He loved his Gwen. She knew that, too. He was suffering from loss, and that urgent, explosive need wasn’t really about her. The loneliness and longing of heartache hurt like nothing else in life. He just needed someone at that moment.

      Regan played all the appropriate warning songs in her mind.

      She just couldn’t seem to stop her body from playing waltzes. Foolish, distracting waltzes. Her hands had somehow slipped around his waist. Her breasts crushed against his chest, her head pounding to the same wild rhythm as his, as if both of them already knew this music. His hips cradled hers, in harmony with every movement she made. He smelled like clean soap and man, pleasing, but neither scent explained this crazy feeling of drunk, dizzy intoxication.

      Even as fear climbed through her system, she wanted more, not less. Even as rational thoughts tried to ground her, she didn’t want to be grounded. She wanted the sizzle. She wanted the wonder. She wanted to be touched by Alex, like she couldn’t remember ever wanting a man.

      She could accept a moment of insanity. But something was wrong here. Really wrong. Her mind had already tabulated all the reasons why kissing him was bonkers and foolhardy, but there was something terrible going on besides that. As his tongue dove in her mouth again, as the rubbing pressure of his body speared desire through every nerve ending, she tasted risk. Threat. The power of something she was completely unfamiliar with. And it had his name.

      “Regan...” She heard him groan against her mouth, saw something flash in his eyes in spite of the drowning darkness. But then he pulled back. Clenched his fingers around her shoulders as if to ensure that she was steady, and then abruptly dropped his hands and stepped away.

      Regan scrabbled to recoup, not easy when she felt as shaky as a shipwreck. She could hear his breathing. And her own. Both of them were rasping as if they were mightily suffering from head colds.

      Alex just stood there. He felt shock, she sensed. She understood—she’d never thought, even for a second, that he’d meant that embrace to happen. But he kept looking at her. His expression was blurred in the murky shadows, but she could see the black fire, the intensity, in his eyes.

      She assumed he was suffering guilt, that all that pagan black fire must be about his Gwen. Not her. But silence stretched between them until the awkwardness was darn near paralyzing. She had to say something. “It’s all right,” was the best she could come up with.

      “No. It isn’t.” Alex squeezed his eyes closed and took a long breath. She still wasn’t sure what he was thinking or feeling, but Alex being Alex, his gentleman side never disappeared for long. “Regan, I seriously apologize. I’m not sure I understand what just happened, but I swear I never meant to—”

      “I know you didn’t. And we were having a good time, weren’t we? Just being friends. We just got sidetracked for a second there. Hey, you suffered a big loss. I don’t think it’s any great surprise you might have needed to hold on to someone for a minute.” If that was a pale interpretation of the embrace they just shared, Regan figured it was a lie they both wanted to swallow. “Don’t start feeling guilty over nothing.”

      “It wasn’t ‘nothing’ to take advantage of you.” He clawed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what got into me. And I wouldn’t blame you for not trusting me again—”

      Regan had always been better at being blunt and bossy than owning up to any vulnerability. “You didn’t take advantage of me. Quit being so hard on yourself, you dimwit. We gave in to a little chemistry. It’s not a hanging offense, and nothing happened that either of us need to worry about. Now go home. Get some sleep. It’s two in the morning, for Pete’s sake.”

      She kicked him out—but not before winning a startled grin out of him. Possibly no one had ever called Alex a dimwit before.

      She quickly locked up and then headed for her bedroom, thinking that someone obviously should have. He’d been upset. Hell, so was she. But they’d made the mistake together, so there wasn’t a reason on the planet why he should hustle in to take all the responsibility. She’d never known a man with that kind of conscience, much less one who took honor and guilt so seriously.

      Until him.

      Trying to distract her mind in another direction—any other direction—she flipped off the overhead light in her bedroom and started peeling off clothes. No housekeeping genie had shown up to make the bed, she noticed. The sheets and blankets were rumpled; jewelry and makeup were liberally strewn on the dresser; and the blend of startling colors would likely make Laura Ashley cringe.

      Regan had long accepted that she was never going to be a shy, ladylike Laura Ashley type. She liked color. Lots of it. Heaps of it. She’d done up the bedroom with rich emeralds and satin blues with a splash of sassy yellow. Everything but the sheets came from garage sales— no way she was sleeping on anyone else’s sheets—but everything else inspired her gypsy, bargaining spirit. She resented paying full price for anything. More to the point, her taste—or lack of it—didn’t have to suit anyone else. This was her haven.

      Normally.

      She dove for the pillows, knowing she was whipped and positive she would fall asleep instantly. Instead, she felt the cool, smooth sheet settling against her breasts and hips with an erotic awareness that had her scowling in the darkness.

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