A Bride Until Midnight / Something Unexpected. Wendy Warren

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      Kyle had heard it before. That no longer fazed him, either. “I’ll be in touch, Grant.” He disconnected in the middle of the lecture.

      Squeezing the phone in his fist, he almost hurled it against the wall. He yanked his shirt off, balled it up, and flung that instead. With that, the adrenaline leaked out of him like a stuck balloon.

      Oberlin was wrong. Kyle was hungry. Hungry for something out of his reach, hungry for oblivion.

      Flying day and night, night and day, living in airports and hotel rooms while hunting down people who didn’t want to be found and sniffing out stories they didn’t want to tell, sifting through lies and searching for a grain of truth, then writing an accurate account of the events only to have it slashed in half to make it fit in a column between a political cartoon and a story about a heroic cat that found its way home over the Rockies had grown wearisome.

      Who wouldn’t be tired?

      Other than an occasional fluke, he’d lost the ability to sleep more than a few hours at a time. A friend of his who liked to play at psychiatry claimed his internal clock needed an adjustment. She said he needed to wake up and go to bed in the same time zone.

      He needed to restore his reputation, too. And Kyle didn’t see that happening.

      He went to the window Harriet had opened. From here he had a bird’s-eye view of the grounds and the river. In its day, rivers like this one had been an integral part of life in the Midwest. During the timber barons’ heyday, logs were floated on the river to thriving sawmills downstream. Harriet said a riverboat used to travel from Lansing to Grand Haven and back every day, carrying commuters and travelers before the railroads were built and highways cut through the forests, around lakes, swamps and dunes.

      He wondered if the river minded that it was no longer of use to anybody. Kyle knew the feeling.

      Rumor was he’d sold out an informant. The proper terminology was that he was being investigated for revealing a source. He hadn’t revealed anything, and he sure as hell hadn’t taken money for it. But he couldn’t prove it, and it had broken down the line of trust he’d worked so hard to build. And an investigative reporter without leads wasn’t an investigative reporter for long.

      He probably should care about that.

      He had it from a good source that he was burned out. He wasn’t burned out. And he wasn’t experiencing writer’s block, whatever the hell that was. He was just tired of fighting for meaningless front-page stories while the real news was given a two-inch spot after the obituaries.

      Last night he’d slept more than he’d slept in weeks. It hadn’t lasted. Already fatigue was engulfing him.

      He turned his back on the view and glanced around the room. Sloping ceilings, painted wood floors, a slip-covered sofa, mismatched lamps, and a bathroom too small to turn around in. He sank to the bed, because the accommodations didn’t matter, either.

      He laid back. And was asleep before he’d closed his eyes.

      Summer’s footsteps were quiet as she climbed the stairs to the third floor. At the top, she adjusted the stack of linens in her arms and finger combed her hair. She didn’t really expect to see Kyle. After all, it had been three hours since Harriet had returned after showing him to his room. Although Summer hadn’t heard the purling of the front door chimes or seen him leave through the kitchen where she’d been working this afternoon, it didn’t mean he hadn’t slipped out.

      Just in case he was inside, she tapped lightly on the door. Placing her ear close, she listened. She didn’t hear music, voices or the TV. There was only silence.

      She hadn’t spent much time in the third-floor apartment since Madeline had moved out two weeks ago. She’d given the place a thorough cleaning, but that was all she’d done. Since Kyle would need these towels before he could shower, and she wanted to make the bed up with fresh sheets, she knocked again. Her apartment off the kitchen and this one on the third floor were the only doors that required actual keys anymore. She had a spare key with her, but first she tried the knob. Surprisingly, it turned.

      She’d have thought that somebody who’d lived in L.A. and New York and half a dozen other bustling cities would have locked up behind him. Obviously not.

      She would just run in, put the towels in the bathroom, freshen up the bed, then leave. She pushed the door open and instantly felt the gentle breeze.

      The natural light slanting through the small windows on either end of the space left the center portion in shadow. Her hand was on the light switch when she saw Kyle lying on the bed across the room.

      Shirtless and barefoot, he was clad in low-slung jeans. His face was turned toward her, his lashes casting deeper shadows on his cheeks. She saw no movement whatsoever, no fluttering of his eyes, not even a rise and fall of his chest. She thought about the pallor she’d glimpsed before he came upstairs and wondered—

      She didn’t like what she was thinking.

      There were times in her life when she’d felt as if she were being steered toward a blind curve by an invisible hand pressed firmly against her back. Today she was being pulled toward it as if by an invisible cord.

      As she crept steadily closer, she automatically categorized the space. She didn’t see Kyle’s duffel bag anywhere. His shirt lay half on, half off the chair beside the bed, his shoes lined up neatly beneath the window. The man was a study in contrasts. Somehow she’d expected that.

      She hadn’t expected him to be dead to the world. Cringing at her terminology, she saw no liquor bottles or sleeping pills on the nightstand, or anything else that might have explained his comatose appearance.

      She leaned slightly over him. Now that she was only a few feet away she could see his chest rise and fall shallowly. He was breathing. Thank heavens.

      Okay, he was simply sound asleep. The voice of reason told her to stop looking at him, but my oh my oh my, she wasn’t listening.

      A man’s chest really was his most attractive physical attribute. No man wanted to hear that, but it was true. Kyle’s chest was muscled, the skin taut and tan and darkened with a sparse mat of fine, brown hair. His ribs showed, suggesting a lanky, wiry build. His waist was lean, his abs tidily halved by a narrow line of hair that disappeared beneath the closure of his CK’s.

      She had no idea how he kept in shape, but he was every woman’s fantasy and had a broad appeal that could have been an advertisement for anything from blue jeans to sports cars to European vacations. His legs were long and lean, too. Shame on her for allowing her eyes to linger at his fly.

      Summer took a step away and let her gaze glide back along a safer path—waist, abs, ribs, chest, shoulders. His jaw was darkened with whisker stubble. His mouth was closed.

      And his eyes were slightly open.

      She froze like a deer trapped in the glare of headlights. He was looking at her.

      Or was he?

      She looked closer and realized she was wrong. His eyes were open a slit but his pupils weren’t focused. He was still sound asleep.

      And she was getting out of here before he woke up and caught her watching him or worse. But СКАЧАТЬ