Page 30 of About Last Night

She was forced to go braless until Marie or her mother could drop off reinforcements. Derek's plain black T-shirt fell to her knees, so she knotted it at her waist to take up the slack. She gazed at her reflection and nodded in satisfaction. The shapeless clothes were a far cry from the costume she'd shown up wearing last night, which was just the way she wanted it. After an evening of prancing around like a Frederick's of Hollywood reject, and after a morning of wrangling naked in the bathroom, big and baggy was just the look she needed to keep her body under wraps and her urges under control. She sniffed a sleeve that fell past her elbow, then pursed her lips in appreciation at the mountain-fresh scent—the man used fabric softener, so he had a sensitive side.

Either that or his mother still did his laundry.

The bathroom was equipped with a blow-dryer, but she opted to detangle her wet hair with a small comb from Derek's toiletry bag to allow the long strands to dry naturally. She stared at her hair for several minutes, perusing the arrow-straight center part and waist-length style, knowing her hair was hopelessly outof date, while acknowledging it suited her. The color wasn't as blond as it used to be, but she felt no compulsion to lighten the honey-hued strands. And other than having to buy shampoo by the gallon, her long hair was low-maintenance, more often than not secured into a low ponytail with her favorite tortoiseshell clasp. For now, it would have to hang loose.

She wriggled her liberated big toe. Other than some tenderness and a few scratches in the pink nail polish—a gift pedicure from Marie—her toe seemed to have escaped permanent damage from the bathtub incident.

But her psyche, well, that was another story.

Derek Stillman had shaken her. For proof of that revelation, she needed to look no farther than her cheeks. Even in the absence of makeup or lotion, they bore an uncommon blush that marched across her nose and tingled with a fiery intensity. So she was attracted to the man. Okay, make thatwildlyattracted to the man. She had a simple explanation: Didn't it make sense that the sexual feelings she'd brought with her for Steve, she might now be projecting onto Derek?

No,came the resounding answer. It didn't make sense at all.

The body might be a fickle instrument, not caring who or what stimulated it, but the mind should be able to tell the difference between right and wrong. Carrying enough guilt on her shoulders to fill a cathedral ten minutes before Mass, she opened the bathroom door, hoping against hope that Derek would announce the quarantine had just been lifted. Or perhaps discover that her eyes had played tricks on her—her Best Man wasn't a great-looking, incredibly built specimen with whom she had to share four walls, but a homely, broken-down gnome who would take up residenceunderthe bed if they had to spend another night together.

But Derek glanced up from his seat on the end of the bed and dispelled her hopes in one fell swoop with the concerned frown pulling at his appallingly handsome face.

"We're making headlines," he said, gesturing toward the television. Resisting the urge to sit next to him, she hovered a few steps away, riveted to the screen. The tag line on the bottom of the picture read: Quarantine Crisis, Green Stations Resort, Lake Lanier, Georgia. A grim-faced reporter wearing a yellow windbreaker, with a surgical mask dangling around his neck, stared into the camera as he delivered his report.

"A spokesperson for the Centers for Disease Control reports some form of Legionnaires' disease may have broken out among the guests at a resort near Lake Lanier, north of Atlanta, where a quarantine is in effect. An infirmary has been set up in the hotel workout facility to monitor and care for those who have fallen too ill to remain in their rooms, and other measures are being enacted to protect the many guests who were taken completely by surprise." The general manager appeared on-screen, holding a microphone with a gloved hand. The interview had been shot through a window.

"The resort enjoys a brisk business this time of the year," Mr. Oliver said. "So not surprisingly, we were booked solid. Including employees, we have around six hundred people inside the grounds, and we're going to do our best to make sure everyone is as comfortable as possible during the confinement period."

Dr. Pedro appeared next, with similar protective clothing. "As of about 5:00 a.m. this morning, approximately four dozen guests were exhibiting symptoms, with three of those cases serious enough to require hospitalization—" The clip of the doctor was cut short, obviously edited, and the reporter's dour face appeared once again.

"The resort has been inundated with calls and deliveries from relatives and well-wishers, but officials asked the media to inform the public that no objects, such as clothing, food, or flowers, will be allowed inside the resort. Meals are being prepared in another facility and delivered under the supervision of the CDC." The man lowered his chin for dramatic effect. "Except for CDC personnel,no oneis allowed to leave or enter the resort, unless, of course, a body needs to be moved to the hospital... or to the morgue." The reporter lifted the surgical mask to cover his mouth. "Reporting live from Lake Lanier. Now back to you in the studio."

Derek made a rueful noise. "According to that guy, we should be making out our wills."

She nodded. "I would've liked to hear what the doctor had to say that didn't make it into the news segment. Did he insinuate to you this morning that the situation is worse?"

"Just that three people in the hospital, although he said he didn't think their lives were at risk."

His voice was conversational and sincere, his demeanor fatigued. What was it about this man that made her want to touch him? His boy-next-door chivalry? His all-American looks? His aloof attitude? Despite being close to Steve's age, Derek seemed decades more mature. Worry lined his serious brown eyes. Was he more concerned about his health than he let on? She felt compelled to comfort him, to ease the wrinkles from his forehead. Angling her head, she circled to stand in front of him. "How are you feeling?"

"About the same," he said with a shrug.

"Still congested?"

He nodded.

She stepped forward and placed her hand on his forehead. With him sitting and her standing, they were nearly eye to eye. More like breast to eye, although she tried not to dwell on it.His skin felt smooth and taut, and she liked the silkiness of his short bangs against the pads of her fingers. His temperature felt normal, but hers had definitely risen a couple of degrees, even higher when she realized she was standing between his open knees.

Her gaze locked with his and awareness gripped her, electrifying her limbs and warming her midsection. His brown eyes were bottomless, and she realized with a start that she'd always equated dark eyes with thoughtfulness. And sincerity. And comfort. And sensuality.

"You don't have a fever," she whispered, then wet her dry lips. Her hand fell to the muscled ledge of his shoulder, a natural resting place, it seemed.

Something was happening, she could feel it. The energy emanating from his body pulled at her, and she had to go rigid to keep from swaying into him. But his face belied none of the sexual force vibrating between them. His mouth was set in a firm line and his eyes were alert. The only indication that he was affected by her nearness was the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

She lifted her hand to probe the soft area of his neck just beneath the curve of his jaw. He stiffened, but she pretended not to notice. She could best smooth over the awkward moment by continuing to check his vital signs. "Your pulse is elevated."

He exhaled. "I guess I can chalk it up to all the, um..."

"Excitement?" she finished.

"How's your toe?" he asked, effectively changing the subject.

She looked down at her small feet situated between his two large ones, and experienced an odd sense of intimacy. "Fine," she said. "I never thanked you for rescuing me."

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