A SURE THING? Read online

  Feeling at a distinct disadvantage sitting, he swung his legs over the side, stood, then returned her glare. "I don't play sick jokes. And what do you mean, your room? The girl at the registration desk gave me a key to room 312." Sudden doubt assailed him. "This is 312, isn't it?"

  "Yes." She frowned. "There must be some mistake with the reservation." Her frown turned to a squinty-eyed, suspicion-filled glower. "But that doesn't explain what you're doing here. At Chateau Fontaine. Of course, one doesn't need to be a rocket scientist to figure it out. Listen, if you think you're going to weasel your way into my time with Jack Witherspoon—"

  "Whoa! What do you mean your time with Witherspoon?"

  "Just that. Adam sent me out here to wine and dine Jack this weekend to convince him to hire Maxximum for his new ad campaign."

  Matt narrowed his eyes and studied her closely. Either she was a remarkable liar, which was certainly possible, or Adam had sent both him and Jilly out here to woo Witherspoon, which unfortunately was also possible. "Is that so?" he said. "Well, Adam sent me out here to wine and dine Jack this weekend to convince him to hire Maxximum for his new ad campaign."

  Still standing on the mattress, Jilly stared down at him for several long seconds, trying to gather her scattered wits. Her heart still slapped against her ribs—a result of two factors: one, fright at being awakened from a deep sleep to find herself no longer alone in bed, and, two, physical arousal from her sensual dream—of a warm, masculine hand caressing her breast, a hard, muscled body rubbing against hers—which had turned out not to be a dream at all. Jeez, it was a miracle she hadn't gone into cardiac arrest. If she hadn't hit the light switch and discovered it was Matt, she most likely would have croaked.

  As for his explanation, could he possibly be telling the truth? Or had he found out about her travel plans and thought he'd try to win ARC's account for himself? Her suspicious gaze raked over him, which was a mistake, because her long sleeping libido suddenly woke up.

  Whew. A veritable rainstorm of perfect genes had soaked this guy. She eyed his broad shoulders, and the smattering of dark chest hair that narrowed into a tantalizing ribbon, which bisected his six-pack abs before disappearing into white boxer briefs. Her gaze dipped lower, taking in his long, muscular legs, before wandering back up to rivet on his groin.

  Double whew. She instantly recalled how warm and tingly and aroused she'd felt during those brief seconds she'd snuggled against him before she'd come fully awake. For some insane reason, Kate's words whispered through her mind. When you least anticipate it, something unexpected will happen and—poof!—your world will be turned upside down.

  Good grief, she was losing her mind. Sure, this was unexpected, but in a very unpleasant way. Definitely not what Kate had meant at all.

  "Well?" he asked, yanking her attention away from his way-too-fascinating crotch. Their eyes met, and awareness seemed to crackle between them. His watchful expression made it clear he was well aware he'd just received a thorough ogle. Humph. She certainly wouldn't feel embarrassed. After all, he'd ogled her first—surely a fact that should have annoyed her, rather than shoot heat through her veins. There'd been no mistaking his surprise—or his appreciation—when his gaze had roamed over her. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her as Matt just had. Of course, it had been a long time since she'd stood before a guy wearing next to nothing.

  "Well, what?" she said, moving to step off the mattress and onto the floor.

  He held out his hand to assist her, and without thinking she clasped his hand for balance. His long fingers wrapped around hers, rushing heat up her arm, igniting her nerve endings. The instant her feet were firmly planted on the carpet, she snatched her hand away as if he'd electrocuted her and backed several feet away from his disturbing presence. She felt raw and exposed, and she desperately wished she'd brought a robe. But all she had to cover herself with was her sweats, and they were in her overnight bag in the closet. Matt didn't seem disconcerted by their lack of clothing, and she wasn't about to give him the upper hand by allowing him to think she was uncomfortable.

  You wear less to the beach, her inner voice rationalized. Yeah, she did. But skimpy lingerie had a whole different connotation than swimwear—especially in the confines of a bedroom, and with Matt Davidson around. Pushing aside her discomfort, she crossed her arms and raised her chin a notch.

  "Well, I think it's pretty obvious what's going on here," he said, his gaze fixed on hers, "assuming you're telling the truth about Adam sending you here—"

  "I'm not a liar," she said through clenched teeth. "But perhaps you are."

  "I'm a lot of things, but a liar isn't one of them."

  "One phone call can verify that."

  "Yes, it can." His gaze flicked to the digital clock on the nightstand which glowed 2:43 a.m. "Do you want to call Adam this late to ask him, or can you take my word for it until a more decent hour?"

  She prided herself on reading people fairly well, and as much as she hated to admit it, Matt looked and sounded utterly sincere. If he was telling the truth…

  Dread seeped slowly into her veins. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt—until morning." She pushed her tangled hair off her face. "Besides, sending us both out here to woo the same client—while I don't want to believe Adam would do that to us again—"

  "It looks like he's done it to us again." He blew out a breath. "Just like last summer, with the Lone Star Steak account. Pitting us against each other certainly insures that one of us will win the ARC account for Maxximum."

  "Right. It worked with Lone Star, and clearly Adam hopes history will repeat itself. Smart tactic."

  "One I would admire much more if I wasn't one of the victims." Matt muttered. "Again. And I don't intend to let history repeat itself."

  "Meaning?"

  "You won the Lone Star Steak account. I'm going to win this one."

  She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hey, whatever you need to believe to get you through the day. But your quest for ARC will be difficult to achieve when your weekend is spent explaining to the police why you broke into my room."

  He shot her a glare. "I'm an ad exec, not a cat burglar. I told you. Registration gave me a key to 312 when I checked in." He moved to the phone resting on the pale oak desk in the corner. After consulting the directory listed on the phone's cream-colored surface, he lifted the receiver and punched in a number. "I'm calling the front desk to find out what's going on."

  He turned his back to her and reached across the desk to slide a pad and pen closer to him. His underwear stretched across a taut male butt that deserved to be bronzed and displayed in the Smithsonian. Someone at the front desk must have picked up because Matt said, "Hello, Maggie. This is Matt Davidson…" He explained the situation, but Jilly only listened with half an ear as all her attention focused on the very distracting view of his backside.

  This was not good. The sight of this guy in his Calvins was having an adverse affect on her ability to breathe straight and think right. Er, think straight and breathe right. Jeez, anybody would think she hadn't seen a gloriously masculine, almost naked man before. She had. Just not recently—unless one considered nine months, three weeks and eighteen days recent. And everything feminine in her that had lain dormant for those nine months, three weeks and eighteen days was suddenly bright-eyed and alert and very interested in this new masculine scenery.

  Swell. Like she didn't have enough problems, now she had to go and develop a sudden case of the hots for her biggest rival. Why, oh why, did her body have to respond to this guy?

  He hung up the phone, then turned to face her. "Did you catch all that?" he asked.

  Heat crept up her neck. With her libido and hormones making so much racket, nothing he'd said had registered. "Er, not exactly. I was trying to, um, remember where I left my cell phone." Yup, that was her story and she was stickin' to it. "Why don't you summarize it for me?"

  "You want the good news first or the bad news?"<
br />
  "Good news."

  "That's unfortunate because there is no good news. At least for you. The bad news is that only two rooms were booked for Maxximum Advertising."

  "Right. One for you and one for me. So what's the problem?" Her bare foot tapped against the carpet.

  "Noooo," he said in a voice one would use with a kindergartner. "One for Jack Witherspoon and one for me."

  "You?" Anger propelled her forward until less than two feet separated them. At least her anger had shut down her hormones. More or less. Nothing was less attractive than an arrogant, infuriating man. Usually. Jamming her hands on her hips, she jutted out her chin. "In case it escaped your notice, you came into my room, where I was sleeping in my bed. My clothes are hanging in the closet, and my makeup and toothbrush are in the bathroom. That makes this my room. Possession is nine-tenths of the law." Reaching down, she yanked up the pile of masculine clothes draped over his luggage and slapped them against his bare chest. "So I suggest you get dressed and toddle on down to the registration desk, pick up a new key and stake your claim on a vacant room."

  His lips curved into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "I'd be happy to, but that's where the rest of the bad news comes in. There are no more rooms available."

  She looked toward the ceiling and prayed for patience. "Surely you don't expect me to believe that."

  He shrugged. "Call the front desk. It's not that difficult to believe. There're only three dozen rooms here—this place is not exactly the size of a Hyatt."

  Easing around him, she stalked to the phone and jabbed in the number for the front desk. A very pleasant young lady named Maggie regretfully confirmed that there were indeed no other rooms available, and no vacancies until the following Wednesday. At Jilly's request she checked the reservations. "A suite was booked at 8:20 yesterday morning for three nights for Maxximum Advertising by Surety Travel Agency."

  "All right," Jilly said, nodding. That would be the suite Adam had booked for Jack Witherspoon. "What else?"

  "A room was also booked for Maxximum yesterday," Maggie said, as Jilly heard computer keys tapping in the background. "That reservation came in at 9:53 a.m. by Surety Travel Agency, for a single room, for three nights."

  "For just one room?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The bottom fell out of Jilly's stomach. One room. At 9:53. She thanked Maggie, then hung up. Turning to Matt, she asked, "When did Adam talk to you about the Witherspoon account?"

  "Yesterday morning."

  "What time?"

  "Our meeting was at 9:30."

  Oh boy. Her meeting with Adam had started at 9:45. Which meant that at 9:53, when the reservation was called in, she was still in Adam's office. Which meant that the travel agency had booked this room at Matt's request.

  "Your meeting was after mine," he said, still clutching his wrinkled clothes against his chest. Understanding dawned in his eyes. "I'm guessing this room was booked during the time you were meeting with Adam."

  As much as she wanted to, there was no point in denying it. At least he had the decency not to look smug, which surprised her. "Obviously the travel agent made an error," she said. Yeah—like they'd neglected to book her damn room.

  "Obviously."

  "That's hardly my fault, Matt."

  "Nor is it mine, Jilly."

  "Well, I'm not leaving."

  "Well, neither am I."

  They stared at each other for several long, silent seconds, like two suspicious dogs circling each other, vying for the same bone. At this moment, the room was the bone. But, ultimately, Jack Witherspoon and the ARC Software account with all its accompanying perks was top prize. It was a huge career jump, winner take all, and Jilly had no intention of losing. Based on the stubborn set of Matt's features, neither did he.

  She glanced toward the window and noted the heavy snow falling. Forcing him to leave, in the middle of the night, in the midst of a snowstorm seemed pretty inhumane. But she couldn't very well share the room with him. There was only one bed. And it wasn't even a king-size. No way was she lying in that not-king-size bed next to him and all that male pulchritude—again. Nope. No way. That scenario had disaster tattooed all over it. In Technicolor. Yet clearly the only way to get him out of this room would involve an atomic explosive, and she was fresh out.

  "Look, Matt, surely there must be a sofa or roll-away bed somewhere at the resort you can sleep on."

  He lifted a brow. "I asked, and according to Maggie, there are no roll-aways available. As for a sofa, I guess there're some in the lobby, but I'm not about to sleep there—especially not when there's a perfectly comfortable bed right here."

  "A bed that's already occupied."

  "It's big enough for two."

  She opened her, mouth to protest, but before she could utter a sound, he continued, "Don't worry, I'm not one of those guys who thrash around. Hell, I don't even snore. Do you?"

  "No, but—"

  "Great. Not that it would matter much. I'm so exhausted, even if you sawed wood like a lumberjack it wouldn't keep me awake. Look, there's not much we can do about this mess now, so let's just get some sleep. Maybe we can get the room problem sorted out in the morning." He yawned hugely, then plopped his clothes back down onto the top of his luggage. The sight of all that lovely male bareness momentarily robbed her of speech, and she could only watch as he bent down and pulled a brown leather shaving kit from the side pocket of his overnight bag. He entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a decisive click. Seconds later she heard water running.

  "What are you doing?" she called.

  "Brushing my teeth."

  He emerged a minute later, and walked past her, leaving her to breathe in a whiff of his masculine scent mixed with mint. After pulling back the covers on the far side of the bed, he scrunched up the pillow, then laid down on his side facing away from her.

  "'Night, Jilly. Sweet dreams."

  'Night, Jilly? Sweet dreams? Was he insane? He didn't look insane, but what did she know? There had to be some inkling of insanity lurking under that masculine exterior if he thought there was a snowball's chance in hell of her being able to sleep next to him. And dream? Not likely. No, she'd stare up at the ceiling, listening to him breathe, remembering what he'd felt like pressed up against her, cupping her breast, hating herself for remembering, and growing more and more annoyed that her presence obviously had no effect on him.

  This was what came of concentrating too much on her career and not devoting enough attention to her social life. Nine months, three weeks and eighteen days of celibacy, mixed with a nearly naked gorgeous man was proving disastrous to her ability to keep her wits about her. And this with a guy she didn't trust as far as she could throw him. Thank God she didn't like him or else this situation would be a real disaster.

  She gazed down at him, noting that his breathing was already slow and regular. Since she'd made it a rule long ago to steadfastly avoid any activities that could result in jail time, there was no point in contemplating tossing him over the balcony. Besides, based on the heated shivers she'd already experienced, touching him was not a good idea.

  She eyed the chintz-covered wing chair near the desk, but decided it was ridiculous to attempt to sleep on it. All that would result in would be a stiff neck, and why should she? This was her room! Maybe it had been booked at his request, but she'd gotten here first. Squatter's rights, and all that. And Matt, drat him, was already asleep. If he could live with these arrangements for the next few hours, so could she.

  Switching off the light, she gingerly slid between the covers. Moving as little as possible, she situated herself on her side as close to the edge of the mattress as possible without falling off, facing away from Matt. Once she was comfortable, she blew out a long breath of relief.

  There. This wasn't so bad. So what if his beautiful, barely covered body rested less than three feet away? So what if she could hear him breathing? What difference did it make that she could feel the heat emanati
ng off him against her back? Why, she barely noticed.

  Yeah right, her inner voice snickered. That's why your heart is pounding, your nipples are hard, and your body feels like it's roasting over a slow flame.

  Humph. Why the heck couldn't she be like Matt? He wasn't having any trouble sleeping, a fact which irked her to no end, driving sleep even further away.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for sleep, strongly suspecting that that was one prayer destined to go unanswered.

  * * *

  Matt lay in the dark, wide-awake, forcing slow, even breaths into his lungs, but the effort cost him as he was decidedly short-winded, as if he'd run a mile uphill. Instead of falling into the dead sleep that had beckoned less than an hour ago, he felt like someone had hooked him up to a nuclear power plant and flipped the switch. Where the hell had his gritty-eyed, muscle-weakening exhaustion disappeared to?

  Stupid question. He knew where it had gone—straight out the window the instant he'd clapped his bugged-out eyeballs on a nearly naked Jilly Taylor. An hour ago he'd thought he was too tired for sex. Ha! Now he couldn't erase the thought from his overactive mind, not to mention his very alert body.

  How was a guy supposed to sleep when all that warm, smooth, fragrant, silky, bare female flesh was within reach? Flesh that he'd touched. Molded beneath his hand. Feminine softness that had pressed against him. Damn it, he wanted to touch her again. This time while fully awake.

  Why the hell didn't her sleepwear match the sort of clothes she wore to work? Instead of black satin, she should have been wrapped up, chin to toes, in flannel.

  Of course, all those carbs and sugar in the candy he'd consumed for dinner wasn't helping the situation. He brightened immediately. Yeah, that's why he couldn't sleep—carbs and sugar. And this slight arousal problem? Just an involuntary body response.

  Slight arousal problem? his inner voice scoffed. Right. And Jilly Taylor almost naked is just slightly gorgeous. And the knowledge that she's less than an arm's length away is only slightly disturbing.

  He heard her sigh and his every muscle tensed. This was not good.