He hurried down the hall, knocked on the door of the ladies’ room, and hearing nothing, poked his head inside.
“Ms. McAllister? Ariadne? Are you in there?”
No answer.
“I brought your glasses.”
Nothing.
He eased inside and knelt down to look under the doors to the stalls. No feet. No flowing white fabric. He sighed and went back the way he had come. The auditorium was completely dark. Surely she wasn’t hiding in the dark. “Ariadne,” he whispered. “Please come out, I have your glasses.”
Still nothing. He ran his fingers along the wall until he came to the bank of light switches. He flicked them on. The room was empty except for rows and rows of folding chairs.
The only place left was outside. In the dark. She was a disaster in the making.
Dillon pushed through the double doors and took the front steps at a run. There was no one on the lawn, and a shiver of unease lifted the hairs on his forearms. Where was she?
He headed toward the woods, where the lights from the cottages winked through the trees. It was really dark beneath the trees. He imagined her running blindly through the woods, humiliated and cold. She’d probably fall or run into a tree or something before she made it back to her cabin.
He mentally kicked himself for reacting to that lascivious touch like an amateur. He just hadn’t expected it. It wasn’t every day that a total stranger slid her hand between his legs. At least, it hadn’t happened recently. And instead of playing it cool, he’d humiliated the most pitiful wallflower in Terra Bliss.
He felt like a heel. And worse, he was worried.
He began to run up the path. “Ariadne,” he called. “Wait. You forgot your glasses.” He stopped and listened. Heard nothing, not even the crunch of gravel beneath sandaled feet.
He imagined her hurt and lying on the ground, too shy to call for help. He called again, fear making his voice warble in the night air.
He was in a near panic by the time he reached her cabin. Not that she would be there. There was no way she could have beaten him. She’d have to be an Olympic sprinter.
Her lights were on, but everybody’s lights were on. He was wondering if he should bother knocking when he heard a low sound. He froze, listened. Humming. A woman was humming.
Cautiously, he followed the sound. It led him around the side of her cabin. He stopped suddenly as his attention fixed on the light coming through the bedroom window.
A thin, lithesome figure was silhouetted by the gauzy curtains. She lifted her arms and his breath caught.
The clinging robe rose along her body. The light caught the sensuous curve of her hip, the narrow waist as she wiggled free of the garment and tossed it aside. She paused, and he knew she was unbuttoning the shirt beneath. And he knew it had to be his mousy goddess, and yet….
The shirt slipped from her shoulders, and the edge of a near perfect breast came into view.
He shouldn’t be watching, but he couldn’t look away. He was vaguely aware of his dick hardening beneath his kilt, straining at the confines of the jockstrap. His mouth grew dry, and he seemed to be having trouble taking a simple breath.
Could this possibly be the skinny, stooped, shy woman who just this afternoon had stumbled blindly after him to this very same cabin and then tried to tip him a dollar? Maybe he had the wrong cabin. But he knew he didn’t, even before he dragged himself away from the view long enough to check out the sign on the porch post.
He should return her glasses and get the hell out. But instead, he crept back to the side of the cabin and peered through the window. Her elbows were lifted now, showing a body that was curved in all the right places. She turned profile. Her hands slid beneath her breasts, and she tilted her head as if looking in a mirror.
Dillon licked dry lips. Tried to swallow. She arched back, lifted one plump breast, and ran her fingers over the tip.
Desire swept through him, hitting him so hard that his knees buckled.
Her hands moved again, this time to her hair. She was pulling out the pins that confined it in that unflattering bun. His mouth opened in anticipation. He tried to adjust his erection, but her hair fell loose and spilled over her shoulders, and the touch of his fingers almost caused his climax. He yanked his hand away.
He could see her almost as if she weren’t hidden behind the curtain. Could imagine the feel of her hair, thick, and slightly wavy.
Christ, what was going on with him? An out-of-body experience? A hallucination? He’d had a few in the hospital, but not since. And none as enjoyable as this. If only his jockstrap wasn’t cutting off the circulation to his balls. His dick was throbbing, searching for escape like a caged animal.
He ordered himself to back up, leave the glasses on the porch, and get away. But he stood riveted to the spot as she picked up a brush and began to pull it through her hair. His hand drifted to the bulge in his kilt. His eyes closed as he pushed himself into his palm. It was a hell of a time to get the first real rush of desire he’d had in ten months.
It was sick to be standing here like a voyeur at a peep show. It was disgusting. Perverse. Then she turned to the window and walked straight toward him as if she could see him. He ducked behind a tree, but couldn’t help peeking out again. She pushed the curtain aside. Raised the window. And he got a moment of full frontal.
Jesus. This couldn’t be happening. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again as the curtain fell back and she walked out of sight.
Dillon leaned against the tree. His heart racing. Okay, she was safe. Inside. The vision he was having of her must be the product of a not fully healed mind. And the fact that he hadn’t had sex in a really long time, hadn’t even wanted to have sex. The curtains were distorting her image….
The rational part of his mind was trying to tell him something. It had tried earlier at dinner, but he’d been too concerned about Ariadne to listen properly. And now he was too blitzed. He stood there, the tree holding him up until his pulse returned to normal and he could breathe again.
Okay. It was over. There was solid ground beneath his feet, and he was going to make sure it stayed that way. He was still holding her glasses and was relieved to see that he hadn’t broken them in his fever of lust or whatever it had been. He should knock on the door and return them to her, but even now, he didn’t trust himself to leave it at that. And to be honest, he didn’t want the spell to be broken.
On second thought, he’d keep them. Bring them back first thing in the morning, before she left for breakfast. Yeah. That was a better plan.
He’d get a good look at her in the daylight. She’d be wearing something god-awful. He’d be brought back to his senses and his sense of duty. See tonight for what it was. Some bizarre, waking wet dream.
She would go her way and he would go his. And while she was learning to flirt, he would find a murderer.
His fingers closed around the glasses and he backed away from the cottage.
And, finally, away from her allure, rational thought kicked into place, and it occurred to him that maybe Ariadne McAllister wasn’t as plain as she wanted everyone else to believe.
Because if what he’d seen through the window was even half as good as it appeared, Ariadne McAllister was a knockout.
So what was she up to?
Chapter 3
Andy jumped out of bed in the predawn light and was half dressed before she realized she wasn’t on location and she didn’t have to be in makeup or wardrobe. It always took a few days after a wrap to retrain herself to sleep late.
And here she was in a mountain retreat with no warm body to induce her back into bed. She was starving. She’d made it only halfway through dinner before the water-dousing