The Taming of a Wild Child. Kimberly Lang

      Somehow this was even more awkward than the wake-up-naked-and-get-dressed part. Were they supposed to make small talk now or something? What would an appropriate topic be?

      There was small comfort in the fact that Lorelei seemed equally at a loss. He’d bet this situation was not covered in cotillion classes. She studied the art on the wall like it was an Old Master, pondered her coffee like it held the meaning of life, then finally turned her attention to her fingernails. He kept one eye on the TV and feigned interest in the talking heads on the morning show. He’d made his living by always having something to say, but this time his vaunted golden tongue failed him.

      Lorelei cleared her throat. “So, will you be writing about the wedding?”

      Lord, she really had no idea what he did for a living. “I don’t do society news, Lorelei. I came as a guest to the wedding, nothing more.”

      “I had no idea you’d become such good friends with Connor and Vivi.”

      “I sit on two boards with Vivi. We share an interest in the arts. Connor and I have several mutual friends. I wouldn’t exactly call us close, but I probably know them at least as well as a third of that guest list.”

      “They are a popular couple.”

      “Indeed.”

      “And it was an amazing event, start to finish.”

      It had been a star-studded event, thanks to Connor’s fame, and the entire ranks of the New Orleans elite had been there, traveling in their usual pack. “I expected nothing less.”

      Lorelei nodded, and he realized that topic had now run its course. Well, that had killed a couple of minutes. How long would it take Security to bring Lorelei a key?

      She seemed to be wondering the same thing. “I wish they’d hurry.”

      “Me, too. I have things I need to do.”

      “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

      His three options were to take a shower, take a nap or go home—none of which he could do while Lorelei was parked in his room. “I’m sure they’ll be here shortly.”

      Hard on those words there was a knock at the door, and Lorelei jumped up as he went to answer it. Her sigh of relief when the man identified himself as the assistant head of security was audible from across the room. He asked to see her ID, verified her as the occupant of the room, then handed her a key. “Would you like me to escort you to your room, miss?”

      “No!” she practically shouted, before she caught herself and lowered her voice. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

      The man nodded, then left without question, and Donovan wondered exactly what Dave had told him about his assignment. Of course it probably wasn’t the oddest thing Security had ever done: this hotel catered to an elite crowd, and that elite had probably made far more questionable requests of Security in the past. He’d moved more toward analysis and away from the “shocking exposé” camp of journalism himself, but he’d bet there were all kinds of stories to be told from this hotel.

      Lorelei cleared her throat, bringing him back to his own little drama. “Goodbye. Again. Thank you for your assistance, and, um, have a nice life.”

      The re-do of her exit lacked the dramatic huff this time, but it retained its silliness as Lorelei once again checked the hall and slipped out like a bumbling spy in a bad movie.

      At least he knew she wouldn’t be back this time. Oddly, that seemed to be a little of a letdown. Lorelei certainly had entertainment value.

      Although he’d been thinking more about the events of the morning, not last night, another particularly entertaining visual flashed across his mind.

      And that quickly answered his question about what he’d do now: a cold shower was calling his name.

      CHAPTER TWO

      A GUILTY CONSCIENCE was a terrible thing. It wasn’t something Lorelei was overly familiar with, as she intentionally kept away from situations that might lead to one. She had regrets, sure, but she’d always lived—well, until recently—by the philosophy that she’d rather regret the things she’d done than regret that she’d never done them at all. So why did this thing with Donovan seem to be haunting her?

      It wasn’t even worry over what people might say. As far as she could tell, no one knew. Vivi and Connor had left for their honeymoon and Vivi hadn’t said a word. She’d waited on pins and needles for the news to circulate, but it seemed she was going to get away with it. She’d gotten lucky by not screwing the whole plan up at the eleventh hour.

      So the worry had to be over Donovan himself.

      Over the last three days, more of her memory had returned—but not the parts she’d have liked. If she had to carry around the knowledge that she’d had sex with Donovan St. James, she’d like to be in possession of memories of the good stuff, too. She had all the knowledge she needed to know that she’d enjoyed herself, but she lacked the memory of the proof. It seemed like a shame.

      She rolled over and punched her pillow into shape. Vague, incomplete dreams were leaving her tired and grouchy in the mornings and, even worse, leaving her with a ghostly, frustrated feeling.

      Maybe that was why she couldn’t quite shake the whole situation off: she wanted that memory and her brain was determined to wring out the tequila and find it. Maybe she wasn’t feeling guilty; maybe she was just confusing one nagging feeling with another.

      And now she had to be hallucinating, because she could hear Donovan’s voice. She sat up. That wasn’t a hallucination; that really was Donovan’s voice, coming from her living room. What the hell? Shock rocketed through her as she heaved herself out of bed, covers flying. She was in the hallway before she caught herself in the middle of the ridiculous thought.

      It was coming from the TV.

      “Morning.” Callie sat on the couch, hugging a cup of coffee and watching the morning news. She was dressed already, her backpack on the coffee table, ready to go.

      Although this was technically still Vivi’s house, Vivi had moved out six months ago, after news of her engagement to Connor hit the press. The little house on Frenchman Street just couldn’t provide the privacy and security Connor and Vivi needed. Lorelei had enjoyed the solitude for about two weeks, but had then offered Vivi’s old room to a friend-of-a-friend just so she’d have some company.

      It hadn’t quite worked. Between Callie’s schedule and her latest romance with some guy she’d met at the library, she was rarely home. It was only slightly better than living alone.

      Callie was a news junkie—the serious stuff, not the pop-culture and human-interest fluff—and now Donovan’s face filled the screen as he droned on about something being unconstitutional. Callie was rapturously hanging on every word, and Lorelei wondered if it was because anything unconstitutional was catnip for Loyola Law students or because the words were coming out of Donovan’s pretty face.

      Lorelei wished she’d purchased a smaller, lower-quality TV, because the sight of Donovan in HD sent a jolt through her. She tried to brush it away and act casual as she continued to the kitchen and the coffeepot. She moved in slow motion, killing time, but Donovan was still talking—no surprise there, really; the man truly loved to hear himself talk. Finally she couldn’t stall any longer and had to go back out into the living room.

      “No class today?” she asked as she took the other corner of the couch and settled in.

      “The air-conditioning in the building is broken. They had to cancel classes.”

      Lorelei nodded. The older buildings in New Orleans—those built before the invention of air-conditioning and designed for the heat—could sometimes be habitable, if not comfortable, in August, but not the newer buildings, with their low ceilings and windowless rooms.

      “I’m meeting my study