Irresistible Attraction: Scenes of Passion / Midnight Seduction / Beyond Control. Justine Davis

leave in a minute. Really.

      But he swung his legs up onto the bed, leaning back, resting his head on his hand, propped up by his elbow. He leaned forward to kiss her shoulder, and she smiled in her sleep and snuggled against him.

      He knew then that he wasn’t going anywhere, and he put his arms around her.

      Tomorrow Maggie would wake up and find him there. And if she still wanted him in the light of morning, there’d be no holding him back, regardless of the consequences.

      Seven

      Maggie awoke to the sound of the window shade rubbing against the sill in the gentle ocean breeze.

      The room was dim, but bright sunlight seeped in around the edges of the shade. She could tell from the brightness that it was late morning, possibly even past noon.

      She stretched and her leg bumped something very solid and memories from the night before came roaring back to her.

      It was indeed Matt, lying beside her, fast asleep. His long hair was tangled around his face. He was on his side, one arm tucked under his head, his legs kicked free from the sheet. He was wearing a pair of shorts—what a relief. Maggie was hyperaware of her own lack of clothing.

      She’d tried to seduce him last night, but he’d refused.

      Her face heated. She’d thrown herself at him, but he’d made it clear he didn’t want to be anything more than friends.

      So what was he doing in bed with her?

      The phone rang, suddenly, shrilly, and Matt stirred. His eyes opened and focused on her for one brief moment before he turned and picked it up from the bedside table. “Hello?” His voice was husky from sleep. He sat up, pushing his hair out of his face, swearing softly. He listened for a moment longer, than handed the phone to Maggie. “It’s your brother.”

      “Stevie?” she said, clutching the sheet to her. Her own voice was rusty sounding, and God, her head was throbbing.

      “Yo, Mags,” he said, wonder in his voice. “Are you guys still in bed?”

      “Well, sort of,” she told him. “But it’s not what—”

      “I’m very impressed. I’m also very glad I called. Mom and Dad are on their way over.”

      “Oh, God!” Her eyes met Matt’s and from the look on his face, she knew he’d heard what Stevie had said.

      “I’m going to shower,” Matt told her. “I left some clothes for you in the bathroom.”

      “They’re coming out to have a little chat, if you know what I mean,” her brother said. “Hang tough. And don’t let ’em get close enough to throw the straitjacket around you.”

      “Very funny,” Maggie said. “Stevie, thanks for calling.”

      “Anytime. Good luck. And don’t forget to practice safe sex.”

      She and Matt had had the safest kind of sex there was—none. But if he wanted to keep their relationship limited to friendship as he’d claimed last night, why was he sleeping in her bed?

      Maggie hung up the phone and went into the bathroom. She drank directly from the sink faucet, trying to rehydrate and make her head feel a little less like it was about to explode.

      She dressed quickly—her underwear was mostly dry, but everything else was still damp. She put on Matt’s clothes—which made her look like a kid playing dress-up. And her hair…

      Nothing like falling asleep with a wet head to create a noteworthy style. Her only chance at looking seminormal was to put it into a ponytail.

      She went in search of Matt who surely had a vast collection of ponytail holders.

      Following the sound of running water, she went up a huge curved staircase to the third and then the fourth floor.

      The fourth story of this old house wasn’t a full floor. There was a very small landing at the top of the stairs and a single door. Maggie knocked, but there was no answer. She tried the knob and the door swung open.

      Another door was off to the immediate right. The bathroom —she could hear the sound of the shower. More stairs led up, and she climbed them.

      This was Matt’s room—Maggie knew it without a doubt.

      It was the tower room, large and airy. Its octagonal walls were all windows. There were no curtains, only miniblinds and they’d all been pulled up.

      Sunlight streamed in from all angles, and the hardwood floor gleamed. The woodwork around the windows was white, as was the ceiling and all the furniture and the spread on Matt’s double bed. There wasn’t much color in the entire room. There didn’t need to be. Nature provided all the color anyone could possibly want.

      The view was breathtaking. The sky—and there was so much of it—was a brilliant blue. She could see the deep blue-green water if she looked in one direction. When she turned she could see the gentle hills that led into town, covered with the new green leaves of early summer. The white steeple of the Congregational Church peeked up over the treetops.

      A wind chime of fragile white shells hung in front of an open window, and it moved in the breeze, creating a delicate and soothing cascade of music.

      The bathroom door opened, and Matt came into the room. Maggie blushed—he was wearing only a white pair of briefs.

      “Nice room, huh?” he said, unfazed at the sight of her, as he rubbed his hair with a towel. He made no attempt to cover himself, as if it were entirely normal for her to be there in his room while he was in his underwear.

      “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I’m actually looking for a ponytail holder.”

      “In the bathroom drawer,” he told her.

      She went down the stairs. The bathroom air was still heavy with moisture, the mirror steamed up despite the fresh air from an open window. It was a modest little room, nothing like the bathroom with the hot tub, downstairs.

      She fished through a drawer jammed with combs and razors.

      “I think you should tell your parents that you’re going to live here for a while,” Matt told her, coming to stand in the doorway.

      “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She used his brush to attempt to tame her hair. “And I don’t think my parents will, either.”

      “I’ve got eight empty bedrooms,” he pointed out. “They don’t have to fear for your virtue.”

      And neither did she, obviously. Maggie put his brush back on the edge of the sink.

      “Mags, we have to talk about what happened last night,” he said as if he could read her mind.

      “What’s to say?” She pushed past him and headed down the stairs to the main part of the house. “Except I guess I should probably apologize. And thank you. I would have been really embarrassed this morning if we’d actually, you know…”

      She would have been beyond embarrassed and well into mortified. If he’d made love to her, it would’ve been as a favor.

      Matt followed her down the stairs.

      She turned to face him. “You are a good friend,” she said. “And you were right. Our friendship is too valuable to risk losing.”

      His expression was unreadable.

      The doorbell rang.

      “We should talk more about this later,” he said. “Right now it’s showtime.”

      He brushed past her as he went down the stairs, and Maggie had to cling to the thick oak banister, shocked at the way her body responded to even such casual contact. It was a symptom of Matthew Fever.

      Could she really live in a house with him? Without