Sleeping With Beauty. Laura Wright

him. And as soon as she did, he followed.

      It took her about three seconds to notice him. And when she did, when she turned to look at him, that stubborn chin of hers was tilted up. “Where do you think you’re going, Dan?”

      He pointed past her. “In there.”

      She blinked. “With me?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Absolutely not!”

      “Listen, lady, as I said before, this isn’t a come-on.”

      She crossed her arms over her chest. “Then what is it exactly?”

      He growled irritably and stalked past her, jerked open the navy-blue shower curtain and turned on the hot water. “You have a head injury. I need to be here in case something happens.”

      “Something like what?”

      “Like you could get dizzy, faint, keel over—”

      She shook her head. “I’m feeling much better now. Nothing like that is going to happen.”

      He shoved a white towel at her. “That’s what I’m here to make sure of.”

      She didn’t move, just stared at him. “Perhaps I’ll take the shower another time.”

      Leaning against the wall, he expelled a breath and said, “Oh, for chrissakes, I’m doing you a favor here. Do you really think this is how I want to spend my night? Standing guard outside a shower curtain?”

      She shrugged, gripped the towel and clothing closer to her body. Honestly, she had good reason to be suspicious. She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t know who she was.

      But despite the fact that she made fire erupt inside him, he wasn’t a total jerk. He wasn’t about to take advantage of a naked woman with a head injury and no memory.

      Unless she asked him to, of course.

      “Look, Princess, the curtain is a dark color. I won’t be seeing a thing, okay?”

      She went stiff as a mannequin at his words, except for the faint twitch under her right eye. Teeth clenched, she fairly sputtered, “Why did you call me that?”

      He was completely taken aback by this unexpected reaction: “What? Why did I call you what? Princess? I don’t know. You just seem—”

      She boldly met his eyes, all Rambo and don’t-mess-with-me. Damn appealing. “Don’t ever call me that.”

      “Why?”

      “I…I don’t remember. But I don’t like it.” Even over the sound of bathwater rapping against porcelain, the gravity in her voice was evident.

      “Fine. But I gotta call you something.”

      The bristles retracted somewhat as she seemed to think this over. “How about Beatrice?”

      He frowned. “Beatrice? Where did that come from?”

      She shrugged. “It’s a nice enough name. And far better than the P word.”

      Dan refused to delve into the princess thing. Tomorrow, hopefully, he wouldn’t be calling her anything at all. But for tonight, there needed to be something. And Beatrice didn’t suit her. Actually, he wasn’t sure what suited her. Mystery woman. Innocent one minute, full of fire the next.

      “How about Angel?”

      A slow, soft smile broke on her face. “You think I’m an angel?”

      Her smile gripped him low in the gut. Match struck rough surface and he lost himself, lost his mind and his control for a moment. “I think you got the face of an angel. I’m not sure about the rest of you…”

      His traitorous gaze traveled the length of her as his foolish mouth uttered, “Yet.”

      What the hell was he thinking playing this game with her? Dan admonished himself seconds later. A game that would be over before it even had a chance to begin.

      That was an easy one. He wasn’t thinking.

      He watched her lips part, hoped she was going to scold him with that sweet brogue of hers, tell him to get out and go straight to hell.

      But she didn’t. She licked her lower lip, slow and seductive and totally unguarded.

      He snatched open the shower curtain. Hot steam poured into the tiny bathroom. “Let’s go. Clothes off, Angel. Time to get wet.”

      Three

      Hot water pelted her aching muscles. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, allowing the water to cleanse her wound and her spirit. The fresh citrus scent of shampoo drifted from her hair, while the soapy suds slid down her back, over her buttocks, thighs and calves.

      All anxiety slipped down the drain with the bubbles and the day’s dirt.

      “How’s it going in there?”

      Her pulse kicked and her skin tightened at the gruff query.

      So much for relaxation.

      Dan stood guard outside the sway of a shower curtain, the outline of his exceptional frame a mere inches from her naked body—strangely, a body and a face she’d hardly recognized when she’d spied herself in the mirror earlier. The strangeness of this entire situation was staggering, from the blank canvas that was her mind to the thrilling shots of awareness she felt whenever her rescuer was near.

      But there was nothing for it. She was going to stay here tonight, in his cabin in the woods, feel an overwhelming surge of need and try like hell to keep her wits about her.

      Actually, step one of that strategy had gone off without a hitch. Before she’d removed her clothing and stepped under the spray, she’d removed Dan. When she was safely behind the blue curtain, she’d told him he could return, as per their agreement.

      And they’d had to make an agreement. The man was incredibly stubborn and protective and arrogant and handsome and—

      “Angel?” The pet name glided over her heated skin like the soft, cotton washcloth in her hand.

      “Yes?”

      “I asked how it’s going in there.”

      “Everything’s fine. Just fine. Thank you. No worries. Or problems.” Except for the fact that she was rambling on like an idiot.

      “You sure you don’t need any help?”

      “Positive. Except…”

      “Except for what?”

      “Well, there is one thing—soap.”

      “You don’t like it?”

      “There is none.”

      “Oh. Sorry about that. I must’ve used up the last of it this morning.”

      “Perhaps I could use the shampoo as a—”

      “No, no, I’ll get you another bar.”

      Over the thrashing water, she heard a cabinet door open, then the sound of paper being torn. And before she could even think, blink or gasp, a hand—Dan’s hand—shot through one side of the curtain.

      “Here you go.”

      She mumbled a quick, “Thank you,” but didn’t take the soap from his hand. In fact, she didn’t move at all.

      She felt incredibly exposed as she stared at his hand, at his long, tapered fingers wrapped around that pale-blue cake of soap. Shudders of electricity began in her stomach, then dropped lower as her mind conjured images of that hand cupping something else…cupping her, her face, her hip, her breast.

      “It’s the manly scented stuff, but it gets the job done.”

      Clearing her throat, she