Wicked Christmas Nights. Leslie Kelly

she’d said his name in her sleep.

      His heart pounded as he realized it was real. Lucy Fleming was asleep in his bed, in his office, in a building that was supposed to be deserted. It made absolutely no sense, was probably the last thing he’d ever have expected to happen. Considering how determined she’d been to get away without even talking to him earlier, climbing into this bed and finding the real live Santa Claus seemed more likely.

      He frantically thought of the scenarios that might have landed her here. She had to have come back sometime after the building closed—when he’d left at seven-thirty, everybody had been gone except the guard. Why she’d returned, he had no idea. Maybe she’d forgotten something? Whatever the reason, Chip had to have let her in, probably recognizing her from this afternoon.

      Beyond that…what? Had she offered to stay in the building when he was taken away by ambulance? That sounded incredibly far-fetched, and the officer who’d called hadn’t mentioned it.

      The doors. Shit. When the locking mechanism was engaged, they couldn’t be opened, even from the inside, without a key. If Chip had gone out to help the motorist, he must have locked up behind him.

      “You got locked in,” he murmured, suddenly understanding.

      And she had no way to call for help. The building was notorious for its poor cell phone reception even in the best weather, and the phone system fed off the power, so regular phones wouldn’t have worked. The internet would be out, of course, plus all the computers in the building were password protected.

      He could almost picture Lucy banging on the doors, trying to get someone’s attention. But with the dark night, the swirling snow and the lack of people venturing out, it must have seemed like a hopeless proposition. She’d have known she was stuck here until at least morning.

      So, like Goldilocks, she’d found a bed and crawled into it.

      He was glad he hadn’t followed his first instinct, leaped to his feet and bellowed, “Who’s that sleeping in my bed?”

      Lucy Fleming is who’s sleeping in my bed.

      A smile tugged at his mouth. What were the odds? Six years ago tonight she’d slept in his bed, too.

      Remembering everything about that night—seeing the parallels—he had to laugh softly. If he were a more new age kind of guy, he might see fate having a hand in this. But being a realist, he knew the fault lay with a blizzard, a blackout and a strong security system.

      That didn’t, however, mean he wasn’t thankful as hell for it, as long as Chip was going to be okay. Because, trapped as she was with him in this building, it wasn’t going to be easy for Lucy to walk out of his life again.

      He could hardly wait until morning to see just how much snow had fallen. How long they were going to be stuck here.

      And what Lucy would have to say about it.

      LUCY WAS HAVING the nicest dream. In that state between asleep and awake, she somehow knew it was a dream, but didn’t want to give it up.

      She was lying on a beach, cradled by soft, sugar-white sand. The turquoise waters of the Caribbean lapped in gentle waves, caressing her bare feet, the crash of the surf steady and hypnotic. Above, the sun shone bright in a robin’s egg blue sky. Occasionally a puffy white cloud would drift across it, providing a hint of shade, but mostly she just felt warm and content.

      Except her nose. That was really cold.

      Actually, so were her cheeks. She lifted a hand, pressing her fingers against her face, wondering how her skin could be so cold when she was lying in such deliciously warm sunshine.

      Beside her, a man groaned, as if he, too, was loving the feel of the sun, and the island breeze blowing across his skin. The sound was intriguing, and she moved closer. He was hot against her, big and powerful, with sweat-slickened muscles that she traced with her fingertips. She kept her eyes closed, not needing to see his face, somehow sensing she already knew who it was.

      Or, maybe a little afraid she wouldn’t see the face she wanted to see.

      “Mmm,” she moaned as she pressed her cheek against his chest. Languorous heat slid over her; she was lulled by his rhythmic exhalations, and by the sound of his steadily thudding heart.

      Wait. Too scratchy. He should be bare-chested.

      She waited for the dream to change, waited for the feel of slick, male skin against her face. Instead her cheeks just got colder, and the texture against her jaw scratchier. Not smooth, slick skin. Something like…wool?

      Though she desperately wanted to grab the dream and sink into it again, she’d passed the tipping point into consciousness and knew it was no use. The dream was over. She was awake. Her face was cold because she was trapped in a building with no power and no heat. It was scratchy because…because… .

      She opened her eyes. Waited to let them adjust to the darkness. Saw a shape. A body. A scratchy sweater on which her cheek had been resting. A neck. A face. Oh. My. God. Ross. Ross?

      She froze, unable to move a muscle as she tried to understand. She’d gone to sleep alone, worried, angry, wondering what would happen tomorrow if nobody came to check the building.

      And had woken up in bed with Ross Marshall.

      It was him, no doubt about it. The guy who’d broken her heart, the one she’d sworn would never get close enough to hurt her again, was sleeping beside her in the fold-out bed! Not just beside her, but practically underneath her. Apparently, in her sleep, she had curled up against him, raising one leg and sliding it over his groin, her arm draped across his flat stomach, her face nestled in the crook of his neck.

      She was practically humping the guy.

      And he was sound asleep.

      Lucy’s first instinct was to leap up and run. Her second, to grab a pillow and beat him over the head with it, demanding to know what the hell he was up to.

      But then her brain took over.

      Because, as far as she could tell, Ross hadn’t been up to anything except sleeping. She’d been the one getting all creepy-crawly, sucking up his warmth while she’d dreamed of exotic beaches and blazing sunshine. Probably not too surprising, considering Ross was still just about the hottest man she had ever laid eyes on. Even in the nearly pitch-black room, it was impossible to miss the sensual fullness of his mouth, the slashing cheekbones, that angular, masculine face. His lashes were sinfully long for a guy, hiding those jewel-green eyes.

      All the coldness she’d been feeling, at least on those parts, which weren’t covered by Ross, dissipated. There was only warmth now. In fact, certain places of her anatomy throbbed with it.

      She was suddenly very aware of the position of her arm across his waist, how it dipped low on his hip. Her leg had slipped so comfortably between his, she was almost afraid to move, lest she wake him. But staying like this was torturous.

      Because it was simply impossible to have her legs wrapped around him, to feel him pressed against her, without remembering the past; all the ways he’d delighted her, pleasured her, thrilled her. The man had taught her things about her body she hadn’t even known were possible.

      While one day ago she would have sworn she was not the least bit susceptible to him anymore, the woman who’d had to get herself off in the bathtub a few hours ago would say otherwise. As would the one who now felt totally at the mercy of her girl parts.

      Her nipples were tight and incredibly sensitive against his chest. The barest movement sent the fabric of her soft sweater sliding across them, and since she’d been in a hurry and hadn’t grabbed a bra, the sensation was definitely noticeable.

      That wasn’t all. Her thighs were quivering, and between them, her sex was damp and swollen. The urge to thrust her hips nearly overwhelmed her, and she had to forcibly remind herself it was not polite to rub up against a sleeping man just to get a little satisfaction.

      Though,