Carried Away. Donna Kauffman

banging against his back. She couldn’t string two coherent thoughts together, much less make any sense of what was happening to her. But one thing would certainly help. “Put. Me. Down.”

      But the hard body presently manhandling her wasn’t remotely intimidated by her best ICU nurse voice. Okay, okay, she told herself. Calm down, wake up, think, think. What was he talking about? A wedding. Wedding.

      “Oh! You must mean Kate Winchell.”

      “Nice of you to remember.”

      She finally put it together. He thought she was Vivian and Kate had sent him here to bring her matron of honor to the ceremony.

      But the breath she’d planned to use to inform him of his dire mistake was oomphed out of her when he stepped off the front porch and headed toward a silver sedan. She forgot all about warning him when warm, humid air brushed her legs. Her very bare legs. Oh my God! “Wait just a damn minute! I don’t have any clothes on!”

      She heard a rustle of plastic. “I’ve got them. You can dress at the church.”

      “But I’m not—”

      “Save the excuses. Whatever they are, you can swallow them for the twenty minutes it’s going to take for my buddy to marry the love of his life.” He shifted her as easily as a sack of potatoes so he could open the door. “A woman with apparently lousy taste in best friends,” he added, clearly disgusted. “But she deserves a nice wedding day and I’m going to make sure she gets it.”

      Christy was dumped in the front seat of the car, quite rudely she thought, and was just winding up to deliver a blistering speech to enlighten this…this Neanderthal Kate had apparently sent to get Vivian. But all the words and a goodly amount of the venom she’d been building since the moment he tossed her over his shoulder died in her throat the instant she came face-to-face with him.

      He was very possibly the most gorgeous Neanderthal she’d ever laid eyes on.

      And speaking of eyes. At the moment, his were mere inches away from hers as he leaned in to get the seat-belt harness. They were blue. Lord, were they ever. All the poetic words ever used on a greeting card couldn’t describe just how blue those eyes were.

      She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Better not to speak until she was sure she wouldn’t drool. Not that she could be any more humiliated at this point. No makeup, puffy eyes, bed hair…and wearing white cotton underwear. Oh, yeah, she was a real temptress. Not that she wanted to tempt the guy. But her body didn’t seem willing to register that reality. Oh, no, her body was exceedingly aware that white cotton or not, she wasn’t wearing very much of it. And his hands were hovering close to…well, close to places she really shouldn’t want a stranger’s hands to hover. But she wanted them to anyway.

      God, she was tired. That had to be the reason she waited until the last possible second before smacking his hands away and taking the seat belt from him. One second later and his knuckles would have grazed…well, she didn’t want to think about what those knuckles would have been grazing against. Her nipples were thinking about it far too much already, thank you very much.

      “Buckle up,” he said tersely and stepped back, apparently oblivious to the near riot he’d created with her hormones.

      Sleep deprivation—she was sure that was the only reason they were all in a dither. That and a severe lack of love life. Tough combination, and after the eyeful she got watching him as he straightened, she decided she couldn’t really blame her nipples one bit.

      He locked her door and shut it tightly, making her flinch. Venom buildup returning, she thought, scowling as she watched him walk with a rigid preciseness that made the military uniform he wore seem redundant. But damn, if he didn’t fill that uniform out. And men in uniform didn’t even make the top ten on her list of things to fantasize about. “Well, that could change,” she murmured, mind wandering. Of course, in her fantasies the man in uniform wouldn’t be a rude, Neanderthal, hormone-inducing jerk. Well, except for the hormone-inducing part. That would probably be okay. And those eyes, those would work.

      God, she was punchy. How had she let this happen anyway? Yawning fiercely, she let her head drop back on the headrest. She knew Kate Winchell, but only through Viv. Christy had met her fiancé, Mike, at a July Fourth picnic once. He was a former Special Forces guy, she couldn’t remember with what part of the military, but given the uniform, she guessed this was one of his pals. Her eyelids drooped and her mind was tugged back toward dreamland as she vaguely wondered if she and her blue-eyed Neanderthal Man would have hit it off if they’d met at a picnic. Maybe he’d wear that uniform…and let her take it off later, alone. Somewhere where they could have their own private display of fireworks. Oh, yeah, that would be great….

      She almost leaped out of her skin when he slammed his door shut. Which put him inside the car. Right next to her. Her and her rioting, fantasizing hormones. And her barely clad body. She hunched down a little and shifted toward the door, not that he hadn’t already seen everything. And it didn’t make a bit of difference, nor did the fact that her brain knew she’d never give this guy the time of day after the way he’d treated her. Her body was still back at her fantasy picnic, getting ready to explode a few fireworks.

      Okay, so she’d been pulling too many double shifts. She had school loans to pay off and a fixer-upper condo that was turning into a money pit of nightmare proportions. She had priorities. And they didn’t include fireworks. In or out of uniform.

      But her gaze slid over to him anyway. Along his thighs, so nicely outlined in his crisp dress pants, to the belted jacket that covered…well, things she didn’t need to be visualizing as she was overstimulated enough at the moment. But she didn’t look away. No, she had to look at his hands…and oh, Lord, what hands they were.

      She might not have men-in-uniform fantasies, but she definitely had a thing about hands. And his were…perfect. Wide palms, long fingers, blunt nails, all capable and strong as they gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel. They’d be just as strong and capable gripping her hips. She tried not to squirm, tried not to imagine. But perhaps, just maybe, her priorities needed readjusting a tiny bit.

      The man just kidnapped you from your own bed for chrissakes!

      She jerked her gaze back to the passenger window. She had no right fantasizing about this guy. So what if he thought she was someone else? Breaking and entering, kidnapping…all those things were still against the law. And just because Kate was sniffling, well, she shouldn’t have set Viv up to begin with! Christy should be furious, not fantasizing!

      The headache she’d almost medicated away earlier crawled back inside her head with renewed force. She needed to be in bed and there was a perfectly good one not fifty yards away. So what in the hell was she doing letting this guy drag her to an event she hadn’t even been invited to?

      She turned to face Mr. Gorgeous Neanderthal Man and tell him just that, but just as abruptly decided against it. Oh, no, there was a much better way for him to learn of his giant faux pas. Swallowing a smile, she leaned back in the plush leather seat, deciding to just enjoy the short ride to the chapel. He’d learn soon enough that he’d plundered the wrong bed. Or the wrong woman anyway. She let her eyes drift shut as she imagined the humiliation payback that was going to be his when they pulled up in front of the chapel and— “Oh my God!” Her eyes flew open.

      He hit the brakes. “What?”

      “I’m not wearing anything!” Which she already knew. What she hadn’t factored in was that they were heading to a church where everyone else would find out she was only wearing her underwear.

      He scowled and resumed his race to the church. “If you’d been here with everyone else, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

      Christy didn’t waste breath explaining the mix-up to him. Being a nurse, she’d worked with her share of arrogant men in her life. The man next to her was the military equivalent. He’d already assessed the situation, made his diagnosis—and nothing this lowly nurse had to say was going to change his decided method of treatment.

      So