Regan had always been better at being blunt and bossy than owning up to any vulnerability. “You didn’t take advantage of me. Quit being so hard on yourself, you dimwit. We gave in to a little chemistry. It’s not a hanging offense, and nothing happened that either of us need to worry about. Now go home. Get some sleep. It’s two in the morning, for Pete’s sake.”
She kicked him out—but not before winning a startled grin out of him. Possibly no one had ever called Alex a dimwit before.
She quickly locked up and then headed for her bedroom, thinking that someone obviously should have. He’d been upset. Hell, so was she. But they’d made the mistake together, so there wasn’t a reason on the planet why he should hustle in to take all the responsibility. She’d never known a man with that kind of conscience, much less one who took honor and guilt so seriously.
Until him.
Trying to distract her mind in another direction—any other direction—she flipped off the overhead light in her bedroom and started peeling off clothes. No housekeeping genie had shown up to make the bed, she noticed. The sheets and blankets were rumpled; jewelry and makeup were liberally strewn on the dresser; and the blend of startling colors would likely make Laura Ashley cringe.
Regan had long accepted that she was never going to be a shy, ladylike Laura Ashley type. She liked color. Lots of it. Heaps of it. She’d done up the bedroom with rich emeralds and satin blues with a splash of sassy yellow. Everything but the sheets came from garage sales— no way she was sleeping on anyone else’s sheets—but everything else inspired her gypsy, bargaining spirit. She resented paying full price for anything. More to the point, her taste—or lack of it—didn’t have to suit anyone else. This was her haven.
Normally.
She dove for the pillows, knowing she was whipped and positive she would fall asleep instantly. Instead, she felt the cool, smooth sheet settling against her breasts and hips with an erotic awareness that had her scowling in the darkness.
Okay, so she’d been celibate for a long time. And long stretches of celibacy frustrated a woman no differently than they did a man. Intellectually, she accepted that living alone was her safest choice of life-style. Her hormones just didn’t share the same enthusiasm.
The thing was, she’d always had a figure that turned male heads. She’d never asked for the overabundance of curves, any more than she’d asked for the gregarious, flamboyant personality. She couldn’t help having boobs. She couldn’t change her blunt, open nature.
But Regan was well aware that she’d habitually scared away the gentle guys and attracted those who assumed she was a gutsy, confident, life-of-the-party type. They weren’t exactly wrong. She didn’t have a demure bone in her body. But underneath, she wasn’t at all carefree, and that underneath part never seemed to come out. Not with anyone, and especially not with a man.
Until tonight. Suddenly edgy with nerves, she gnawed on a thumbnail.
Nasty, terrifying feelings had sneaked up and seeped to the surface in Alex’s arms. She’d never been afraid of men. She’d never been afraid of sexual feelings. Her fears were about being used and taken for a ride, because she’d fallen for Prince Charmings with feet of clay before.
But Alex was a gentle man. Not a predator. And damnation, it was downright delicious to be undone and unraveled by a lust attack for a good man for a change. But that was precisely the problem. Alex’s integrity glowed as brightly as his vulnerability. He’d been completely honest with her about his feelings for Gwen. He needed a friend, Regan thought, and having been dumped and disillusioned herself, she even believed she could be a damn good friend to him. But to hurt a vulnerable, caring, good man stabbed her conscience with a sharp knife. Allowing hormones to enter the situation was simply out of the question.
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