The intimacy suggested in sleeping in a strange man’s bed had her taking a nervous step back. “There’s no need for you to give up your bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“And have my stepmother rolling in her grave?” He shook his head. “No, ma’am. ‘Guests take priority over comfort.’ That’s what Momma Lee always said.”
He whipped back the crazy quilt that covered the bed, then turned for the door. “The bath’s through there,” he said, flapping a hand over his shoulder to indicate a partially open door behind him. “Fresh towels and wash cloths are in the linen chest beside the shower stall. If you wake up first, the coffee makings are in the kitchen cupboard above the percolator. ’Night,” he said and closed the door behind him.
Elizabeth stared at the door for a good thirty seconds, before finding her voice. “G-good night.”
Woodrow lay sprawled on the sofa, one arm draped over his eyes and a hand splayed over his belly, the tips of three fingers pushed beneath the waistband of his boxer shorts. Though he usually slept in the raw, since he had a guest in the house, he’d thought it best to leave on his shorts. He wasn’t modest, but he figured if the doc woke up first and came in to make coffee and caught him sacked out on the sofa in his birthday suit, she’d probably drop dead from a heart attack.
He heard a scratch on the door and swore under his breath, having forgotten about his dog. With a weary sigh, he rolled to his feet, opened the door a crack, just wide enough for Blue to slip through, then shut it and stretched back out on the sofa. A wet nose bumped his arm, followed by a pitiful whimper.
“Sorry, mutt,” he grumbled. “There’s not room for both of us up here.” He lifted a hand and pointed to the rug in front of the fireplace. “You get the rug.”
Blue slunk over to the fireplace and flopped down on the rug. The dog let out a low woof to let Woodrow know she didn’t like the arrangement, then dropped her head between her paws. Within minutes, both Woodrow and Blue were snoring.
In the next room, Elizabeth lay beneath the covers, wide-eyed, forcing herself to take long, even breaths. It wasn’t fear of the man in the other room that kept her awake.
It was regret.
Renee.
Though tears burned behind her eyes and clogged her throat, she couldn’t cry. But, oh God, how she wanted to. She wanted to throw open the floodgates and let loose all the emotions she’d suppressed for so many years. Cry until there were no more tears left to be shed, empty herself of every last drop of grief, unwind every thread of restraint, every layer of composure she’d bound herself with for years in order to survive.
Renee.
Even now she could see her younger sister. The white-blond ringlets Elizabeth had lovingly combed and adorned with ribbons each day before sending her younger sister off to school. The sky blue eyes with the mystical power to light up a room or melt the hardest of hearts. The classically beautiful features that Elizabeth had envied so much.
Oh, Renee, she thought sadly. Where did I go wrong? What could I have done differently? Why did you keep running away? What were you running away from?
But the dark room offered up no answers, no insight into the questions that had haunted Elizabeth for years.
Rolling to her side, she gathered the covers to her chin and squeezed her eyes shut, determined to sleep. Using a technique her therapist had suggested to help with the insomnia she suffered, she imagined herself in a peaceful, stress-free environment. With slow, even strokes, she painted in her mind a field of wildflowers and a stream shaded by trees, their low-hanging branches dipping into the deep, clear water, like long graceful fingers. She placed herself there, stretched out alongside the stream on a soft bed of crushed grass. Scents wafted beneath her nose. The musky smell of rotted leaves and the sharper, sweeter scent of the crushed flowers she lay upon. The sound of the water bubbling over the rocks and the birds chirping in the trees nearby soothed her frayed nerves, while the breeze riffling through her hair and the relaxing warmth of the sun on her face melted the tension from her body. She stretched lazily, content—
Stiffening, she flipped open her eyes, jerked from the relaxing scene by a sound. The door opening? she wondered, straining to hear. She listened a moment, wondering if perhaps it was Woodrow. She lifted her head to look toward the door, but saw nothing in the darkness. Telling herself she was imagining things, with a frustrated sigh she dropped her head back to the pillow and closed her eyes. She forced her mind back to the peaceful scene, imagining again the field of wildflowers, the stream tumbling over moss-covered rocks. Gradually the tension eased from her body.
She slept.
A blood-curdling scream rent the air. Woodrow sat bolt upright at the chilling sound, his heart lodged in his throat. Disoriented for a moment, he blinked once. Blinked again. Then he remembered the doc and vaulted from the sofa.
He threw open the bedroom door and hit the overhead light switch. Squinting his eyes against the sudden glare, he focused his gaze on the bed. The doc sat huddled against the headboard, fully dressed, her knees hugged to her chest, her hands clamped over her face.
Blue lay in her customary spot at the foot of his bed.
“Dang you, Blue,” he complained. He caught the dog by the scruff of the neck and hauled the animal to the floor. “Out,” he ordered, pointing to the door.
Blue slunk from the room, her tail tucked between her legs.
He turned to the doc. “It was just Blue,” he explained, then added, “my dog.”
Her shoulders drooped in relief and she lowered her hands. “I thought—”
She stopped midsentence, her eyes rounding. She quickly averted her gaze, her cheeks flaming a bright red.
Woodrow glanced down and swore, having forgotten he was wearing nothing but his drawers. But he wasn’t about to apologize. Not when it was her scream that had jerked him from a sound sleep and had him barreling into the bedroom.
“You’re lucky I’ve got on shorts,” he grumbled as he turned for the den. “Usually I sleep in the raw.”
Elizabeth didn’t even attempt to go back to sleep. The dog had scared the life out of her when it had jumped onto the bed, but opening her eyes to find Woodrow standing beside the bed, wearing nothing but…
Gulping, she leapt from the bed and all but ran for the bathroom. After locking the door behind her, she bent over the sink and splashed cold water over her flushed face. She groped blindly for a towel and buried her face in its softness.
But she couldn’t block the image of the near-naked Woodrow that seemed engraved behind her lids.
Oh, God, was all she could think, gulping again. He was so…so male. The broad shoulders. The wide, muscled chest shadowed by dark hair. Arms rippling with muscle. Wide, strong hands. Long, powerful legs stretching from the hem of the powder-blue boxers.
Usually I sleep in the raw.
She groaned, remembering what he’d said, and pressed the towel tighter against her face, trying not to think about what lay beneath those powder-blue boxers. She was a grown woman, she reminded herself sternly. A doctor, for heaven’s sake! It wasn’t as if she wasn’t familiar with the male anatomy. She’d dealt with dozens of male patients during her medical training and residency. And she and Ted had been intimate for over two years.
She dragged the towel from her face and fisted her hands in it on the edge of the sink, staring at her flushed face. But the sight of Ted’s naked body had never left her feeling as weak-kneed and needy as seeing Woodrow in that same state.
Drawing in a deep breath, she unfurled her fingers from the towel. “It was the shock,” she told her reflection. Opening her eyes to find Woodrow standing beside the bed in his underwear had been a shock, nothing more.
Though her knees were still a