Bedspell. Jule McBride
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wave of mortification overcame her when she heard her voice. It sounded weak and gravelly.
“You sure?”
How could he sound so normal? Had he forgotten how they’d spent the better part of last night? She still hadn’t managed to move. She’d remained standing in the middle of his cabin, perched on the balls of her feet. Venturing another quick look over her shoulder, she wished she hadn’t. The sheer force of the man’s over-the-top good looks was—unfortunately—enough to pivot the rest of her body around.
For a long second, she just stared. And then her foggy mind caught up with the rest of her body, and she realized he was seriously checking her out. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling like an idiot. Casually, she drew one leg in front of the other.
The slightest smile lifted his lips, almost as if he was getting a kick out of her discomfort. She blew out a surreptitious breath, wondering what to do next. His face was strong and broad, framed by blond curls, and his jaw was firm and square, his eyes, the kind of hazel that could turn brown or amber, depending on the light. She felt tempted to crawl right back into bed with him.
Then she remembered the flannel shirts, steel-toed boots and disabled cats. The man might be amazing in bed, but he was not the type with whom a reasonable New York woman could make a lasting future, and Signe was practical. What she wanted most was a future. Reminding herself that she was in enough trouble already, since she was temporarily suspended from the Met, not to mention a prime suspect in the theft of a priceless statue, she edged backward, toward the door.
He huskily said, “I thought you were…”
Someone else. The words hung in the air. Somehow, despite her embarrassment, she managed to keep the smile plastered on her face. “Nope.”
His thick eyebrows knitted. “Have we even met?”
She really couldn’t stand here in front of him much longer, naked. “Nope,” she said again.
He slowly sat, pulling the sheet with him, thankfully covering his lower half and bunching the pillow behind him, as if anticipating a lengthy conversation with her, and while she hated to disappoint him…
She’d almost reached the door, but she couldn’t help but ask, “And you are?”
“Name’s James,” he said. For the space of a suspended heartbeat, the whole world slid off kilter and she could swear he was going to add, “Bond. James Bond.” But instead he said, “The park ranger.”
“The park ranger,” she echoed in a hoarse whisper. Of course. How could she have imagined that her magic spell had conjured Gorgeous Garrity? “I see.”
He was starting to look offended. “Who did you think I was?”
“Gorgeous,” she managed. “I thought…”
He flashed a grin that did remarkable things for his already remarkable face. “Thanks.”
“No,” she managed to say, realizing he’d thought she was referring to his good looks. “I mean…” But probably it was better not to explain she’d mistaken him for Gorgeous Garrity, a man a park ranger in the Catskills would have never heard of. “I mean…uh…”
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