CHAPTER ONE

      THREE THINGS OCCURRED to Catherine Harris as she jerked out of a dead sleep.

      One, she was stark naked in Luke Van Buren’s bed.

      Two, he was about to enter his bedroom.

      Three, he wasn’t alone. A woman’s throaty laughter mingled with Luke’s deep baritone in the hallway.

      Luke wasn’t supposed to be back in San Francisco for a couple more days. Catherine tried not to panic. Suddenly years of planning didn’t seem like nearly enough time.

      She leaned up on one elbow, squinted into the darkness and remembered she’d thrown her bra over the clock to block the red LCD light. Catherine flopped back on the pillow, several options, none of them viable, flashed through her sleep-fogged brain. Hiding under the bed while bedsprings bounced was too hideous to contemplate. As was the picture of the fire department rescuing her from the ledge outside Luke’s bedroom window, twenty-two stories above the street.

      She heard a soft thud. A shoe? The sound of her own rapid pulse did nothing to block out the next thump. The swish of clothing. An impatient sigh. A hungry kiss pressed to bare flesh. Framed in the open doorway, barely discernable, was Luke’s white shirt, which the woman’s hands were rapidly removing. Catherine saw it flutter to the carpet. Heard a click.

      Oh, God. His belt buckle?

      “Speak up, Catherine,” she whispered.

      There was the distinct rasp of a zipper.

      The sound of a juicy kiss.

      “Oh, Luke!” The woman giggled. Then there was more rustling, more heated murmurs, breathy sighs. Catherine’s cheeks flamed, blood pounding in her ears. Anticipating the fireworks to come, she felt hysterical laughter bubbling up in her throat.

      “Make love to me, Luke. Oh, yes...I adore when you touch me...yes. Mmm. Oh, yes.”

      Oh, no. Catherine tried to slither out of the way before the woman flopped onto the bed. Too late.

      The weight of two full-grown adults squashed the air out of Catherine’s lungs. Grunting, she tried to wriggle out from under, but couldn’t get any traction on the satin sheets.

      The woman rolled to the side, shot to her feet and let out a bloodcurdling scream. With a thump and a curse, Luke landed on the floor beside the bed.

      “What in God’s name—”

      “There’s someone in your bed!” the woman shrieked.

      Catherine heard Luke get to his feet, then fumble for the switch on the bedside lamp.

      Showtime.

      She sat up, tucked the slithery sheet under her armpits and tried her best to appear nonchalant. Chances were she looked like the wild woman of Borneo. She hadn’t braided her hair before she’d gone to bed; it frothed about her bare shoulders, tickling the tops of her breasts. The bedside light snapped on just as she blew a particularly stubborn hank out of her eyes. As she squinted in the brightness, her gaze clashed with a pair of narrowed gray-green eyes boring a hole into the middle of her forehead.

      “Catherine.” Luke zipped his pants, then raked his fingers through his disheveled dark hair. His broad, hairy chest expanded with the ragged, frustrated breath he dragged into his lungs.

      Reluctantly she tore her gaze from his splendidly naked chest and waited for the dragon to roar. He appeared twice as tall as six foot three,