The Taming of a Wild Child. Kimberly Lang
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Donovan definitely rated high on the hummina scale. Good looks, though, were pretty much all he had going for him, in her opinion. Why had he even been invited to the wedding? It must have been a professional or courtesy invite. At least a hundred of the guests had fallen into that category. But the St. James family was the worst kind of nouveau riche—using money to buy influence and respectability—and if Donovan had any class at all, he’d have RSVP’d no to what had obviously only been a polite gesture.
But money couldn’t buy class, that was for sure.
And she’d slept with him. She must have reached an astonishingly new level of intoxication to completely lose all her self-respect. I am never drinking again.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Lorelei. I’m not real keen on this new development, either.”
Donovan sat up—slowly, she noted, implying his hangover was equally as miserable as hers—and reached for his clothes. Lorelei averted her eyes, but not before she got a good long look at broad shoulders, a trim waist and a very nice, very firm butt. Donovan ticked up another notch on that hummina scale before she noticed the red claw marks marring his back.
She’d enjoyed herself, it seemed. Pity she didn’t have a better recollection of what had led to those marks. Although she felt like hell, underneath the hangover was a pleasant muscle soreness that spoke to a good time.
The silence felt awkward and uncomfortable. Despite her reputation, Lorelei wasn’t an expert on morning-after protocols, but she’d brazen through this somehow. Clutching the sheet to her breasts, she let it trail behind her as she grabbed her dress off the floor and headed for the bathroom. She thought she might have heard a sigh as the door closed behind her.
The sight in the mirror was not pretty. Lorelei splashed water on her face and tried to wipe away the worst of the mascara circles under her eyes. Then she finger-combed her hair until it didn’t look quite so wild and made use of the mini-bottle of mouthwash provided by the hotel. Feeling marginally human, she righted her dress and slipped into it.
She could only hope that no one would see her heading back to her room as nothing said night of debauchery quite like wearing a cocktail dress before breakfast. Six months of very hard work could be shot all to hell.
Of course she had a much more pressing—and disturbing—problem right outside that door which she had to deal with first.
“Okay,” she said to her reflection, “you need a dignified exit.” Taking a deep breath, she opened the bathroom door.
Donovan stood by the window, looking out over Canal Street, but he turned once he heard the door open. He’d pulled on a pair of jeans—ending up in your own hotel room instead of someone else’s had perks, like clothes—but he’d stopped before adding a shirt. Lorelei had a hard time keeping her eyes from wandering as he wordlessly handed her a bottle of water. She nodded her thanks.
“There’s aspirin, too,” he said, dodging past her into the bathroom and returning with a bottle. “Care for a couple?”
He shook the bottle, causing her head to throb, and she was pleased to see him wince at the noise, as well.
Lorelei felt like she was in a bad movie. “Look, I think we would both agree that last night should not have happened.”
“That’s for sure.”
She stamped down the remark she wanted to make at that insult. Dignity. “So we’ll just pretend it didn’t happen. I won’t mention it to anyone and you won’t write about it, okay?”
From the look on Donovan’s face, he didn’t like the implication, and Lorelei worried that she might have made a tactical error. Donovan had turned his high-school hobby of flaying people alive for sport into a profitable career. He destroyed careers, lives, families. Rumor had it that he was looking for another big story. People tried to avoid pinging onto his radar screen; no one with a shred of self-preservation would bait him intentionally.
“I limit myself to topics of public interest, and even if this fit the definition—which it doesn’t—it’s not something—wasn’t anything—to brag about.”
Dignity be damned. She was not letting that slide by unchallenged. “I wouldn’t know. Must not have been that memorable an experience.”
“Then forgetting it happened at all won’t be a problem for you.”
“No, it won’t.” That was a lie, but Donovan had no way of knowing better, so it was a safe lie. And it allowed her to hold her head up as she gathered the rest of her things.
Her small purse was upside down by the door, her phone, lipstick and room key spilling out. Not far from that was one of her shoes, then Donovan’s tie and shoes, then her other shoe. It was a breadcrumb trail of shame that led straight to the king-size bed.
Lord, was there anything less dignified than searching for your underwear? She picked up Donovan’s jacket and gave it a shake. Nothing. Dropping to her knees, she looked under the bed. She found an empty condom wrapper, alleviating one of her fears, but finding two more had her cringing.
No sign of her underwear, though.
“If you’re looking for these …” Donovan drawled. She looked up to see him dangling her panties from one finger. She bit her tongue and settled for shooting him a dirty look as she jerked them from his hand and tucked them into her purse. The addition of the undergarment, as tiny as it was, was too much for the little bag, and it refused to close. Heat flushing her face, Lorelei had no choice but to take the extra time to put them on.
Funnily enough, she felt a little less flustered once she had. Underwear was a form of armor, it seemed.
Squaring her shoulders, she went to the door and examined the fire-safety map posted there. According to the red X marking her location as room 712, she could easily get to the fire stairs, go down one floor and she’d come out only a few doors away from her own room. Excellent. The chances of running into someone she knew had just decreased exponentially. Something might actually go her way this morning.
“Planning your escape route?”
She turned to see Donovan stacking the pillows on the bed into a comfortable back-prop, and then reclining, remote control in hand. He wasn’t even looking at her, and, if anything, he now sounded bored. Obviously this was not an out-of-the-ordinary morning for him. Why am I not surprised?
“Exactly. Goodbye, Donovan. I hope I don’t see you again for a very long time.”
She didn’t wait for his reply. Cracking the door, she peeked into the hall and found it empty. With at least a hundred of last night’s guests having taken advantage of the location to enjoy Connor and Vivi’s open bar, she just needed her luck to hold for a few minutes. The quick dash to the stairwell was no problem, and her stiletto heels clacked on the stairs as she moved as fast as possible in the tight skirt. At the door to the sixth floor she paused, took out her room key, and took a deep breath. Another peek showed two people in the hall, but neither of them looked familiar. Just to be safe, she waited until they were at the elevators before making the last break for her door.
Only to find that her stupid key didn’t work.
Donovan was relieved Lorelei had left in a huff. He’d been awake for about fifteen minutes before her, and he’d spent that time anticipating a number of equally horrific and awkward scenarios.
But Lorelei had gone straight to indignation and huff—which, in this case, had been more than he’d dared hope for.
Of all the women who’d attended what was arguably the biggest society wedding of the decade, he’d managed to hook up with Lorelei LaBlanc. He’d known both Connor and Vivi at least tangentially since high school and, while they might not be close friends or anything, they were business associates and often traveled in the same social circles now.
He might be considered