Reggie in the costume shop. The dinosaur outfit in her hands.
Tall, slim, in the muted maroon bra and panties, so much of the woman visible and so much of the woman, all of the woman, beautiful and sensual. Her build was slim, but just slightly muscled. Her calves were beautifully shaped, giving her long, tempting legs. Hips flared just slightly, evocatively. Her waist seemed as trim as Scarlett O’Hara’s, and her breasts …
He groaned and closed his eyes tightly against the images. For a moment he marveled at the way she had made him feel. Even the frustration was good.
The hunger was even better. Oh, he’d been hungry before. He’d wanted women before. He had had women before.
But it had never mattered before. Not in the long years since Shelley.
He opened his eyes again. He still didn’t like to remember.
Better to concentrate on the woman down the hallway.
Yeah, even on breasts.
They had been full and beautiful, rising over the lacy maroon of the bra. That lace had barely covered the darkened crests of her nipples. He’d have loved to reach out and touch. He hadn’t even been introduced to her then.
Excuse me, Miss Delaney, but this is making me insane. The mystery, the longing. Could I move this wisp of lace for a minute just to see …
He ground his teeth. She was Max’s sister.
Right. And like Max, she was thirty-three years old.
The hell with Max.
Max had no place in his fantasies.
But in a way, he did. Wes tried to remember all that Max had told him about his sister, Regina. Why had he never been curious about her before?
Shelley had been in his life.
And someone else had been in Regina’s life. Caleb. That had been his name. She had been engaged for years to a fellow named Caleb. Engaged. She had never married him.
Why?
Had she been too attached to her own name? Max’s name? The Delaney name?
She had loved the man. The way Max had talked, they had really been a team. Then something had happened. An accident. He tried hard to concentrate. Yes, it had been a drunk driver. Now he remembered it all, remembered Max telling him. The man had been hit by a drunk driver. He hadn’t died immediately. That had taken time.
It had been awhile ago, though. Several years, he was fairly certain.
What about her life now?
Well, she didn’t like Rick Player, that much had been pretty obvious.
Good. That said she had some sense—even if she did turn on lights when bullets might be flying. Player was smooth. He was the type most women seemed to fall for. Reggie disliked the man. She hid it the best she could, but Wes knew she disliked him.
Wes suddenly heard something from the hall. A sound, barely discernible, but there nonetheless. No one had come in the house from the outside, he was certain.
It had to be Reggie.
He pushed up somewhat, leaning against his pillow and the bedstead, watching the door. Every muscle tightened, but he didn’t make a move. His gun was sitting on the small antique oak night table at the side of the bed. If he needed it, he could reach it.
But intuition assured him that he wasn’t going to need it.
Then she appeared in the doorway. She was still in the terry robe. Her dark hair was loose, disheveled, free around her shoulders. Moonlight played upon it beautifully, beams cascading over it whitely.
“Wes? Are you sleeping?” she queried softly. Her fingers were long, elegant and delicate against the door frame. He wondered what her fingers would feel like against his skin.
“No.”
He hadn’t needed to answer her. The moon gave enough brightness to the room that they could see each other. He was almost sitting up. Sheets drawn to his waist, chest bare, eyes open.
Awake, and aware. In every sense of the word. A rising sense of heat seemed to enter the room right along with her. She stood at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t dressed to be a temptress, he thought.
Not consciously.
And yet …
She couldn’t have been more so. The frayed terry was so soft
Tall, slim, in the muted maroon bra and panties, so much of the woman visible and so much of the woman, all of the woman, beautiful and sensual. Her build was slim, but just slightly muscled. Her calves were beautifully shaped, giving her long, tempting legs. Hips flared just slightly, evocatively. Her waist seemed as trim as Scarlett O’Hara’s, and her breasts …
He groaned and closed his eyes tightly against the images. For a moment he marveled at the way she had made him feel. Even the frustration was good.
The hunger was even better. Oh, he’d been hungry before. He’d wanted women before. He had had women before.
But it had never mattered before. Not in the long years since Shelley.
He opened his eyes again. He still didn’t like to remember.
Better to concentrate on the woman down the hallway.
Yeah, even on breasts.
They had been full and beautiful, rising over the lacy maroon of the bra. That lace had barely covered the darkened crests of her nipples. He’d have loved to reach out and touch. He hadn’t even been introduced to her then.
Excuse me, Miss Delaney, but this is making me insane. The mystery, the longing. Could I move this wisp of lace for a minute just to see …
He ground his teeth. She was Max’s sister.
Right. And like Max, she was thirty-three years old.
The hell with Max.
Max had no place in his fantasies.
But in a way, he did. Wes tried to remember all that Max had told him about his sister, Regina. Why had he never been curious about her before?
Shelley had been in his life.
And someone else had been in Regina’s life. Caleb. That had been his name. She had been engaged for years to a fellow named Caleb. Engaged. She had never married him.
Why?
Had she been too attached to her own name? Max’s name? The Delaney name?
She had loved the man. The way Max had talked, they had really been a team. Then something had happened. An accident. He tried hard to concentrate. Yes, it had been a drunk driver. Now he remembered it all, remembered Max telling him. The man had been hit by a drunk driver. He hadn’t died immediately. That had taken time.
It had been awhile ago, though. Several years, he was fairly certain.
What about her life now?
Well, she didn’t like Rick Player, that much had been pretty obvious.
Good. That said she had some sense—even if she did turn on lights when bullets might be flying. Player was smooth. He was the type most women seemed to fall for. Reggie disliked the man. She hid it the best she could, but Wes knew she disliked him.
Wes suddenly heard something from the hall. A sound, barely discernible, but there nonetheless. No one had come in the house from the outside, he was certain.
It had to be Reggie.
He pushed up somewhat, leaning against his pillow and the bedstead, watching the door. Every muscle tightened, but he didn’t make a move. His gun was sitting on the small antique oak night table at the side of the bed. If he needed it, he could reach it.
But intuition assured him that he wasn’t going to need it.
Then she appeared in the doorway. She was still in the terry robe. Her dark hair was loose, disheveled, free around her shoulders. Moonlight played upon it beautifully, beams cascading over it whitely.
“Wes? Are you sleeping?” she queried softly. Her fingers were long, elegant and delicate against the door frame. He wondered what her fingers would feel like against his skin.
“No.”
He hadn’t needed to answer her. The moon gave enough brightness to the room that they could see each other. He was almost sitting up. Sheets drawn to his waist, chest bare, eyes open.
Awake, and aware. In every sense of the word. A rising sense of heat seemed to enter the room right along with her. She stood at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t dressed to be a temptress, he thought.
Not consciously.
And yet …
She couldn’t have been more so. The frayed terry was so soft
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