Real Men Do It Better by Carrie Alexander Lori Wilde Susan Donovan Lora Leigh Page A

fancied herself the heroine in one of those Lifetime Television amnesia movies—What day was it? Where was she? What time was it? Oh God, what was her name ?
    Then the scent hit her nostrils—wood smoke and cold air and that man —that Jorey Matheny guy with the horrendous manners and even worse coffee. She squeezed her eyes tight and rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow, but all that served to do was force the scent of that man further into her brain.
    Kate wanted to go home. She wanted her life back—the one where she juggled sixty million dollars in public relations accounts. The one where she spent weekends in Palm Springs with Brad. She wanted the life where Brad told her she was the most amazing woman in the world, the one where her nose and her car weren’t smashed up, where her dad wasn’t recovering from a triple bypass, and her brother wasn’t asking for her recommendations on leg-waxing salons.
    That life.
    There was a tap at the door. “Miss Dreyfuss?”
    “Leave me alone.”
    “I brought you some soup. You’ve been sleeping all day.”
    “No thanks.”
    “You have to eat. It’s vegetable barley. I made it two months ago.”
    She rolled her eyes. “So you’re trying to kill me?”
    She heard his laugh from behind the door. It was a rumbling, happy sound. “The soup was in the deep freezer, Princess. I heated it up so it’s nice and hot.”
    She raised her face from the pillow, feeling her exhaustion spread deeper into her bones. She wondered why she felt so tired—shouldn’t so much sleep be rejuvenating? What was wrong with her? She tried to remember what she’d read about the symptoms for Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Or fibromyalgia. “I’d rather have a double bacon cheese. Where’s the nearest In-N-Out Burger?”
    “Probably down the street from the Starbucks.”
    Kate snorted. With a sigh of effort, she pushed herself up in bed, rubbed her hands over her face, and raked her fingers through her hair. She was being a selfish, spoiled bitch and she knew it. Well, tough. Maybe that’s all she was—an über-bitch—and she’d never be anything more, no matter how hard she tried. That’s what Brad had said, just before he’d run off and married some bimbette just this side of puberty.
    “Come on in, I guess.”
    She saw the scuffed toe of his cowboy boot first, easing the door open enough that he could step through, one hand carrying a tray and the other a stack of magazines. She was about to tell him to set everything down and get lost, when she noticed his jeans. As he walked over to a table by the window and pulled it toward the bedside, she observed how the worn and pale denim pulled softly against his narrow hips, rounded butt, and lean thighs. There was a slight tear in the left knee and a few drops of dark paint on the right leg just above the ankle. And the way they seemed to cradle what was hiding behind the zipper … Kate swallowed hard, trying not to stare.
    Suddenly, he was standing right beside the bed, looking down at her. My God, the man was extraordinary. The clean, white smile and that single deep dimple on his right cheek made him look like a kid. The salt-and-pepper stubble and the self-assured set of his broad shoulders made him seem much older.
    But it was the peaceful awareness in those dark eyes that suggested Jorey was far more than he was letting on. And all Kate could wonder was what was a man this fine doing hiding in the middle of Southwestern Bum-Fuck?
    “How old are you, Jorey?”
    “Old enough to know better. How about you?”
    She supposed she should be offended, but she’d started the conversation. “The same. At least most of the time.”
    “Ah. Then we understand each other.” Jorey’s lips spread wide and his eyes lit up. He wasn’t shy about letting his gaze stray from her face to her uncovered shoulders, upper arms, and …
    Kate pulled the sheet up under her chin, suddenly aware that the combination of the cold air and the hot