Catching Claire

by

Published by Blue Orchard Books at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Cindy Procter-King

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

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Copyright Notice

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise,
without the prior written permission of the author, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues
in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be
construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons,
living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Cover by LFD Designs For Authors

Also By Cindy Procter-King:

Deceiving Derek, Story 1 in Love & Other
Calamities

Where She Belongs

Borrowing Alex

Head Over Heels

For more information, visit
http://www.cindyprocter-king.com

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

About this Story

Catching Claire

About the Author

Sneak Peek at Deceiving
Derek

Many thanks to Mary J. Forbes and Jamie Sobrato for
reviewing this story and providing invaluable input. Jamie was also
my research resource for the “snake bits.” Thank you, Jamie! Any
errors or fictional liberties are, of course, mine (although you
can blame her if you want).

When Claire Merriweather hires hunky future doctor
Ridge Pederson to strip at a friend’s bachelorette party, she never
imagines she’ll wake up in his bed. Well, she
imagines
it—but now it’s
happened.

Big problem: Claire’s memory is fuzzy.
Did
they do the bouncy?
Or did Ridge reject her? Either way…
oh-oh
, her heart’s in trouble!

Stripping off his clothes in a room full of women
was not Ridge Pedersen’s idea of a good time. But how could he
refuse when the gigs paid a good portion of his med school
bills?

Exiting the elevator, he patted the tiny bag of
coins in the pocket of his sleep pants. As he strode toward the
apartment building’s laundry, a sour alcohol scent emanated from
the basket balanced against his hip. He wrinkled his nose.

Over the last month, riotous bachelorette parties
had crammed his summer weekends. Women mauled him, grabbed him,
“forgot” to tip him—and sometimes puked on him. Thankfully, the
latter hadn’t occurred at tonight’s job, although several women had
slugged back oversized drinks comprised of vodka, various liqueurs,
and cream. More than once, the petite future bride had offered
Ridge a sip from her sticky cup, splashing his cop costume.

Shaking his head at the memory, he shouldered into
the laundry room and jerked to a stop. Beside the bulletin board, a
curvy brunette shook her booty in a short, purple nightie that did
wonders to her thighs. As she danced with her back to him, she
curled a messy wave of brown hair behind her ear. A skinny
electronics cord dangled from her earlobe, most likely attached to
a miniscule music player tucked...somewhere interesting, he
hoped.

Wow, she almost made up for tonight’s
annoyances.

Almost
.

Her singing sucked.

The door slammed shut as Ridge walked past Claire
Merriweather’s jiggling butt and set his basket on the first
washing machine in the row. Claire had hired him for tonight’s
party. However, the reserved tones of her voice mail requesting his
services in no way matched her enthusiastic bouncing on spiky
sandals. Purple panties peeked from the hem of her lingerie as she
danced, and countless straps crisscrossed her spine. Swinging a
plastic cup, she cannibalized an upbeat song about kissing
girls.

“I copped a feel—
hiccup!
”
she belted in a sharp
soprano. “La, la, la, his—
hic
—nightstick!”

Ridge recognized the side of her head, although not
her daring outfit. During his performance in a fourth-floor
apartment of the building, she’d remained within his vantage point
in the hostess’s kitchen, prepping snacks and mixing drinks. She’d
worn totally different clothes then. A conservative blouse and
jeans that had nicely hugged her round behind.

How had the girl who’d avoided his gaze while paying
him at the door transformed into this out-of-tune sex kitten?

Her glass swung again. The creamy concoction sloshed
onto the scuffed linoleum beside a humming dryer.

Ridge’s mouth quirked.
Naturally.
The
booze.

“Hello,” he called.

Her eyes fluttered half-open. Poking her tiny
earphone, she bastardized the song again.

“Hello!” Ridge walked toward her, banging the
washers. Her gaze riveted to the bulletin board.

He frowned. Didn’t she realize her vulnerable
position? A woman alone in the unlocked laundry donned in lacy
nightwear placed herself in unnecessary danger. Any loser—not
him—could waltz in and see her.

Take advantage of her.

Attack her—

She licked an ad on the flyer-infested bulletin
board.

Licked
it!

Narrowing his gaze, Ridge stopped directly behind
her. She tongued the ad a second time.
His
ad. For his
stripping business.

Nine of the original thirteen detachable paper
strips inscribed with his cell phone number hung from the glossy
eight-by-ten. Butchering the pop song, Claire Merriweather tore off
every last slip. Giggling, she stuffed them into her top.

Ridge rolled his eyes. In the color photo adorning
the flyer, he wore the navy policeman costume she’d specified for
the party. Stainless steel handcuffs dangled from his thick black
belt while he gripped a strategically positioned nightstick. The
intentional visual had netted him a generous profit as one of two
part-time summer jobs. Under other circumstances, Claire’s thievery
might flatter him. But registration for second-year med school
occurred in a week.

Nobody
messed with his tuition money.

He stepped within an inch of her. “Excuse me?” Voice
hard, he tapped her shoulder.

Shrieking, she jumped. Her drink winged out of the
cup, drenching the flyer. One of her ear buds popped out, the white
cord swaying.

Ridge, you idiot.
What on earth was he
thinking, scaring the pants off her?

“Sorry.” Grasping her shoulders, he turned her
around. “I hit the washers to catch your attention—”

“It’s you!” Green eyes wide, she thumped the empty
cup onto the droning dryer. “My cop-a-feel!” She threw her arms
around his neck. Her full breasts crushed the loose T-shirt
covering his chest, and the sweet aroma of Irish Cream drifted from
her lips.

Ridge pushed her away and held her there. Not that
he didn’t appreciate her enthusiasm. In fact, certain parts of his
body appreciated it too much.

“You were at the party tonight,” he reminded her in
case her neurons had misfired. “You hired me for your friend,
Tanya. I danced with her. In Alicia Maxwell’s apartment.
Remember?”

A loopy grin plastered Claire Merriweather’s face.
“I wouldn’t exactly say I hired you for Tanya.” The papers
advertising his cell number fluttered in her top. The purple
nightie—babydolls, that was it—had wide shoulder straps and lacy
stuff that nipped at her waist and flared at her hips. He liked the
tiny white bows along the hem. He liked the large bow centered on
her cleavage even better. But…

Up close, on a wildness scale of one to ten,
Claire’s outfit rated a three. The neckline didn’t plunge, and the
skirt concealed her butt—when she wasn’t bouncing around. The
papers jutting from her top and the dangling music cord lent her
the appearance of a disorganized cat burglar on a midnight
heist.

“Oh yeah, you hired me for Tanya,” Ridge stated.
“She’s the bride.”

Claire’s dimples flashed. “You look like Demi
Moore’s ex.”

Ridge squinted. “Bruce Willis?”

“No, silly. The young one. Don’t
you—
hic
—twit?”

“What? Oh, you mean tweet.”

“Uh-huh. Twit.” She lifted a finger, and his grip on
her slackened. “Soshul networking. Ash-
hic
has an account.”
She nodded sagely. “You should sign up. You’d get a ton more
calls.”

Ridge grunted. “If you hadn’t destroyed my ad, I’d
get calls the conventional way.”

Her eyebrows wiggled. “You pack quite a package,
Ridge.” Her gaze traveled to his pajama pants, which he wore
commando.

His jaw firmed.
May lightning strike me dead. Now. I’ll donate my
body to science.

Two weeks ago, when Claire had hired him over the
phone, her voice had sounded professional. Sensible. They’d
discussed his rates and arrival time at Alicia Maxwell’s apartment,
the duration and heat level of his performance. He had no problem
flirting and stripping to a leather G-string, but drew the line at
mimicking sex with the guest of honor.

In tonight’s case, Tanya, Claire’s friend.

He released her shoulders.

Her hands whipped under his T-shirt.
Jesus!
Her palms skated over his pecs and abs. His pajama pants ran the
risk of tenting in an energetic salute.

“Make love with me,” she murmured.

“Stop.” Grabbing her wrists, Ridge flipped her hands
back out. “
Claire
. I don’t know what you think I’m
advertising—” other than the party dances “—but I will not sleep
with you.”

“Aw.” She pouted. “Not even if I tip you?”

“Especially not then.”

She blinked. “What’s wrong with me?”

“I don’t pick up drunk women.” Actually, between the
med school grind and grabbing whatever work fit his busy schedule,
he hadn’t gotten laid in longer than he cared to consider.

“I’m not drunk,” Claire enunciated very clearly. Her
bleary eyes signified otherwise.

“It doesn’t matter.” Ridge released her wrists.

“You won’t take me home?” She wobbled on her
sandals. “No one ever takes me home. No one says I’m beautiful.
Everybody thinks I’m fat. No one loves me. Everyone loves Tanya.
Everyone loves Lacey. Some people even love Alicia. But I’m
unlovable!”

“You’re not unlovable. And you’re definitely not
fat.” Why did women think all men wanted to date human pogo
sticks?

“If I were five-seven and had great boobs, then
would you have sex with me?”

Ridge trained his gaze on her face. “You do have
great boobs.” From what he’d noticed moments ago.

“You’re not looking at them. You’re not feeling
them.” Flinging her arms in the air, she launched herself at him.
“Catch!”

Instinctively, Ridge’s hands shot up. Her rack
landed in his palms.
Oops.

“There.” Her loopy smile returned. “Now tell me they
aren’t great.”

“I never said they weren’t great.” Damn, they felt
amazing. Spilling over his fingers. Firm yet soft. Perfection.

Don’t look down
.

He looked down.

His thumb edged the center bow, his fingers pressing
the paper strips lining her bare skin above the modest
neckline.

Look
back up, Pederson. Don’t you dare squeeze these babies. Not even
once
.

She slumped against him. Ridge stumbled back a step
as her temple knocked his chin and her head sagged onto his
shoulder. Her arms flopped at his sides.

“Claire?” He glanced at her face.

Her mouth had slackened with sleep, her eyes sealed
shut.

Damn
it
.

She’d passed out with her hot knockers filling his
hands.