Once Upon a Christmas (30 page)

“You’re supposed to be sleeping on the loveseat,
remember?” She clutched the comforter to her chin. “We agreed!”

What had she put on to sleep in last night? She couldn’t
remember. Was it her faded oversize Arizona Wildcats T-shirt or her more
respectable, if boring and scratchy, flannel pajamas?

More importantly, what was Dylan wearing underneath the
covers?

“I did sleep on the loveseat.” Casually, he angled
one elbow on the pillow and propped his head in his hand.

The sunlight shining through the honeymoon suite windows
captured the good-natured gleam in his eyes and burnished his dark tousled hair
with lighter-colored highlights. Why, Stacey thought grumpily, couldn’t Dylan
have awakened looking like an ogre and smelling just as bad? And what
was
he wearing, anyway? He’d only pulled up the sheet waist-high, but she couldn’t
catch a glimpse of anything beneath it.

She bet he slept in the nude.

“But I’ve been up for a while,” he went on,
oblivious to her wonderings. “I had to smuggle Ginger out for a walk.”

He tossed a smiling glance at the dog sprawled, snoring
faintly, near the honeymoon suite door.

“I can see it wore her out.”

“No more than last night did.” When they’d
returned to their room, they’d found Ginger surrounded by colorful pieces of
shredded Las Vegas attractions brochures, chewing up the M-Z section of the
Yellow Pages. Obviously, they’d tasted better than the ordinary dog food and
water Dylan had left for her.

“Anyway, I stopped and ordered breakfast from room
service while I was downstairs. I thought it would look more honeymoon-ish if
both sides of the bed looked slept in when the food arrived.”

“Oh.” So much for her plans to go out for
breakfast at one of the restaurants nearby. How typically Dylan, to decide
for
her what she wanted to eat.

She’d just have to try to put a good face on it, for the
sake of the honeymoon ruse, Stacey decided. But first she needed to get out of
bed. And to do that, she had to be dressed.

Trying to seem casual about it, she stuck her hand under the
comforter and touched her shirt. At the feel of the thin washed cotton in her
hand, she remembered that she’d compromised last night and worn her Wildcats
T-shirt
plus
her flannel pajama bottoms.

Too bad the latter were lumped someplace at the foot of the
bed, discarded in the middle of the night when it had gotten too hot to sleep
with them on. She was sleeping in a T-shirt and panties. Nothing
special…except she’d never actually worn such a getup in the company of
Dylan.

And she didn’t intend to now.

“Breakfast, huh?” Trying not to jiggle the
mattress, Stacey fished around with her foot, hoping to hook her pajama
bottoms. “Sounds good.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.” He didn’t sound like he was
contemplating scrambled eggs. “I figured you’d rather sleep in than
wrestle with the room service menu. I don’t know what you usually have for
breakfast.” Dylan gave her an innuendo-laden grin. “But I think you’ll
enjoy what I ordered. It’s special.”

Thump—thump
. Her heart turned over at the purr in his
voice. The sleepy, let’s-stay-in-bed look in his eyes didn’t help her composure
much, either. She had to get out of that bed before her body got the better of
her brain and convinced her to attack Dylan again, the way she had at the
conservatory last night. Biting her lip, Stacey dug her toes in a promising
lump then realized it was part of the sheet. Rats.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Dylan grabbed hold of
the headboard for an anchor and yawned as he stretched. His toes popped out
from beneath the sheet at the end of the bed. The muscles in his arms flexed,
then relaxed again. He resumed his propped-on-the-pillows stance and smiled at
her. “Being together like this, I mean.”

Stacey’s gaze dipped from his dark-stubbled jaw to the broad
expanse of his shoulders and muscular chest. Geez, he looked amazing. She made
herself return his smile. “Yeah, uh, nice.”

Find those pajama bottoms!
her brain yelled. She
wiggled and scooted sideways, still searching with her toes. How could being in
bed with a man discombobulate her so much? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t spent
four years sleeping next to a male person every night. Well, almost every
night. Except for when Charlie had been working overtime, or out of town,
or….

Face it. He hadn’t been Dylan. And it wasn’t just sculpted
chest muscles or gorgeous green eyes or cute rumpled hair she was talking
about, either. Charlie would never have put himself out to help her with
something like the honeymoon ruse. Period. Dylan would—was—and if his help with
the police and the taxi driver yesterday was any indication, she knew he’d
stick by her to the end, too. Even if she made him mad.

Maybe, just maybe, she could trust him a little.

A very teeny-tiny little.

But it was a start. Heartened at the thought, Stacey let
herself relax a bit, still probing the bottom of the mattress with her foot in
the hopes of finding the rest of her clothes. “So, what’s on the agenda
for tod—aaaay!”

She’d scooted too far backwards. The mattress dipped with
her weight and she went with it, straight off the edge.

Clutching fistfuls of comforter, Stacey landed on the floor
with half the covers twisted around her. A pillow bounced on her head, then
dropped on the carpet. She frowned at it.
Cool move, Stacey. Way to look
sophisticated
.

Way to hide her T-shirt and panties getup. Aaack! She flung
part of the comforter over her exposed legs just as Dylan leaned over the edge
of the bed. His arm swept sideways. His hand, filled with something he’d picked
up from the mattress, appeared over the side of the bed. He grinned and held
whatever it was aloft.

Her pajama bottoms.

“Looking for these?”

“Give those back!” Holding the comforter plastered
against her hips for a shield, Stacey grabbed for the pajamas.

Dylan raised them higher. “Say please.”

“What? No!” She snatched, missed, and scowled.
Ginger, apparently awakened by all the excitement, bounded over with her tail
wagging. She barked at Dylan.

“Shhhh!” they said.

Ignoring them both, the dog put her paws on the mattress.
Her tail swished, narrowly missing Stacey’s nose. She hauled her from the
mattress, letting the dog plunk down beside her.

“Figures,” Dylan said. “As usual, she’s on
your
side.”

“She’s on the
right
side,” Stacey told him,
leaning over to pet her. Ginger licked her chin, nicely showing some doggie
allegiance. “Now give me those pajamas.”

“Make me.” He had the audacity to laugh.

She grabbed the pillow from the floor. His grin faded.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Backing up on his knees, he
held up his arms to ward off the pillow. Speaking from between his elbows, he
said, “I have to warn you, you don’t know who you’re messing with here.”

“Oh, yeah? Who?”

“Pillow fight champion of Camp Wigwam, that’s who.”
He inched his fingers toward one of the remaining pillows. “Two years
running.”

“Oooh, I’m scared.” Stacey grinned, releasing her
blanket long enough to yank down her big T-shirt. Grabbing her pillow, she
twirled it by its corner and tried to look menacing. “I’ve got you beat by
a year.
Three
year champ, Camp Weehawken.”

“Camp Weehawken’s a bunch of girls.” He draped her
coveted pajama bottoms over the headboard like a pirate flying his flag on a
stolen ship.

Or a matador inciting the bull to charge. Except Stacey felt
more mulish than bullish.

“I’m going to get those anyway.” She raised an
eyebrow with mock regret. “So you might as well surrender.”

“Never. Besides, I’ve got more ammunition than you do.”
Turning partway, Dylan picked up his pillow and passed it from hand to hand,
treating her to a pirate’s roguish grin and a revealing view of his sleeping
attire, too. He was wearing, she saw, a pair of green striped boxer shorts. And
nothing else.

The broad planes of his chest narrowed into a tight stomach
that had to cost him a thousand crunches a day. Between passes of the pillow,
Stacey glimpsed narrow hips and the finely muscled strength of his thighs as
her gaze skimmed lower, followed the crisp green-and-white stripes of his
boxers.

Mercy, but the man kept some kind of body hidden beneath
those sloppy T-shirts and baggy jeans of his! She’d never have guessed, never
have thought to…

To wallop him with a pillow.
Stay focused
, she
ordered herself. His attempts at distraction wouldn’t work on the likes of
her
.

“But I’ve got better aim.” She squinted up at him
with her best Dirty Harry impression to hide the fact that he
had
distracted her, at least for a nanosecond. “Hand over my pajamas.”

Her cover up came too late. He’d already caught her all but
counting the pinstripes on his underwear.

“Do you like what you see?” Dylan asked, as
smoothly as though she’d never spoken between ogling him and making her demand.
How come he always seemed to guess what she was thinking? Stacey sure as heck
never noticed him ogling
her
. Suddenly, the notion made her feel sort of
miffed.

Oh, no, it didn’t. That was ridiculous. What did she care
what Dylan thought of her? She had no intention of cozying up to him again and
risk having the honeymoon suite charade exposed because her attention was someplace
else.

“I see my clothes draped over the headboard like panty
raid souvenirs.” She twirled her pillow overhead. “Hand them over.”

“Come and get ‘em.”

“Bully.”

“Chicken.”

She hurled her pillow. It flew at Dylan’s face with a
satisfying thwap! and slid into his lap. Too late, Stacey realized she’d let go
of it. Rats! Now she was defenseless. She’d only meant to whack him once, just
to show she meant business.

“Looks like you’ll be the one surrendering,” he
informed her, grinning at the pillow, then at her. He lowered his
pillowcase-covered ammunition—and lowered his voice. “I promise to be
lenient in my terms. Amnesty’s granted for a kiss.”

The seductive tone of his words raised goose bumps along her
arms, but Stacey wasn’t ready to surrender.

“You wish. I’m not giving up.” She cast about for
another weapon. Her gaze lit on her other pillow, tilting precariously at the
edge of the mattress. Biting her lip, she snaked her hand toward it.

Dylan snatched it first. “Uh, uh, uh. That’s mine.”
He pretended to think about it. “I guess you could always take off your
T-shirt and wallop me with it, for lack of a more lethal weapon.” He
waggled his eyebrows with overplayed lasciviousness. “On the other hand,
that might be most lethal of all. What do you say?”

“I say you’re out of there.” Stacey grabbed the
portion of silk sheet still remaining on the bed and tugged. He was kneeling on
top of it. All she had to do was pull, and Dylan would come tumbling to the
floor too, minus a couple degrees of smugness
and
his pillow stockpile.

She wrenched harder. Nothing budged except her. Dylan had
captured the sheet’s other end and started pulling.

“Hey!” She kept hanging on. Her backside bumped
across the carpet. Beside her, Ginger scrambled out of the way, breathing
blasts of doggie breath into her face as she went. “Hey!”

“All’s fair in love and war.”

Tug of war she
wasn’t
a champion at. But where brute
strength couldn’t take her, Stacey figured as she pulled, cunning would.
Sneaking a glance at Dylan, she saw he’d added both hands to his sheet-pulling
efforts. Perfect.

She let go. Just as she’d hoped, Dylan flopped on the bed,
thrown backward by the force of his own strength turned against him. With a
yell of triumph, Stacey scrambled on the mattress and trampled on her hands and
knees over the sheets, atop Dylan, and over to the bedpost. She yanked her
pajama bottoms free.

She whirled them overhead like a cowboy’s lasso. “Woo-hoo!”
she crowed, putting her hands on her hips and settling back onto her heels. “Don’t
mess with the Weehawken champ.”

Laughing, Dylan raised his arms and tee’d his hands together
to make a time out signal. “You win,” he groaned. “I’m no match
for your stealth.”

He struggled up on his elbows and peered down the length of
his body at her on the bed next to him. They were so close their hips nearly
touched, but Stacey felt too triumphant to care. She grinned hugely, feeling
carefree, with laughter still tugging at her lips. How had she forgotten how
much sheer
fun
Dylan could be?

“Is that what they teach you at girl’s camp?” he
complained. “Fighting dirty?”

“Awww, you big baby.” Pursing her lips in a pout,
Stacey leaned forward. She patted his chest sympathetically with her hand that
wasn’t holding her pajama bottoms. “You’re the one picking fights with me.
Maybe next time you’ll…ahhhh!”

Suddenly, she was airborne. Her pajama bottoms, so hard-won,
went flying. The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back amid a pile of
pillows with her hands anchored over her head in Dylan’s fists. The heat from
his body seared into her skin.

Straddling her, he leaned over and smiled. “Gotcha.”

Her eyes widened. His strong thighs hemmed in her hips on
both sides, his hands held her arms immobile, and his chest nearly touched hers
because he leaned so close. Worse, she realized as a brush of unexpectedly cool
air whisked over her belly, her T-shirt had ridden up past her thighs. It felt
as if it was puddled someplace around her navel. This was a dangerous
situation. Very dangerous.

And to be immediately gotten out of.

Stacey wiggled experimentally beneath him. Dylan’s gaze went
straight to her breasts. She felt suddenly aware of their jiggling, happily
bra-less state beneath her T-shirt. She froze. Unfortunately, her chest didn’t.
Instead of cooperating with her mind, her body went right ahead and responded
to his attention. Her nipples puckered, pushing against her shirt in a way she
would have immediately covered—if she’d had the use of her arms.