Breaking The Rules

She was wearing a T-shirt.

A man’s T-shirt?

Frowning took too much energy, so she simply looked around the unfamiliar room. Where was she? Nothing snagged a memory. Worse, there just weren’t any memories, no clues as to how she ended up in a strange room dressed in a man’s T-shirt.

She spied her wedding gown laid carefully over a wooden ladder-back chair in front of an old student desk and gasped. Not only her wedding gown but her stockings, garter and corset, as well, all neatly folded and sitting on the corner of the desk. Had someone undressed her? Had she…?

“Oh, sweet Mary.”

Carefully, she eased her legs over the side of the twin bed and stood, the hem of the T-shirt reaching a few inches above her knees. Thankfully, the room didn’t spin. She vaguely recalled spinning, but not here, not in this room. It had been somewhere cool that smelled of bleach and disinfectant.

She shook her head, then groaned when a fresh flash of pain stabbed behind her light-sensitive eyes. She crossed an old braided rug to the door, then quietly stepped into a short hallway. The dulled hardwood floor was cool beneath her feet as she debated heading down the corridor toward the intoxicating aroma of fresh-brewed coffee or making use of the bathroom directly across the hall.

The bathroom won.

She took care of her immediate needs, then splashed cool water on her face. Studiously avoiding her reflection in the mirror, she opened the medicine chest in search of toothpaste. A tube with the cap snapped firmly in place sat on the lower shelf beside a single toothbrush, a container of floss and a bottle of inexpensive aftershave. Whomever had taken her home was neat, and single.

Since her own toothbrush and other toiletries were still in her car in the overnight bag she’d snagged before bolting from Homer, she made use of her unknown host’s toothpaste by spreading it on the tip of her finger. She snapped the medicine chest closed, then further invaded his privacy by liberating a comb and attempting to restore a bit of semblance to her hair.

Feeling about as refreshed as she could without the benefit of a hot shower and a change of clothes, she left the sanctity of the small tiled bathroom and slowly made her way down the corridor. To her immediate left, a door stood open. Ignoring everything she’d ever been taught about good manners, she peered inside, hoping to gain any amount of knowledge possible about the identity of her host. All she received was further confirmation of his cleanliness, which pretty much eliminated Benny or Joe, based solely on their scruffy attire.

Still clueless, she left the corridor and entered a comfortably and neatly furnished living room. No newspapers cluttered the old but shining surface of a square coffee table. Not a single magazine lay near the vinyl recliner or was tossed carelessly on the shelf of the wall unit, which doubled as an entertainment center and bookshelf. Even the CDs and videocassettes were arranged in neat rows and—she peered closer—in alphabetical order. The only occupant in the wood-paneled living room was an overweight white cat, stretched over the back of the sofa. His big, round green eyes shot her a look of disdain before the furry beast hopped off his perch and meowed his way into another room.

Hoping the cat would offer some sort of clue as to her whereabouts, she followed. She stilled at the sound of a deep, masculine voice chastising the cat affectionately.

She knew that voice from somewhere.

Before she had time to resurrect the memory, the owner of the voice, followed by the cat, rounded the corner and stopped. Carly stared at a wide chest. Her gaze dipped to faded denim hugging lean hips and long legs, to bare feet. She didn’t need him to turn around to know his backside was one incredible specimen of masculine perfection. She’d spent enough time last night admiring that view.

Dragging her gaze away from all that perfection, she tipped her head back and looked into eyes the color of dark chocolate. She stifled a groan. Of all the people in Chicago, she had to end up half-naked in the grumpy bar owner’s apartment.

Had he undressed her? Just the thought of those hands on her body, her unconscious body, made her skin heat.

The missing pieces of her memory fell rapidly into place, particularly how rudely she’d behaved to him. Even telling herself he deserved it considering he’d been equally rude, not to mention judgmental, did nothing to lessen her embarrassment.

Not knowing what else to do, she extended her hand. “How do you do,” she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes with her left hand. “I’m Carly Cassidy, and I don’t think I’ve ever been more embarrassed in my life.”

She wished he would at least smile. She vaguely remembered his was one of those breath-stealing types. Sweet and sexy enough to make her heart flutter in her chest. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in a smiling mood this morning. He just looked down at her with that intense gaze as if deciding what to do with her.

“Considering your life only consists of twenty-four years, that’s not saying much.” He shifted his coffee mug to his left hand, then grasped hers in a firm grip that sent a series of tingles shooting up her arm to settle in the tips of her breasts.

“Cooper Wilde.”

She slowly pulled her hand from his. The tingling didn’t stop. “I don’t know whether to say it’s been a pleasure or not.”

A half grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “No, I don’t suppose you would. Coffee?”

“Any chance you might have some tea handy?” she asked, telling herself she was not affected by his lopsided grin. She’d heard him laugh the night before and seemed to remember the sound had made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He really was quite attractive, frowns and all. If a girl went for all those angled lines and rough edges.

He shot her a look that said I think not.

“Coffee works for me.”

She followed him into a small, compact kitchen, tugging on the hem of the T-shirt. He pulled a mug from the cabinet and filled it. “Black?”

Why not? she thought, and nodded. After what she’d consumed previously, black coffee would be a definite improvement.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she said, taking the mug from him before following him out of the room to a small square dining table beneath a pair of windows. “But, exactly where am I and how did I get here?”

He sat in a chair and leaned back. “I found you passed out in the ladies’ room after closing.”

She set her mug on the table and dropped into another vinyl padded chair. “Oh sweet Mary,” she muttered, dropping her head into her hands. Now she knew what had been cool and smelled of bleach and disinfectant. The bathroom floor!

He lifted his mug to his lips, his bittersweet gaze regarding her over the rim, revealing nothing other than perhaps mild interest. “It was either bring you up here or call the cops.”

“Thank you.” She could just imagine what her family would have to say about a visit on the wrong side of the divider at the local Gray Bar Hotel. Hi Dad, it’s Carly. Just calling you from my jail cell to tell you I’m fine.

She frowned and looked over at Cooper. “‘Up here?’” she asked, taking a sip of much-needed caffeine. The cat purred and dropped onto his side, stretching his large furry body beneath a sunbeam streaming through the open window.

“I live above the bar,” Cooper said.

Made sense, she thought. It was convenient. That thought made her frown deepen, wondering if he often brought home stray women. No, she decided. The single toothbrush told the truth. Cooper Wilde was extremely single and excessively neat. Even his hair was neat, cut in a short cropped style. No stray locks of sable brushing that forehead. Everything had a place and everything was in its place. No doubt he viewed her as a disruption to his neat and orderly lifestyle.

Well, now what was she going to do? She had no clothes since they were locked in her car, and she couldn’t very well prance around the city of Chicago in his T-shirt or her filthy wedding gown looking for a place to live.

Her car!

“Did the tow truck ever show up last night?” she asked him.

He turned to look out the window. “Either that or your car’s been stolen.”

“My purse. Do you have my purse?” If the driver had shown up, he would have given her a business card, or had her sign a receipt of some sort. Something to tell her the whereabouts of her vehicle, a change of clothes and her own toothbrush.

He stood and walked across the small dining area to a built-in cabinet. Opening a long center drawer, he pulled out her satin bag. “I found it when I went back down to finish closing the bar last night. You’re lucky it was there.”

She ignored the censure in his voice and opened the purse to riffle through the meager contents. Everything was there, except two twenties, which she’d no doubt spent last night in the bar. Unfortunately, no business card or receipt from the tow company. “Do you have a phone book?” she asked before he sat.

He retrieved the phone book and a cordless phone and set them in front of her, then disappeared into the kitchen. The cat promptly followed.

She scanned the pages until she found the name of the first tow company that sounded familiar. After a quick call to the dispatcher, she learned her car had indeed been towed to a local Ford dealership. The subsequent call was useless, however, since it was Sunday and the dealership was closed.

“You want to call someone to pick you up?” He placed a small plate with dry toast in front of her, and sat. Obviously he’d had experience with hangover remedies.

“Thank you,” she said, and nibbled on the toast. She could call any one of her sisters and they’d come to her rescue as quickly as humanly possible. She could even call her parents. Except Carly was tired of being rescued. And she was fed up with doing what everyone always expected of her.

As the youngest daughter, she’d been expected to stay close to home. She’d been expected to finish college and return to the family fold. She’d done that.

Everyone expected her to teach at the local high school, just like her older sister Wendy. She’d accepted a position. As expected.