Well, that and a probable bald spot.

  She needed to think about this. “Just go,” she said, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. “Thank you!”

  “I’m not promising you anything. At the very least, I’m reporting you to campus security and to the dean’s office.”

  Jude’s bottom lip pushed out in an angry pout. But Ross cut him off before he could say a word. “Get the fuck out, before I hurt you some more.”

  Shutting his mouth, Jude beelined for the door, giving Ross a wide berth, as if not trusting him not to lash out. Probably a good call, considering Ross was visibly shaking with anger.

  Just before he left, Jude cast Lucy one more pleading glance. She ignored him, focused only on Ross. Her knight in shining armor, whether he saw it that way or not.

  Lucy had never been the kind of girl who wanted to be rescued. Nor had she ever thought she’d need to be. But tonight, that Galahad riding in on the proverbial white horse thing had come in incredibly handy.

  Once they were alone, Ross strode to the door, flipping the lock. When he returned, he didn’t hesitate, walking right to her with open arms. Lucy melted against his hard body, letting go of the anxiety of the past ten minutes and just holding on, soaking up his warmth and his concern. He kept stroking her, running his fingers through her hair, tenderly rubbing tiny circles on the small of her back. Murmuring soft words into her ear.

  It was, quite honestly, the most protected and cherished she’d felt in years.

  “It’s okay, Luce, he’s gone. He’s gone.”

  Finally, after several long moments, he pulled back a few inches and looked down at her. “You shouldn’t stay here alone.”

  No, she probably shouldn’t. “He said he made a key…”

  “You’re definitely not staying then.” He mumbled a curse and stiffened, and she knew he was mad at himself for not getting the key back before Jude had left.

  “I guess I could go to a hotel…”

  “Screw that,” he muttered, looking at her with an incredulous expression, as if she’d said something absolutely ridiculous. “Pack a bag, you’re coming home with me.”

  7

  Now

  Chicago, December 24, 2011

  ROSS WAS AT HIS PARENTS’ house outside of the city when the call came in about Chip being taken to the hospital. The caller told him the elderly man had gone outside to deal with an accident, and the exertion of helping to push a car out of the snow had apparently caused a heart attack.

  The police officer who called didn’t have any more information, but that was enough to send Ross back into town. He didn’t have the phone numbers of the other guards with him, nor could he be sure they’d be able to go in to the office. He had no idea whether Chip had even locked the main doors when he’d gone out to help the driver, so somebody had to get in there. And the buck always stopped at the boss’s desk.

  The drive would be bad, and he already knew he’d have to spend the night at the office. Fortunately Stella had made up the fold-out sofa in his office. Besides, while everyone was disappointed—especially his older sister, who’d just arrived with her family for the holidays—he couldn’t deny he wouldn’t mind getting away from all the holiday cheer. He hadn’t been able to take his mind off Lucy, and the longer he stayed, the more likely it was somebody would notice. He just didn’t feel like explaining his mood to a nosy sibling or parent.

  It was nearly 2:00 a.m. by the time he arrived—the trip had taken three exhausting, stress-filled hours. The plows were barely managing to keep up with the thick snow—he’d earned a few scolding stares from their drivers as he followed them down newly plowed stretches of highway.

  The private parking lot wasn’t plowed, of course, and he was glad he drove a monster SUV that could clear the already foot-high drift. Parking, he bundled up, then stepped outside, his body immediately battered by the wild wind. It howled eerily in the night and the snow seemed to be moving in all directions—up, down, sideways. Not that he could see much of it in front of his face, and he suddenly realized why.

  There were no lights on. Not anywhere.

  Blackout. Wonderful.

  Fortunately the building was well-insulated and plenty warm. He had a couple of extra blankets for the fold-out; he’d be fine overnight, and hopefully the power would be back on in the morning.

  Hunching against the wind that tried to knock him back with every step, he made his way through the wet snow to the entrance, finding the doors locked. He had a master key, and used it to get in. Emergency reflective lights cast a little illumination in the lobby, and he cautiously made his way to the security desk, knowing a few industrial-strength flashlights were stored back there. Grabbing one, he headed for the stairs, trudging back up six flights, mere hours after he’d raced down them. Going up definitely took longer.

  By the time he got to his floor, he was ready for sleep. It looked like he might be snowed in for a couple of days, so he’d have plenty of time to work. Right now, he was weary—physically and emotionally—and just wanted to call it a night.

  Once inside his office, in familiar territory, he turned off the flashlight. Hopefully the power would be on tomorrow, but if not, he wanted to conserve the battery. Stretching, he stripped off his wet coat and kicked off his shoes, then walked across the office to the small, private sitting area.

  Ross moved cautiously; it was even darker in this corner, since there were no windows. He still managed to bump into the edge of the fold-out, and muttered a curse. Then, glad the day was over, and that it couldn’t get any crazier, he lifted the covers and climbed into the bed.

  A noise split the silence. A low sigh.

  What the hell?

  The sound surprised him into utter wakefulness. Carefully reaching out, he patted the other side of the bed…and felt a body under the covers.

  “Ross?” asked a soft, sleep-filled woman’s voice.

  A familiar woman’s voice.

  “Lucy?” he whispered, shocked.

  Could it really be her? He knew that voice, and could now smell the sweet cinnamon-tinged scent she always wore.

  She mumbled something and shifted, scooting closer as if drawn to his warmth. His eyes had adjusted a little, and he was able to make out her beautiful face. The creamy skin, the strand of dark hair lying across her cheek, the perfect mouth drawn into a tiny frown.

  And she’d said his name in her sleep.

  His heart pounded as he realized it was real. Lucy Fleming was asleep in his bed, in his office, in a building that was supposed to be deserted. It made absolutely no sense, was probably the last thing he’d ever have expected to happen. Considering how determined she’d been to get away without even talking to him earlier, climbing into this bed and finding the real live Santa Claus seemed more likely.

  He frantically thought of the scenarios that might have landed her here. She had to have come back sometime after the building closed—when he’d left at seven-thirty, everybody had been gone except the guard. Why she’d returned, he had no idea. Maybe she’d forgotten something? Whatever the reason, Chip had to have let her in, probably recognizing her from this afternoon.

  Beyond that…what? Had she offered to stay in the building when he was taken away by ambulance? That sounded incredibly far-fetched, and the officer who’d called hadn’t mentioned it.

  The doors. Shit. When the locking mechanism was engaged, they couldn’t be opened, even from the inside, without a key. If Chip had gone out to help the motorist, he must have locked up behind him.

  “You got locked in,” he murmured, suddenly understanding.

  And she had no way to call for help. The building was notorious for its poor cell phone reception even in the best weather, and the phone system fed off the power, so regular phones wouldn’t have worked. The internet would be out, of course, plus all the computers in the building were password protected.

  He could almost picture Lucy banging on the doors, trying to get someone’s attention. But with the dark night, the swirling snow and the lack of people venturing out, it must have seemed like a hopeless proposition. She’d have known she was stuck here until at least morning.

  So, like Goldilocks, she’d found a bed and crawled into it.

  He was glad he hadn’t followed his first instinct, leaped to his feet and bellowed, “Who’s that sleeping in my bed?”

  Lucy Fleming is who’s sleeping in my bed.

  A smile tugged at his mouth. What were the odds? Six years ago tonight she’d slept in his bed, too.

  Remembering everything about that night—seeing the parallels—he had to laugh softly. If he were a more new age kind of guy, he might see fate having a hand in this. But being a realist, he knew the fault lay with a blizzard, a blackout and a strong security system.

  That didn’t, however, mean he wasn’t thankful as hell for it, as long as Chip was going to be okay. Because, trapped as she was with him in this building, it wasn’t going to be easy for Lucy to walk out of his life again.

  He could hardly wait until morning to see just how much snow had fallen. How long they were going to be stuck here.

  And what Lucy would have to say about it.

  LUCY WAS HAVING THE NICEST dream. In that state between asleep and awake, she somehow knew it was a dream, but didn’t want to give it up.

  She was lying on a beach, cradled by soft, sugar-white sand. The turquoise waters of the Caribbean lapped in gentle waves, caressing her bare feet, the crash of the surf steady and hypnotic. Above, the sun shone bright in a robin’s egg blue sky. Occasionally a puffy white cloud would drift across it, providing a hint of shade, but mostly she just felt warm and content.

  Except her nose. That was really cold.

  Actually, so were her cheeks. She lifted a hand, pressing her fingers against her face, wondering how her skin could be so cold when she was lying in such deliciously warm sunshine.

  Beside her, a man groaned, as if he, too, was loving the feel of the sun, and the island breeze blowing across his skin. The sound was intriguing, and she moved closer. He was hot against her, big and powerful, with sweat-slickened muscles that she traced with her fingertips. She kept her eyes closed, not needing to see his face, somehow sensing she already knew who it was.

  Or, maybe a little afraid she wouldn’t see the face she wanted to see.

  “Mmm,” she moaned as she pressed her cheek against his chest. Languorous heat slid over her; she was lulled by his rhythmic exhalations, and by the sound of his steadily thudding heart.

  Wait. Too scratchy. He should be bare-chested.

  She waited for the dream to change, waited for the feel of slick, male skin against her face. Instead her cheeks just got colder, and the texture against her jaw scratchier. Not smooth, slick skin. Something like…wool?

  Though she desperately wanted to grab the dream and sink into it again, she’d passed the tipping point into consciousness and knew it was no use. The dream was over. She was awake. Her face was cold because she was trapped in a building with no power and no heat. It was scratchy because…because….

  She opened her eyes. Waited to let them adjust to the darkness. Saw a shape. A body. A scratchy sweater on which her cheek had been resting. A neck. A face. Oh. My. God. Ross. Ross?

  She froze, unable to move a muscle as she tried to understand. She’d gone to sleep alone, worried, angry, wondering what would happen tomorrow if nobody came to check the building.

  And had woken up in bed with Ross Marshall.

  It was him, no doubt about it. The guy who’d broken her heart, the one she’d sworn would never get close enough to hurt her again, was sleeping beside her in the fold-out bed! Not just beside her, but practically underneath her. Apparently, in her sleep, she had curled up against him, raising one leg and sliding it over his groin, her arm draped across his flat stomach, her face nestled in the crook of his neck.

  She was practically humping the guy.

  And he was sound asleep.

  Lucy’s first instinct was to leap up and run. Her second, to grab a pillow and beat him over the head with it, demanding to know what the hell he was up to.

  But then her brain took over.

  Because, as far as she could tell, Ross hadn’t been up to anything except sleeping. She’d been the one getting all creepy-crawly, sucking up his warmth while she’d dreamed of exotic beaches and blazing sunshine. Probably not too surprising, considering Ross was still just about the hottest man she had ever laid eyes on. Even in the nearly pitch-black room, it was impossible to miss the sensual fullness of his mouth, the slashing cheekbones, that angular, masculine face. His lashes were sinfully long for a guy, hiding those jewel-green eyes.

  All the coldness she’d been feeling, at least on those parts, which weren’t covered by Ross, dissipated. There was only warmth now. In fact, certain places of her anatomy throbbed with it.

  She was suddenly very aware of the position of her arm across his waist, how it dipped low on his hip. Her leg had slipped so comfortably between his, she was almost afraid to move, lest she wake him. But staying like this was torturous.

  Because it was simply impossible to have her legs wrapped around him, to feel him pressed against her, without remembering the past; all the ways he’d delighted her, pleasured her, thrilled her. The man had taught her things about her body she hadn’t even known were possible.

  While one day ago she would have sworn she was not the least bit susceptible to him anymore, the woman who’d had to get herself off in the bathtub a few hours ago would say otherwise. As would the one who now felt totally at the mercy of her girl parts.

  Her nipples were tight and incredibly sensitive against his chest. The barest movement sent the fabric of her soft sweater sliding across them, and since she’d been in a hurry and hadn’t grabbed a bra, the sensation was definitely noticeable.

  That wasn’t all. Her thighs were quivering, and between them, her sex was damp and swollen. The urge to thrust her hips nearly overwhelmed her, and she had to forcibly remind herself it was not polite to rub up against a sleeping man just to get a little satisfaction.

  Though, to be totally honest, she suspected—no she knew—he could give her a lot of satisfaction.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep steadying breath, willed her body into standby, then tried to extricate herself. Bad enough to have to wake him up and ask him what the hell he was doing here—or explain the silly story about why she was. But to do it when he knew she’d been using him as both a heating blanket and a potential sex toy was more than she could stand right now.

  Holding her breath, she lifted her bent leg, drawing it back off his groin. Slowly, oh, so carefully. But when she shifted a little too low, and her jean-clad thigh brushed against the money-spot on the front of his trousers, she stopped with a gasp. Because those trousers were not flat anymore. Definitely not.

  He was hard, erect, aroused.

  And, she greatly feared, awake.

  He confirmed it by dropping a big hand onto her arm, holding her right where she was—right against him.

  “Stop.”

  “Uh…how long have you been awake?”

  Please don’t say long enough to know I’ve been climbing all over you in your sleep. Though, judging by the ridge in his pants—the big, mouthwatering ridge—that seemed pretty certain.

  “I just woke up a few seconds ago,” he claimed.

  He could have been telling the truth, the gravelly note in his voice hinted at sleep. So maybe his body had just been doing its nocturnal thing. Perhaps the fact that her thighs were spread and practically begging to be parted further didn’t factor into the big erection pressing against the seam of his pants.

  Stop thinking about his pants. And what’s in them.

  Yeah, fat chance of that. Every cell she had was on high alert, and her blood roared through her veins. She might have told herself a thousand times that she never wanted to see Ross again. But being here, in his arms, knowing his body was reacting to her even if his mind didn’t know it, was the most exciting thing she’d experienced in ages.

  There was no sense denying it, at least to herself. She wanted him. Against all reason and all common sense.

  Or maybe not. What if it was reasonable? Maybe it made perfect sense to take this unexpected moment and wring whatever she could from it.

  She and Ross had been a perfect sexual match once. Lucy had spent six years learning that was a pretty rare thing. Other men had given her orgasms…nobody else had made the earth shake. Plus, she was no longer the inexperienced twenty-two year old who confused sex with love. She and Ross didn’t need to love each other to experience pure, undiluted pleasure in each other’s arms.

  At least…as long as he wanted to. His body apparently did, but his mind had to be engaged in the decision-making process. Ross had walked away without a backward glance once before, so maybe this tension she was feeling didn’t mean as much to him as it did to her. If not, she needed to know that before deciding whether to slide onto him and kiss his lips off, or roll over, get out of the bed and demand that he let her out of the building. Facing a blizzard sounded more appealing than admitting she wanted him and finding out he didn’t really feel the same.

  “You could have woken me up when you realized I was here. Why didn’t you?”

  “Maybe because I just wanted to sleep with you one more time,” he admitted.

  Nice.

  Then, with a sigh, he added, “Plus I knew if I woke you up you’d put all those defenses back into place and insist on leaving in the middle of a blizzard.”

  She ignored the comment, since she’d pretty much just decided to do exactly that.

  “So you just crawled in and curled up next to me?”

  “As I recall, you were the one doing the curling,” he said, his tone lazy and amused. Which confirmed he’d been awake a little longer than he’d let on. Hell.

  “So,” he continued, “what’d you forget?”

  “Excuse me?”