Future Perfect Read Free Page B

low and raspy from sleep.
    Juliana pulled her hand away as if she’d been burned. “My name isn’t babe. Or honey,” she said crossly, wondering how on earth she was going to wake this man up. A cold bucket of water in his face would do wonders for her soul, but the antique couch he was sleeping on and the Oriental rug underneath wouldn’t fare quite so well.
    “What else am I supposed to call you?” he said softly, and quite lucidly. “You never told me your first name.”
    He was awake. His blue eyes were open, with more than a touch of amusement in their crystalline depths.
    “I would appreciate it if you didn’t sleep in the public rooms,” she said. Her voice was crisp, businesslike.
    He pulled himself into a sitting position, and she took an involuntary step backwards. Which, of course, he noticed.
    “I don’t bite,” he said, then smiled that lazy, infuriating smile of his. “At least not too hard. What
is
your name?” His movements were stiff as he got to his feet.
    Suddenly the room seemed much too small. Sweet heavens, the man was tall. “Miss Anderson,” Juliana replied. Her soft grey skirt swept behind her as she moved swiftly to the door. “I’ll show you your suite.”
    “You’ve gotta have a first name,” he said, following her out onto the second floor landing. “Everyone’s got a first name. What do your parents call you?”
    She turned to look at him, her face calm, serene. “I do have a first name,” she said, her voice level and emotionless. “But I prefer the guests to call me Miss Anderson.”
    Web felt a flash of annoyance. God almighty, if she didn’t tell him her name, he was going to have to go snooping around that little office he’d seen downstairs. Or spend the next few weeks, not writing as he’d planned, but guessing and imagining her name. Damn, it could be anything. Agnes. Maryanne. Penelope. It could be Jane, for all he knew.
    Miss Mystery Name Anderson stopped before an ornate wooden door, pausing to look back at him before she turned the knob.
    “I’ll give you a key to the room,” she said. “You can keep it locked if you want. Most guests don’t. But mostguests also don’t bring their computers on vacation with them.”
    “I’m not on vacation, Miss Anderson,” Web said. She looked away from him as he stressed the formality of her name a little too much. “I’m here to write.”
    “Yes, that’s right,” she said, opening the door. “Miss Dupree told me that you were a writer.” He followed her into the room, wishing he could get close enough to her again to breathe in her sweet natural perfume.
    What was wrong with him? He wasn’t going to get anywhere with this woman by following her around like a lost puppy. And he
was
going to get somewhere with her, he vowed, even if it took all six weeks of his stay.
    His eyes fell on the huge bed with the heavy, carved wood headboard and footboard.
That
was exactly where he wanted to end up. In that big bed. With her.
    For a moment he could picture her, golden-red curls loose around her face, her body sleek and naked, unfettered by the heavy, restrictive clothing she wore, her lips parted, eager for his kisses. He’d kiss her slowly, drinking her in, taking his time. He’d trail his lips across her face, her neck, her jawline, and he’d pause at her ear, taking the delicate lobe into his mouth. His breath hot against her, he’d whisper her name—Miss Anderson.
    Web laughed out loud, the splendor of his fantasy broken by the sad truth of reality. He really was going to have to find out her first name, he thought, pulling his eyes away from the promise of that big, beautiful bed.
    She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for something, her big greenish eyes watching him carefully.
    “What sort of things do you write, Mr. Donovan?” she said, obviously repeating the question.
    Terrific. Now she thought he was an imbecile.
    “I’m trying to write another
New York Times
best seller,” he said,