In the Midnight Hour Read Free Page B

silence.
    Peace enveloped her, soothing her aching muscles and weary mind. Blackness welcomed her like a long-lost friend, and then she was floating, drifting, sleeping.
    The weight on her chest suddenly lifted, the release of pressure luring her back to the fringes of reality, the hum of the air conditioner, the tick-tock of the clock, the strange uneasiness, not as pronounced as before, that crawled through her. Something wasn’t right. She knew it even before she felt the strange movement.
    Ronnie forced one eye open to see the sheet drift down to puddle around her ankles, exposing her bare legs. Then the edge of her T-shirt lifted, glided upward, baring a pair of silky white panties, several inches of pale skin, her navel, more skin, the underside of her breasts. Her nipples tightened. The material snagged on the stiff peaks.
    Her breath caught, her chest rose, and her nipples strained against the fabric. It was a highly unsettling sensation. Erotic, forbidden.
    Impossible!
    Her other eye opened and she watched in stunned amazement as the material lifted, easing over her nipples, exposing the throbbing, rosy tips. The edge of the shirt bunched as if invisible fingers tugged at the thin covering—
    She clamped her eyes shut.
    The pizza .
    Her mother had always told her junk food would rot her brain—traditionalist families were sticklers for good, wholesome home cooking. That’s what was happening. Her brain was rotting, because this couldn’t—no way in hell, heaven, or the in between—be real! The sheet couldn’t move on its own, nor could her shirt. No way. Uh, uh. Forget it.
    She chanced another peek and shock bolted through her. Her T-shirt was no longer moving at the will of invisible fingers. They were real fingers. Long, lean, tanned fingers attached to a strong hand and muscled forearm dusted with sand-colored hair—
    Impossible .
    She clamped her eyes shut. This couldn’t be happening. There couldn’t be a man in her bed. She’d locked the door and checked the French doors, and there wasn’t any place to hide in her small apartment. Except under the bed, but she’d checked that herself, an old habit she’d developed since moving out on her own. She was completely, totally, indisputably alone.
    Alone .
    After such a lengthy sermon of reassurance, she might have believed her assertion but for one thing. She could feel the pressure just above her left breast where the material tugged higher, higher, the motion caused by the strong male hand she’d glimpsed a moment ago.
    But there couldn’t be a man in her bed. Other than the pressure on her skin, she didn’t feel a presence beside her. Surely the bed would dip beneath his weight? Most certainly she would be able to feel his body heat, the warmth of his legs next to hers, hear his breathing, the thump of his heart. Something .
    “Impossible,” she muttered and the tug on her T-shirt stopped.
    Her eyes flew open to see—
    Nothing. Just the frantic heave of her bare chest, the empty sheets surrounding her, the dark shadows fingering just beyond the reach of lamplight. There was no one in bed with her, and no one had crawled out. She’d opened her eyes too fast for that. There’d been no squeak of bedsprings. No rustling of covers. No telltale indentation next to her. Nothing.
    No one.
    Yet …
    An enticing scent wafted through her nostrils, teased her senses. A rich, musky fragrance tinged with the faint hint of leather and apples that made her want to drink in another deep draft.
    Nah, she decided when she inhaled again and smelled only cheese and tomato sauce. No strange aroma. Just a hallucination warning her of potential brain rot if she didn’t start eating right.
    No more junk food, she vowed, tugging her shirt down and yanking the sheet up. A hallucination. A junk food-induced dream.
    A sort of pleasant dream, she admitted several minutes later, her body still buzzing from the sensation of fabric gliding, hands moving, nipples