“I’ve got to get home to Winston.” She shoved aside the quilt and scrambled off the bed. “He’ll be worried.”
Rafe looked amused. “You think your dog worries when you’re a little late coming home?”
“Okay, so maybe he won’t be worried, exactly.” She spotted her panties on the floor and dove for them. “‘Concerned’ might be a better word.”
“I doubt it.”
“Well, he’ll certainly need to go outside by now.” She stepped into the panties and looked around for her bra. It was nowhere to be found. “He’s been cooped up in that house for hours.”
“Take it easy.” Rafe thrust aside the quilt and got up from the edge of the bed. “I’m sure Winston is fine. He’s probably sound asleep.”
He was right, she thought. This panicky sensation nibbling at her insides had nothing to do with Winston. She was experiencing some sort of bizarre reaction to what had just happened here in this room. What in the world was wrong with her?
“Have you seen my bra?” she asked. She was glad the lights were still off. She could feel the heat in her cheeks.
He paused in the act of fastening his trousers and reached out to turn on the bedside light. He swept the room with a deliberate look. “Nope. Must have left it back there on the stairs.”
She shot him a suspicious glare, almost certain that he was teasing her. She glanced down and saw the toe of her panty hose sticking out from under the bed. Even from here she could see the massive run in the foot of the stocking. With a sigh she shimmied into her dress and groped wildly for the zipper.
“I’ll get it for you.” Rafe’s voice was softer now. He walked across the room to stand behind her. His fingers caught hold of the zipper tab and raised it straight to the base of her neck in a single motion.
“Thank you.” Her voice sounded stiff and prim, even to her own ears.
“Sure. Anytime.”
She did not dare look at him now. Instead she began to hunt for her shoes.
Rafe shrugged into his shirt. He did not bother to button it. Folding his arms, he lounged against the bedpost and watched her frantic search.
“I don’t think your shoes made it upstairs, either,” he offered eventually.
“Good grief.” She straightened quickly, shoved the hair out of her eyes, and bolted for the door.
He followed her at a more leisurely pace. She ignored him, horrified by the sight of bits and pieces of her clothing strewn on the stairs and in the hall. What had come over her? She didn’t do things like this. She must have lost it, big time.
By the time Rafe got downstairs she had retrieved her shoes and her bra and had the door in sight. Clutching her lingerie in one hand, she focused intently on the only thing that mattered at that moment: escape from the scene of her wild, frenzied, totally uncharacteristic passion.
Rafe’s voice stopped her cold just as she was about to twist the knob.
“You want to tell me what’s wrong, Hannah?”
For a second she could not breathe. She looked down at her trembling fingers. “I think I’m having an anxiety attack.”
“Yeah, I can see that. The question is, why?”
His laconic tone chased away some of the panic. Anger rushed in to fill the empty space. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t fed her that incredible key lime pie, if he hadn’t turned on the music, if he hadn’t danced with her in the darkness…
If…
She whirled around, hands behind her on the knob, and glowered at him.
“Panic attacks happen,” she said grimly. “Not my fault.”
He studied her for a long, brooding moment. “Second thoughts already?” he finally asked.
She drew a deep, steadying breath. A semblance of reason returned. She could not blame any of this on him. She was the one who had gone crazy here.Act like a grown-up.
She cleared her throat. Her fingers tightened on the doorknob. “Sorry. I’m not being real cool, am I?”
