Free In McGillivray's Bed by Anne McAllister

was used to—not if the beaded dress was anything to go by. But that would just encourage her to leave even sooner. In the meantime she could wear something of his.
    He glanced around and realized that all his clean clothes were gone. The dirty ones were still there—in a pile in the corner—but the ones he’d washed last weekend were no longer in the chair.
    â€œHell’s bells.” She’d obviously taken it upon herself to clean them up, too. Probably took them in the bedroom and put them in the dresser drawers like some obsessive neat freak. Which meant he was going to have to go into the bedroom to get something to wear.
    She was asleep on his bed.
    Long, bare limbs silvery in the moonlight slanting through the blinds, Sydney St. John lay on her back, one arm flung out, the other across her middle. A cloud of dark hair framed her face.
    What a face, Hugh thought. The hell with managing director jobs, the woman should be a cover model.
    He ought to know. He had flown enough of them to and from photo shoots all over the islands. He knew cover-model-quality cheekbones when he saw them. He had seen—and kissed—his share of cover-model-quality lips, too.
    Sydney St. John had them both. And even that scattering of freckles he’d seen earlier wouldn’t have deterred photographers. On the contrary, it would have enchanted them, made her look “approachable,” “wholesome,” “all-American.” Hugh knew all the adjectives. He knew they were all true.
    In sleep, he admitted, even her stubborn chin had something to recommend it.
    Then, as he stood watching her, her lips twitched and twisted. She frowned and muttered. Her long legs scissoredand she rolled onto her side, clutching the pillow against her breasts like a shield.
    â€œNo!” she said fiercely. “I won’t!”
    Hugh backed away. No point in eavesdropping. Especially when he didn’t want to hear her distress. He jerked open a drawer. His clothes were all there, folded neatly. Now it was his turn to mutter under his breath.
    â€œNo! I said, no!” Her voice was agitated.
    Hurriedly Hugh pawed through the stack of shirts, grabbed one, got a pair of shorts and boxers out of the drawer below, started to shut them, then pulled out clothes for her, as well. Then, without looking back, he left the room.
    â€œNo!” Her voice followed him. He yanked on his clothes, trying to ignore her. But Hugh had always been a sucker for damsels in distress. He raked a hand through his hair, cracked his knuckles and headed for the door. Belle met him there, cocking her head to look at him worriedly.
    â€œNot our business,” Hugh told her firmly. It wasn’t. And not their problem, either. “C’mon, Belle.”
    From the bedroom he heard, “Stop it! No, I won’t! I won’t!”
    And there was a loud bang.
    â€œOh, God! Now what?” He hurried back to the bedroom expecting to find her on the floor.
    She wasn’t. Instead she’d twisted around and punched the wall so hard there was a crumbling hole in the plaster.
    â€œFor crying out loud.” Hugh crossed the room as she rolled back over. Her eyes opened and she saw him looming next to the bed.
    â€œGet away!” she shouted and took a roundhouse swing that caught him in the eye.
    â€œOw! Bloody hell!”
    â€œOhmigod!” She stared at him, dazed and astonished. Her breaths came in quick gasps as she rubbed her hand vaguely and finally seemed to realize where she was. Then her shoulders slumped, her eyelids shuttered.
    â€œOh,” she said, “it’s you.”
    â€œYeah,” he said dryly. “It’s me.” Carefully, tentatively, he touched his eye. And winced.
    â€œSorry,” she muttered, wincing, too. “I didn’t mean…I was…dreaming.”
    â€œNothing personal, then?” Hugh said lightly, steeling himself against feeling sorry for her,