Barenaked Jane. Deanna Lee
Also by Deanna Lee:
Undressing Mercy
Barenaked Jane
DEANNA LEE
KENSINGTON BOOKS
For Erica and Annette whose patience, amazing wit, support, and friendship got me through more than one day while writing this book.
In memory of Rita K. Musgrave who blessed me with a great friend and the world with three beautiful children before her passing. May we all be so lucky in love and in life.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
1
Life doesn’t play fair. In fact, it cheats, lies, and steals its way through a person without a single thought to the consequences of its actions. Since I know this, I really shouldn’t have been surprised to find myself in my situation. Flat on my back, beneath a strange man.
Since he probably outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds, struggling would’ve been a waste of energy. How many minutes had passed since I’d heard something outside my office and had gone to investigate? I should’ve stayed hidden after I’d called the police. Instead, I’d stalked out of my office, determined to give the intruder a piece of my mind and maybe kick his ass in the process. I’m really not a stupid woman, honest.
The man had fended me off effortlessly and tossed me on the floor as if I weighed nothing. Every minute of my training at the police academy in Georgia and hours of kickboxing lessons had proved useless in a matter of seconds. The man, whomever he was, hadn’t hurt me more than it was necessary to subdue me, and he was putting off an air of shocked frustration.
He was built well, firm muscle and sleek warm body pressed all over me. It had been, for a few seconds, sort of exciting. Then, since I’m normal, panic set in. Being underneath a man was one of the most vulnerable situations a woman could be in. I was exposed to all manner of physical insults. As yet, he’d done nothing but hold me down and growl with frustration.
“If you promise not to hit me, I believe that we can both get up without causing each other further harm.” His voice was soft in my ear. I thought for a second that his lips had brushed against my earlobe.
I took a deep breath and turned my head abruptly away from the sound of his voice. The pitch-black room offered me not a single advantage. I glanced toward the flashlight he’d had; it lay a few feet from us pointed, of course, in the opposite direction.
“I’m going to punch you in the face as hard as I can.” And I was. My fingers balled into a tight fist just thinking about it.
“Lady, you’re trying my patience.” He lifted his head away from mine and sighed.
Trying his patience? He was holding me down on the floor and I was the one being aggravating? “The last man that spent this much time on top of me was at least trying to make me happy.” I bucked upward against him and hissed in frustration.
The man stilled completely and then to my utter amazement started to laugh. “Jane?”
His use of my name shocked me into being still for a few long seconds. Who the hell was he and why did he feel comfortable enough in his knowledge of me to use my first name? “Get the hell off of me.” I jerked at my hands and tried to push him off me. It was like trying to move a wall.
“Promise not to hit me,” he demanded, his voice soft with amusement now.
“Like hell I will. You break into my workplace, sneak around like a thief, and then hold me down on the floor…and you honestly expect me not to hit you?” I was going to hit him and enjoy it.
“I’m not sneaking around like a thief. If I’d been sneaking around you wouldn’t have known I was here,” he responded, his voice tinged with disappointment and something that sounded a little like embarrassment.
“But you did break in.” Why the hell was I arguing with a thief? “How dare you break in here! This gallery is a nonprofit organization and all of its proceeds go to the Holman Foundation. I can’t believe anyone would be so low as to steal from a charity.” Jerking against him again, I gasped and winced when my hip protested. A sharp pain dug through my hip, down the thigh muscle all the way to the knee. “You’re hurting me.”
“No, you’re hurting yourself,” he snapped. “And for the record, I’ve never stolen a single thing in my life.”
“Not one thing?” I didn’t believe him for a second. Everyone has stolen something.
“Never.”
“Office supplies from work?”
“No.”
“Candy when you were five?”
“No.”
No one beats me at this game. “A pen from a bank?”
“I…bloody hell, woman. Pens from banks don’t count.”
“Did you pay for it?”
“No.”
“Was there a sign that said ‘Please take our pens you thief’?”
“No,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“Then don’t tell anyone that horrible lie again. You have stolen something,” I responded, smug.
“I am not a criminal.”
“You broke into this building,” I reminded, aware that I was probably very close to pushing him too far.
“Yes. It’s my job.” He lifted off me and pulled me roughly into a sitting position. “You’re Jane Tilwell. You have brown hair with blonde highlights that is cut way too short for a woman, blue eyes, and you’re the assistant director of this gallery.”
“Too short?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You don’t like the highlights?” I frowned. My hair stylist had caught me in a weak moment.
“I liked your natural color better.”
“Well, who the hell cares what you think?” I jerked at one hand and was surprised when I broke free. I slapped him across the face and would’ve done it again if he hadn’t grabbed my arm. “Let me go.”
He pulled me forward abruptly to keep me still and demanded, “Don’t you want to know who I am?”
“No. I want you to get your ass off me.” I used my arms to shove at his chest, but it did no good. “Get off me.”
“We wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t attacked me.”
“I was defending myself.” Well, not true. I had attacked him, but I was defending the gallery, and that meant a lot to me even if it had been a stupid thing to do.
“You were risking your life over a thing.” He jerked at my arms a little as if to shake me. “A thing. A few scribbles on a piece of canvas that only have meaning because rich snobs think they do. My five-year-old cousin could’ve painted that crap for all anyone knows. You’re just lucky