The lump makes a lurch toward my pillows and I can’thelpit.
Iscream.
Not some small sound of distress, either — one of those massive, awesome, Old Hollywood shrieks, where the camera pans in close and lingers for what seems like an eternity. We’re talking Fay Wray, the first moment she spots King Kong, or Janet Leigh in that infamousPsychoshower scene. As the sound reverberates from my throat, I wonder vaguely why they never let actors get away with showing that much emotionanymore.
“AHHHHHHHHHHH! OH MY GOD!AHHHHHHHHH!”
I’m a certifiable screamqueen.
As the monster in my bed moves ever closer, I somehow find my feet. My spine presses tightly against my bedroom wall as I search for something with which to defend myself. Unfortunately for me, every potential weapon is carefully boxed away. Unless I plan to bean whatever is crawling toward me over the head with my alarm clock, I’m outofluck.
Man, I wouldn’t last a single episode onTheWalkingDead.
I stand my ground, heart slamming against my ribs as the demon creeps closer. My hands fly up to shield my face as it makes a final lurch beneath theblankets…
“AHHH—Oh, you’ve got to bekiddingme.”
My screams of distress die in my throat as I recognize the small, wet nose and shiny red muzzle snuffling its way from beneath my covers. I think I hear a distant slamming sound, but I’m so focused on the small dog who’s just struggled his way to freedom — and the undeniable sensation of relief that I’m not about to die gruesomely — I barelyregisterit.
The puppy’s eyes sweep the room. When he spots me, his mouth falls open in a toothy grin. He starts sprinting my direction at the speed of light, a blur of fur and unrestrained adoration. I can’t help laughing as he slams full frontal into my bare legs with surprising force, for such a little creature. I rock back, offbalance…
Straight into a warm, well-muscledchest.
“AHHHHH!”
Certain I’m about to be slaughtered — for real, this time — I scream again. And, to be totally upfront with you, my throat is starting to ache. Don’t ever let anyone tell you it’s easier to take the coward’s way out; I can now officially confirm that yelling this loudly, thisfrequently, takes a lot more effort than one might originallythink.
Large hands clamp down on my shoulders, rendering me immobile as fresh visions churn through my head. These are more thestab-rape-killvariety than themommy-check-under-my-bedtype I was worried about mere moments ago. My heart is pounding so hard, I’m worried I might actually have a heart attack and die right here on my pathetic air mattress, clad in a lace underwear set I got at the Rigby & Peller semi-annual sale for a serious bargain, my demise witnessed only by the small dog at my front and the cat burglar lurking atmyback.
I might appreciate the symmetry of such an end, if I weren’t experiencing cardiacarrhythmias.
My heart stops beating altogether a few seconds later, when an amused male voice hits my ear, sending shivers down myspine.
“Chill, babe. It’sonlyme.”
Onlyhim.
ONLYHIM?!
I think I would’ve preferred amurderer.
I spin around to face him, hands planted on my hips and a glare fixed onmyface.
“What the hell are youdoinghere?”
Luca’s eyes are intent. “Was about to knock when I heard you screaming your head off. Didn’t think you’d want me to wait around for an invitation, if you were beingattacked.”
“How’d you get in? The door waslocked.”
“Picked the lock,” he says casually, like he’s just revealed his favorite color or described the upcoming week’s weatherpatterns.
My mouth gapes. “Youdidwhat?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy studying my nearly naked body, his eyes roaming across my skin with so much fire in their depths, I think I may succumb to heatstroke.
“Hey!” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Eyes up,bucko.”
Light blue irises lift to mine. The desire in them makes my mouthgodry.