“Sure, baby. Just hold on.” He rose with her, a feat that even in her impaired state made her heart flutter.

“And one more thing.” Her head dropped limply against his shoulder, and when she moaned he had panicked visions of finding a basin to shove under her face before she was sick.

“Okay, don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. It’ll be fine.”

“All right.” Warm and soft and trusting, she curled into him, then blinked against sudden hard light. “What? What?” Her head cocked curiously. “Why are we in the bathroom?”

“It’s the handiest place to be sick. Go ahead and toss up that wine, sugar, you’ll feel better.”

“I’m not going to toss up perfectly good champagne.” She wrapped her arms tighter when he tried to set her down. “I’m not going to be sick.” Then she flopped back, dead weight, like a woman in a faint and laughed until it echoed off the walls. “Oh, that’s so sweet. You were going to hold my head while I vomited. God, Michael.” She raised up again, kissed him sloppily. “You’re the cutest thing. Just so cute and sweet I could eat you right up. My hero.”

Embarrassed, he narrowed his eyes. “Maybe I’ll just stick your head in the toilet anyway. If you’re not going to lose the champagne and chocolate, what do you want?”

“I told you to carry me to bed. I would think it would be obvious.” Smiling, she traced a finger down his chest. “I want you to want me again. If it wouldn’t be an imposition.”

He glanced down at her, warm, rosy, naked female. His female. “I guess I could manage that.”

“Good, and do you think you could, well . . .” She leaned over and whispered something in his ear that made his blood take a quick trip to his loins.

“That’s pretty inappropriate behavior, but . . .” He made a beeline for the bed. “Under the circumstances . . .”

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Experiencing a first hangover, Laura discovered, wasn’t nearly as much fun as experiencing a first drunk. Instead of having a head filled with light and color and gloriously rambling ideas, she had one crammed with noise—along the lines of a poorly directed high school band, with the percussion section banging away gleefully at her left temple.

Her system didn’t feel free and floaty, but clogged, the way her mouth seemed clogged with enough dirt to make half a dozen mud pies.

She was grateful that Michael had left her alone rather than witness the humiliation.

She wouldn’t think about the fact that she’d spent the night in his bed and now would have to stagger into the house, where her family and the staff would shoot her questioning looks.