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Silence descended on the room for a few seconds. Then the sound of the shower drifted to her from beyond the closed door. The thought of McCall in the shower, his tall, toned body naked and wet beneath the heated spray, made D.J. lick her lips against the sudden dryness invading her mouth. |
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"I am losing my mind," she muttered, and forced the image away as she went in search of the guest room. |
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Two doors down, she reached into the room and flipped on the light. "Oh," D.J. breathed and stared in wonder. She had missed this room on her tour of McCall's house earlier in the day. Without knowing how, she had stepped into the past. The room looked to be straight out of an English castle, complete with heavy draperies around the bed and a stone fireplace with wood ready for igniting. Antique rugs covered the floor and a tapestry graced the wall in front of her. |
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D.J. walked around the room, touching the antique lamps, the oak dresser, and the water urn on the nightstand. She sat down on the bed, then fell backwards, sighing in ecstasy at the softness of the overstuffed mattress. The phone, on a small table next to the bed, was the one item out of place in the old-fashioned setting. |
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Sitting up, D.J. grabbed the receiver and made a quick call to the local garage to arrange for the pick up of McCall's ruined motorcycle. Then she phoned in the accident to the station and left a message for Captain Miller to call her in the morning. Hanging up, she sighed. She could do nothing further tonight. Except . . . |
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