She hoped drowsily that it had nothing to do with the wildly erotic dreams which had assailed her during the night. God knows what part of my subconscious they were dredged up from, she thought, half amused, half guilty, as she stretched languidly, and opened her eyes—to find it wasn't the autumn sun flooding between her own familiar curtains that gave that golden glow. Not her room, she thought, dry-mouthed, her body freezing into swift rigidity. And, oh God, not her bed either. Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, she turned her head. Eliot had pushed the covers away during the night, and Natalie had an uninterrupted view of his tanned shoulders, and the long, naked length of his back. Every atom of air in her body seemed to be compressed into one stifled gasp of horrified disbelief. No dream, she realised, as a burning blush of shame consumed her whole body. It had been all too real. She'd let Eliot Lang pour champagne down her as if it was going out of fashion, and then she—she'd...
