Marlie tried to keep her gaze on the flying pillow, or on Caid’s exuberant face. She really did.

But she really couldn’t.

From sheer self-preservation, she reached behind her and threw the other pillow at him, hitting him right in the midsection. Fortunately, it was a large pillow.

“Don’t you have any clothes?” she asked.

“Clothes?”

Comprehension dawned. “Oh. Clothes.”

He clutched the pillow to him strategically, trying to look nonchalant as only a man with red ears can. “Well, don’t just sit there. Close your eyes.”

Marlie obligingly closed her eyes, opening them as soon as she heard the wardrobe door open, the better to admire Caid’s rock-hard little rear as he took his jeans off a hanger. As soon as he stepped into his pants and turned around, she snapped them shut again.

“You don’t fool me, Cutes. You were peeking.”

“Was not.” Well, not actually peeking. Her eyes had been wide open.

“So, like what you saw?”

She tried her best to look righteously indignant. “I didn’t see a thing.”

“Huh.”

Once Caid left for the bathroom, Marlie hopped out of bed to get her pillows, then jumped back in again and leaned against them. She didn’t want to get up just yet.

For one thing, the two of them milling around the room in states of semidress was just a little intimate for her peace of mind. It was far easier to deal with this cowboy’s disembodied spirit than it was his materialized substance. And what a substance!

But Caid was definitely on his way to somewhere and once he left the room, she’d get up herself. In the meantime, she’d savor the mental image of the tightest tush she’d seen in a long time.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Caid’s hair was damp and curled the least bit, and Marlie took a couple of seconds to get a good look at his face, the rest of his anatomy being already etched in her mind.

It was a good face, she thought, angles and planes in all the right places, a nose just a trifle large and definitely arrogant, eyes the color of pine needles.

One eye, however, had a dilly of a shiner, with its bruise taking up half of Caid’s smooth cheek below and reaching into his hairline above. On the same side, his forehead bore a big knot topped with an ugly-looking gash.

He sat down in a nearby chair to pull on his boots. “Damn, I hate dirty socks,” he muttered. “Do you have any idea where my bag is?”

“Ann took it when she gave me the room.”

He sighed. “I’ll get it later. And I need my kit. It’s hell shaving with a pink razor.”

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