Whirlwind - Janet Dailey Page 0,33

missing its door. Bent hinges hung from the frame, as if the door had been ripped loose.

“There’s a dead bug in the toilet,” Lexie said, coming back into the room. “But it looks like everything’s been wiped down. No bloodstains in the shower.”

Catching the joke, Shane gave her a grin. “You don’t have to stay here,” he said. “It’s not too late to go back to the trailer.”

She shook her head, her jaw set at the stubborn angle that Shane was coming to recognize. The woman would stay in this godforsaken dump just to prove how tough she was. “You can go,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Thanks all the same, but I think I’ll stick around,” he said, settling in the armchair. “Things tend to get lively here around midnight. If anything happens, you might be glad to have me here. Now get some rest.”

* * *

Lexie was bone-tired. But as she moved her duffel to a luggage stand and gazed down at the bed, all the warnings she’d read and heard came back to her—like the item about the bedspread being one of the germiest things in a motel room. Aside from being worn and faded, this one didn’t look too bad, but there was no way of knowing when it had last been washed. And what about bedbugs? She could see no sign of them as she pulled back the spread, but her skin crawled at the thought of what could be hiding in that mattress.

She would sleep in her clothes, on top of the sheets, she decided. She could change and shower in the morning, when Shane would be gone. That way, she could avoid the awkwardness of undressing with no privacy.

She brushed her teeth, washed her hands, and splashed her face in the bathroom. When she came out, Shane was standing by the front door. “One last chance to come to your senses and get out of here,” he said. “If we wait much longer, it won’t be safe outside, even with me along.”

For an instant, Lexie was tempted, especially when she imagined sleeping in that luxurious bed. But no, she had her pride. And she had no desire to be beholden to Brock Tolman for the use of his trailer.

“I’ll sleep fine right here,” she said, turning down the dingy polyester blanket and smoothing the top sheet beneath. “You can leave anytime.”

Shane muttered something under his breath and sank back into the chair. Clearly, he was losing patience with her. But it was clear that he wasn’t leaving either.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she kicked off her boots and switched off the bedside lamp. The streetlight outside shone through the closed blinds, giving her a view of Shane, leaning back in the chair with his long legs crossed at the ankles. “Sleep tight,” he said.

With a muttered reply, Lexie stretched out on the bed. The mattress was lumpy, the room was too warm, and the AC sounded like an old-fashioned dentist’s drill. But she was exhausted. Within a few minutes, she had drifted off.

* * *

When Lexie’s deep, even breathing told him she was asleep, Shane eased out of the chair, stretched his cramped body, and visited the bathroom. Walking back, he paused at the foot of the bed where Lexie slept in her clothes. Even in the strip-shadowed light of the streetlamp coming through the blind, there was something innocent, almost childlike, about her. Her eyes were closed, her hair tangled on the pillow. She slept with her arms outflung, her soft lips parted. Her denim shirt had come partway unbuttoned, revealing the pale curve of one breast and the lacy edge of her bra.

He turned away before his thoughts could lead him in the wrong direction. Lexie Champion was one of the most exasperating people he’d ever met. But something about her awakened a spark of tenderness in him. She was so open and vulnerable, so real, that he couldn’t hold back the urge to protect her—even when his protection was the last thing she wanted.

Walking to the window, he raised a blind slat. Nothing seemed amiss in the parking lot—just people returning to their seedy rooms for the night. But he wasn’t going anywhere. There was no way he would leave Lexie unprotected.

Still, as long as things were quiet, it wouldn’t hurt to get a little shut-eye himself. He was a light sleeper. The slightest suspicious sound would rouse him—if he could even manage to doze in that miserable, sagging