She forced herself into a sitting position, cradling her forehead in her palms. They were cool and helped some, but the throbbing eased only slightly. She then realized the pain for what it was—something she had managed to avoid (sometimes barely) for over two years. That occasion had been Nicolette’s bachelorette party—and well worth the resulting consequences. But that had been two years ago . . . What had been the occasion last night?
Easing herself to her feet with an audible groan, she then half-shuffled, half-stumbled to the bathroom. She left the light off, relying on the diffuse reflected light from the bedroom to tell her what she needed to know. She glanced at the toilet: the lid was down. Her stomach, though, seemed willing to play nice, so she left it that way. She ran some water, splashing some of it onto her face. Gasping at the cold contact, she took a deep breath. It did seem to help banish some of the haze from her mind.
With her hands bracing her against the sink, she blinked at her reflection in the mirror. She had looked worse. Lowering her head, she tried to make sense of the flash of images that now danced through her thoughts as she tried to remember.
A guy in a skirt? No . . . a kilt? No . . . Biceps. She focused on that thought for a moment, recalling thick, heavily-muscled arms. And a tank top. No . . . chest armor? And thighs. Superbly sculptured legs that showed the curve of every muscle.
A picture began to form in her mind. He appeared like something out of Gladiator, but better groomed. Had she somehow fallen in with some refuges from a Renaissance Faire? That hardly seemed her type, even if, for some reason, they did tend to gravitate toward her. But this guy had been a hunk. He was also some kind of executive or business owner, if she remembered correctly. Hardly the usual uber-geek type who either shared an apartment with three roommates or still lived with his parents.
She remembered now. They’d gone to the D, eschewing the crowds and college-level behavior at the seasonal chalet, for one of the bars on the upper level. He had ordered . . . Guinness, while she had downed two (?!) cranberry martinis in fairly short order. He had propositioned her . . . for a possible executive-level position with his company. All she could remember wanting was to find herself in a position where she could find out whether other parts of his anatomy were was as well-muscled as his arms and thighs.
There were other snippets of conversation that she could not recall clearly, but she was fairly certain that she had divulged nothing of importance about her position or any information that was not public knowledge about the activities of her employers. After that, things got a bit more vague.
Cautiously, she lightly patted at her bra and panties, discovering (with some small disappointment) that neither seemed to have been tampered with. Wow, she thought. A hunk and a gentleman.
At that point, her stomach decided that it was finally time to voice its protests against the excesses of the previous evening. Allison dropped to her knees, managing to fling open the lid of the toilet just in time, and had a renewed acquaintance with her lunch and martinis from the night before.
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