pamela burford

"Pamela Burford just keeps getting better and better . . . In the Dark is one of the funniest, most delightful category novels I've read in a month of Sundays . . . a whirlwind of fun, sensuality, poignancy and page-turning appeal."


"Humor and romance under one cover! A delicious treat from Pamela Burford!"



"A captivating tale readers will love! FANTASTIC! FIVE BELLS!!!"



"The characters linger in memory long after the last page has been turned . . . This one's a keeper!"

A feathery sensation running up and down Cat’s arm coaxed her to wakefulness. After a while it stopped and she felt fingers on her brow, stroking her hair.

She opened her eyes—and came fully awake with a start. A big hand settled on her shoulder, heavy and reassuring. The room was pitch-dark, except for the faintest glimmer of moonlight from the wide-open windows. The candle must have burned out while she’d slept.

She could barely see the man sitting next to her on the bed, but her other senses compensated. She detected the warmth radiating from his large body. The subtle, agreeable scent of fresh sweat on clean skin brought to mind all those stairs he must have climbed. A hint of tobacco smoke clung to his clothes.

“I figured you’d want me to wake you.” His voice was a low, rich murmur. “You must’ve dozed off waiting for me.”

She nodded, and realizing he couldn’t see her any better than she could see him, said, “Yeah, I . . . I guess I did.”

Even though she’d expected him, now that he was actually there, the enormity of what she was about to do became a great weight, paralyzing her.

“Traffic is an unholy mess, with no streetlights and the party animals out in force,” Greg said. “I couldn’t stand inching along, so I ditched the taxi and walked the last few blocks.”

He probably wasn’t even aware he was rubbing her upper arm as he spoke. It was the intimate caress of a friend, not a stranger. Well, this wasn’t the first time they’d met, after all. There was that other time, twenty years ago. Cat felt herself relax fractionally—a small miracle considering the nature of this rendezvous and the fact that she was wearing the most brazenly sexual getup Brigit Bannister had been able to find. And Brigit knew where to look.

For the first time, Cat was thankful for the blackout.

“I’m sorry you had to walk up all those stairs,” she said.

Cat sensed he was smiling. She had the distinct impression this man spent a lot of time Doing that.

“Not your fault,” he said. “Unless you’re somehow responsible for the blackout?”

She felt herself returning his smile. “Well, I was running the air conditioner.”

“That had to be what did it.” He chuckled, the sound somehow bold and impish at once. Cat knew that if there was a shortage of women in Alaska, it was because they were all flocking to this man.

Tentatively she reached out to touch his face, and encountered his jaw, rough with beard stubble.

“You’re trembling!” he said, closing his warm fingers over her own icy ones.

Well, what did he expect—nerves of steel? Greg pressed a tender kiss to the backs of her fingers, then to the tips. She was unprepared for the feel of his mouth, like sun-warmed satin.

The scanty moonlight hinted at bold masculine features and short, dark hair that was a bit unruly on top, as if the waves refused to be tamed. Twenty years ago Greg had worn his hair fairly long, enhancing his boyish good looks. This shorter cut no doubt complemented the rugged maturity the past two decades had carved into his face.

Sensing his eyes on her, she speculated that perhaps Greg possessed better night vision than she. The mattress dipped as his weight shifted. She felt his inquisitive touch on her face, a whisper of sensation tickling her eyelashes. He traced her nose, her mouth, the shape of her chin. His fingers moved to her throat, and lower, skimming over her breasts without the slightest hesitation. Cat held her breath, knowing Greg felt the frantic drumming of her heart and wishing she could be as blasé as he. Far from sharing her agitation, he seemed sublimely at ease.

“This is some outfit,” he said, toying with the crisscrossed lacing.

She cleared her throat. “I was hoping you’d like it.”

“I like it. Wish I could see it.” His hand glided down her rib cage to her hip and thigh, treating the rest of her to the same unhurried inspection. The feverish imprint of his fingers seemed to linger everywhere he touched.

Mustering her courage, Cat sat up and moved over, making room for him to stretch out on the bed. She offered a quavery smile, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Don’t feel that you have to spend a lot of time on conversation or, um—” she swallowed hard “—foreplay. We can just, you know, get down to it. If you want.”

For the longest time Greg said nothing. She searched his shadowed features, in vain. Finally he said, “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

His words stuck her like a fist to the gut. “What? You . . . you don’t want to . . . ?”

“I’m just not into it. Don’t take it personally.”

Humiliation scalded her face and stung her eyes. He’d changed his mind. He’d come all this way, climbed all those stairs, for one purpose only. And now, now that he’d gotten to inspect the woman he was supposed to make a baby with . . .

“But it’s . . . it’s all arranged.” Her voice climbed a couple of octaves. I mean, if we’re not going to have sex, then what am I doing here?” she tugged at the bodice of her negligee in an inane effort to cover herself.

“We both know this wasn’t my idea.” His tone was not unkind, which somehow made it all the harder to bear.

“Yes, well, I’m so sorry to disappoint you. Excuse me.” She started to rise, but he stopped her.

“Hold on. Is that what you think? That I don’t find you desirable?”

“Don’t worry,” she snapped. “I won’t take it personally.” she tried to spring off the bed, but he caught both her arms. She turned her head, unable to face him even in the dark.

“Just so we understand one another,” he said, “it’s not you. It’s the circumstances.” She didn’t respond, and it soon became clear he wouldn’t release her until she did.

At last she said, “The circumstances?”

“I’m accustomed to being the . . . initiator, I guess you’d say. This sort of thing just goes against my grain. Trust me.” Slowly he trailed one knuckle down her throat and along her freshly minted cleavage. “I find you very desirable.”

He simple caress stoke Cat’s breath. She felt her nipples tighten against the silk mesh covering them. Her body’s response shamed her. If Greg truly thought she was so damn desirable, he’d do what he’d come here to do, what he’d promised to do, bizarre “circumstances” notwithstanding. Brigit had described her cousin as the most laid-back guy she knew. He’d said nothing on the phone to indicate he had a problem with the circumstances.

She supposed she should be grateful. At least he wasn’t sleeping with her out of pity!

Cat pushed his hands away. “Look, thanks for the gallant effort, but you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I know I’m nothing special.”

“Gallant, huh? Never been accused of that one before.” Without warning he grabbed her hand and brought it to his crotch. Reflexively she tried to pull away, but he held her palm firmly against the distended fly of his jeans.

His erection felt enormous under her hand, as rigid as a wooden club. His fingers wrapped around hers, forcing her to measure the length and breadth of his arousal. For a moment she was too stunned to move, to breathe. Even her heartbeat seemed to falter.

Greg leaned into her, his voice a husky murmur in her ear. “Just so we understand one another.” He placed a soft kiss on her temple. “It’s not you.”

Shaken, Cat pulled her hand away, and this time he let her.

Okay. It definitely wasn’t her.

As that knowledge sank in, she began to experience the same intoxicating sensation she’d felt earlier posing in front of the mirror, comparing herself to the temptress Delilah. The power of her feminine appeal.

This man desired her. His body craved her. It was his mind that was putting up roadblocks. She supposed in his own way he was as uncomfortable with this whole situation was she was. He needed to be made to feel like the—what did he call it? The initiator.

What would Delilah do?