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Page 78
"Good morning," came a voice from behind her.
Guiltily Abby slammed the door shut. "I just . . ." She turned. Mike stood there wearing only a towel wrapped about his waist. The long, wavy hair on his head was wet, and she could see the mat of dark, tangled fur on his brawny chest that had been pressed against her cheek the night before. It spread thickly from below his broad shoulders down over sculptured muscles, tapering to a vee at his waist. And below . . . ? The towel hid where her imagination strayed, and she dropped her eyes to the floor in mortification. She had seen bare-chested men now and then, especially in her capacity as a healer, but never before had she entertained such unladylike thoughts.
"I'll get some clothes from the bedroom." There was irony in Mike's voice, as though he read her mind. Though she felt herself flush, she looked up defiantly into his gray eyes. "I thought we'd just have a light breakfast here," he said. ''We'll eat lunch in town."
Lunch? That apparently was his name for dinner, and dinner was what he called supper. "That would be fine," she said. "But . . . may I borrow something to wear?"
"Sure, but I doubt I've anything that'll fit."
He took clothing from the room in which she had slept and changed in the bathroom, then helped her select a similar outfit: one of his long, form-hugging shirts over a pair of blue denim pants that he called jeans, rolled up and tied with

 
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