He closed his eyes, but the image of her swirled in his brain. Odd that he’d conjured up this particular apparition. She didn’t really fit his standard of beauty. He usually preferred blue-eyed blondes with large breasts and shapely backsides and long, long legs.

This woman was slim, with deep mahogany hair that fell in a riot of curls around her face and shoulders. By his calculations, she might come up to his chin at best. And her features were…odd. Her lips were almost too lush and her cheekbones too high. And her skin was so pale and perfect that he had to wonder if she ever spent a day in the sun.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. A lot of people talk in their sleep.”

Brody sat up. She had an American accent. His fantasy women never had American accents. “What?”

She stared at him from across the cell. “It was mostly just mumbling. And some snoring. And you did mention someone named Nessa.”

“Vanessa,” he murmured, scanning her features again. She wasn’t wearing a bit of makeup, yet she looked as if she’d just stepped out of the pages of one of those fashion magazines Vanessa always had on hand. She had that fresh-scrubbed, innocent, girl-next-door look about her. Natural. Clean. He wondered if she smelled as good as she looked.

Since returning home, there hadn’t been a single woman who’d piqued his interest-until now. Though she could be anywhere between sixteen and thirty, Brody reckoned if she was younger than eighteen, she wouldn’t be sitting in a jail cell. It was probably safe to lust after her.

“You definitely said Nessa,” she insisted. “I remember. I thought it was an odd name.”

“It’s short for Vanessa. She’s a model and that’s what they call her.” Nessa was so famous, she didn’t need a last name, kind of like Madonna or Sting.

“She’s your girlfriend?”

“Yes.” He drew a sharp breath, then cleared his throat. “No. Ex-girlfriend.”

“Sorry,” she said with an apologetic shrug. “I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories.”