by C. B. Clark
She wiped the rain from her face, and her blood chilled.
A wide, winding path of crushed oyster shells led to a huge ranch-style house. Set on a grassy hump that overlooked the bay, the graceful lines of the cedar-and-stone cottage with large, gleaming windows fit the rugged landscape like a hand in a glove. A covered deck wrapped around the front of the house flanked by wide, stone steps at either end. A white garden swing sat on the deck, rocking in the wind.
“This is Angus Crawford’s cottage.” Panic thickened her voice as a blast of memories of the last time she’d been there struck.
“We need shelter from the storm. This is the closest building.” He wiped the rain streaming into his eyes with his sleeve.
“But—”
“I didn’t think you’d want to go back to your old house. Was I wrong?”
She shivered and shook her head. Her stomach heaved at the thought of those cold, empty rooms.
He tugged her hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of this storm.”
She pulled back, refusing to budge.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Russ’s shirt was plastered to his chest. Rainwater dripped off his dark hair.
Shivers wracked her body.
Whitecaps crested on the choppy water visible through the trees, and large booming breakers crashed onto the rocky shore as if reclaiming the land. Rain poured down, and the wind howled with increasing fury.
Her heart sank. The waves would capsize the small rubber dinghy, so unless they swam to the Minerva, they were stuck on the island. If they stayed out in the raging storm they’d freeze.
“Come on. Let’s get inside.” Russ tugged on her arm, urging her forward.
“I…I…” She bit hard on her bottom lip. What was she afraid of? She wasn’t a frightened twelve-year-old child, and he wasn’t Angus Crawford.
The warm light of compassion shone in his hazel eyes, turning them liquid gold. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here, Athena, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
His words washed over her like a soothing balm, and the fight drained out of her. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” How could she explain her long-held terror of his adoptive father? A frigid blast of air whipped her sodden hair about her face, and icy water dripped down the back of her neck. Her teeth chattered, and shivers wracked her bones. “We’d better get out of this rain.”
“Attagirl.” Clasping her hand, he helped her across the lawn and up the steps to the covered porch. He reached above the doorframe to a narrow ledge and removed a key. Unlocking the carved wooden door, he turned the handle and opened the door.
She clutched his arm, stopping him. “How did you know where the key was?”
“What?” His brow furrowed.
“I thought the last time you were on the island was years ago. How did you know the key was above the door?”
A sheepish look crossed his handsome face. “I was here a few weeks ago.”
“What? You came to the island?”
“After I learned the details of Angus’s will, I wanted to check out the island and see what I’d inherited. I hadn’t seen the place in years. The lawyer told me where the key to the cottage was hidden. I spent the weekend exploring the island, but I didn’t have time to check out the northern part where your old house is.” He ran his palm over his hair, slicking the dark, wet curls back from his forehead. “Now, do you have any more questions, or can we go inside and get out of the rain?”
She released her grip on his arm.
He stepped into the house. “Come on.”
Inhaling several deep breaths, she inched closer to the open door. She could do this. The mantra ran through her head in an endless refrain. She could do this. Sucking in a deep breath, she limped through the door and into the house.
The door slammed closed behind her, and she jumped.
“Easy. It’s just the wind.” He prowled around the large room, opening the heavy drapes, letting in the dim light of the dreary day.
Shivering, she wrapped her arms across her chest. Rainwater dripped from her clothes and puddled at her feet onto the gleaming oak floor. The sweet scents of lemon furniture polish and dried roses permeated the air. Antique tables, their glossy surfaces gleaming, a plush oversized leather couch, and two matching reclining chairs filled the expansive room.
A river-stone fireplace, fronted by a gleaming brass screen, dominated one wall. The spacious hearth was filled with a pile of neatly stacked kindling. A bundle of split firewood, encased in a stylish canvas bin, was set beside the fireplace. Watercolor paintings featuring vibrant seascapes covered the cream-colored walls.
Russ rubbed his hands together as if trying to warm them. “When Angus passed away, I asked the lawyer to keep the caretaker on. It didn’t seem right to let the place fall apart.”
“The caretaker must look after my old house too.”
“We’ll have to ask him. I’m sure he’ll come by when he sees we’re here.” He shivered. “I’d better get a fire going before we freeze to death. Why don’t you check the bedrooms and see if you can find some dry clothes?” He removed an antique enamel tin from the mantel and tugged a long wooden matchstick free. Crouching before the stack of kindling, he struck the match against the stone hearth and ignited the wood. Flames flickered, promising warmth. He rubbed his hands together in front of the fire. “There’s a generator in a shed out back. I’ll see if I can start it, and you’ll be able to have a hot shower.”
In spite of her bone-deep chill and her sodden clothing, she stayed where she was. Angus Crawford’s larger-than-life presence was everywhere, from the original artwork lining the walls to the expensive antique furnishings. The thought of searching the cottage for dry clothing made her stomach heave. A bout of shivering released her from her paralysis. Angus was dead. Freezing to death because she was afraid of a ghost was ridiculous. She limped down the dark hall.
The first door she opened revealed a spacious room filled with a massive, king-size bed covered by a thick burgundy bedspread and matching pillow shams. A hint of cigar smoke and men’s spicy cologne scented the air. Several pieces of heavy, dark mahogany furniture shone in the pale light glimmering through the sheer drapes covering the floor-to-ceiling window.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Angus Crawford’s bedroom.
Who else but the owner of the cottage would have such a large master suite? She backed out of the room as if poison filled the air and slammed the door. Leaning against the cold wood surface, she struggled to steady her breathing. In spite of the chill of her soaked clothing, perspiration beaded her forehead.
Shaking off the paralyzing fear, she inched along the wide hallway to the next closed door. She clasped the doorknob and opened the door. The room was dark, with not even a hint of light. Edging into the room, she felt along the wall for a light switch. She breathed a sigh of relief when the overhead light flickered on, dispelling the shadows. Russ must have started the generator. If she found some dry clothes, she could locate the bathroom and have a shower. The thought of hot water cascading over her chilled body lent her the courage to step into the room.
A queen-size bed covered with a thick navy quilt and four overstuffed pillows was set beneath a large window. Heavy brown drapes covered the window, shutting out any outside light. A golden pine dresser and matching armoire filled the small room. Unlike the first bedroom she’d stepped into, this room had an impersonal feel and was most likely intended for guests. She grimaced. She couldn’t imagine dour-faced Angus Crawford entertaining visitors.
Crossing to the dresser, she slid open a drawer. Folded cotton T-shirts and sweaters filled the drawer. She chose a navy-blue, long-sleeved shirt and held it up. The shirt was a man’s large, but the fabric was soft and dry and better than her wet shirt.
The second drawer contained a collection of casual pants. She pulled out a pair of gray sweatpants and prayed the clothes hadn’t belonged to Angus Crawford. The image of that elegant
ly dressed man wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt was ludicrous. He must have kept the clothes in the spare bedroom for guests.
Borrowed clothes in hand, she searched for the bathroom. Like the rest of the cottage, the bathroom was luxurious and contained a jetted bathtub large enough for four people, and a tiled walk-in shower they could all rinse off in after their soak in the tub.
Struggling out of her wet clothing, she wrung her leggings and T-shirt out over the sink and hung them on a towel rack to dry. She twisted on the taps, and in seconds, the room filled with billowing clouds of steam.
Grabbing a bottle of body wash from the glass shelf over the sink, she stepped into the spacious shower and under the warm spray. The hot water streamed over her chilled skin, easing the stiffness in her sore knee. She squirted a handful of soap into her palm, and the soothing scent of lavender filled the stall. She closed her eyes, shut down her mind, and relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived on the island.
The water was cooling when she turned off the tap and stepped out of the shower. Shivering in the chilly room, she grabbed a thick, white cotton towel from a pile on a shelf and dried her body. She tugged the T-shirt over her head and pulled on the sweatpants. The waist gaped, and the fleece pants dragged on the floor and bagged around the legs. The T-shirt hung past her knees. She looked like a child playing dress up in her father’s clothes. But they were warm, and that’s what mattered.
She wiped the fogged mirror with a corner of the towel and studied her reflection. Her towel-dried auburn hair stood out in wild spikes from her pale face. Shadows were etched beneath her eyes, and an angry-looking scratch from a too-close encounter with a blackberry bramble marred her right cheek. Good thing she didn’t care what sort of impression she made. Yeah, good thing she wasn’t attracted to Russ.
Liar!
She ignored the snarky inner voice and smoothed the palm of her hand over her hair and pinched her cheeks to add color to her face. Clutching the loose waistband, she opened the bathroom door. Scented steam billowed into the hall as she retraced her steps to the living room.
Chapter 19
The large room had undergone a transformation in her absence. Warm pools of golden light from two antique brass table lamps glowed, and a cheerful fire crackled in the fireplace. A ceramic mug with steam rising from it was set on an end table beside a brown leather recliner. Russ was nowhere in sight.
Settling on the recliner, she curled her legs under her and lifted the steaming cup. The drink smelled yummy—sweet with a hint of cinnamon and velvety rich chocolate. Tiny white marshmallows melted on the surface. She smiled, remembering the countless times her mother had made her hot chocolate sprinkled with a handful of marshmallows as an extra treat.
She blew on the hot liquid and sipped. The cocoa slid down her throat like silk. Tendrils of warmth trickled through her body. She drank again, and a bone-deep lethargy settled over her, and she slumped back on the butter-soft leather and closed her eyes.
“How’s the hot chocolate?”
Her eyelids popped open, and her heart skipped a beat.
Russ stood with his back to the fire. His hair was damp, and the dark curls gleamed like ebony under the room’s soft lighting. Unlike her, he hadn’t had any trouble finding clothes that fit him. His faded blue jeans outlined the powerful muscles of his thighs, and the white, short-sleeved T-shirt clung to his chest, revealing his firm pecs and flat stomach.
The moisture in her mouth evaporated. She fumbled for her cup and gulped the dregs. “The drink’s delicious. Thank you. What did you put in the cocoa?”
He grinned. “Something my grandmother used to add to my hot chocolate.” His smile widened, and his dimple made an appearance. “It’s a family secret.”
She sucked in a breath. “You didn’t put any alcohol in the drink, did you?”
“No, why? Is that a problem?”
Is that a problem? Yes. No question. “I…I don’t drink.” She cleared her throat. “I mean…er…I don’t drink alcohol.” She swallowed. “I…I have a drinking problem.” The second the words left her mouth she wanted to snatch them back. The confession hung in the air like a specter, her deepest, darkest secret out in the open. Only Aunt Clara, her boss at work, and the anonymous strangers at her AA meetings were aware of the depth of her struggles. And now she’d told him, a man she hardly knew. A man she wasn’t sure she could trust.
He nodded. “Okay.”
Okay? That was it? That was his response? She’d bared her soul, and all he had to say was okay? “It’s not like I—” She stopped. He didn’t want to hear all the sordid details of how her recreational drinking after work and binge drinking on weekends had slowly developed into a dependence on alcohol, one that ruled her life for the past three years. No one wanted to listen to her air her dirty laundry.
The silence between them lengthened. The fire crackled and popped, rain pelted the windows, sounding like tiny nails scratching the glass, the wind gusted, and the house creaked.
He cleared his throat. “I see you found something to wear.” His gaze raked her from head to toe, and the corners of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting a smile.
She set the empty mug on the table and adjusted the cuffs of her sweatpants where she’d rolled up the legs so they wouldn’t drag on the floor. “They’re a little big.”
He chuckled, his hazel eyes twinkling. “A little?” He swaggered closer and tugged on the baggy gray pants where they dwarfed her slim legs. “Two of you could fit in those pants.”
To her surprise, she found herself returning his smile. Their gazes met. Her smile faded, and the air between them sizzled. Her breathing quickened.
His irises deepened to the color of warm molasses. His pupils dilated and reflected the flames of the fire.
The lights flickered, faded to dark, and then flared back on, breaking the spell.
He jerked his gaze away. “Let’s hope the generator lasts. It doesn’t look like the storm’s going to let up any time soon.” His voice was a rough husk. “We’re going to have to spend the night.”
“We’re staying here tonight?” She fiddled with the soft cotton of her shirt.
His dark eyebrows arched. “Is that a problem?”
She was spending another night alone with him? Just the two of them? She swallowed. Lord help her. He was too damn attractive, and she didn’t trust herself. When he smiled at her with those golden eyes, her brain shut down, and her usual restraint and common sense melted away. Look what happened on the beach. One kiss, and she’d made a fool of herself. “We…I…I can’t stay here.”
“Why not? The generator’s running, and we have lots of diesel, so we’ll have lights and warmth. I found some food in the pantry, so as long as you’ll eat canned stew or chicken noodle soup, we won’t starve. And there are plenty of bedrooms. We won’t have to share, unless…” His eyebrows arched, his meaning clear.
The heat searing her face ramped up to a four-alarm blaze. He was teasing, trying to ease her discomfort, but he was way off base. She wasn’t worried about her maidenly virtue, No. That wasn’t the reason for her nervousness. She wanted to spend the night with him. That was the problem.
“What’s wrong then?” He jerked his thumb at the dark, rain-spattered window. “The gale’s dangerous. You must remember what these spring storms on the coast are like.”
As if proving his point, a loud, ear-splitting crack resounded through the window, followed by a thudding boom that shook the house as a tree gave up its battle in the face of the fierce wind and crashed to the ground.
She shuddered. He was right. With the storm raging, they wouldn’t be safe outside. The house was warm and cozy. Only a fool would attempt to leave. She was stuck in Angus Crawford’s cottage with Angus’s all-too-attractive son. Lord help her. “Okay.” Her lips were stiff and wooden as she forced out the single word.
“How about I make us another cup of cocoa? And then we’ll see about scraping together some dinner.” Without wa
iting for her reply, he grabbed her empty cup and headed out of the room.
The room felt empty and devoid of energy after he left. She stared into the dancing flames. Staying the night was a mistake. She’d known him two days—a short forty-eight hours—but already she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Every nerve in her body tingled with an almost visceral awareness when he was near, and all she could think of was kissing him.
But she couldn’t go there. Not again. She’d made one mistake; she wouldn’t repeat it. No more kissing Russ, no more falling into his arms, no more lusting after him. That foolishness was done. He seemed like a decent man, but she’d been left a fortune and the business he wanted, while he got a small rocky island in the middle of nowhere. That disparity had to rankle.
The lawyer had told her Russ was contesting the will. Was seducing her his way of convincing her to hand over Angus’s estate without the hassle and expense of going to court? If so, he didn’t have to bother. She’d followed him to the marina with the sole purpose of informing him she didn’t want Angus’s estate. The money, the business, everything was his. But instead of leaping at her generous offer, he’d taken her sailing. She threaded her fingers through her damp hair. His reaction didn’t make sense. Unless he had an ulterior motive.
His footsteps sounded in the hall, and she sat up, preparing to ask some hard questions. She was a lawyer. A damn good one. She knew how to grill a witness.
Chapter 20
He strode into the room and almost stumbled under the power of her luminous sea-blue eyes. The firelight played over the soft planes of her heart-shaped face and burnished her red-gold hair. His hands shook, and a dollop of hot liquid slopped out of one of the cups and splashed on the floor. Oh man! He sucked in a steadying breath.
“Russ?”
He discarded his fantasy of taking her in his arms and kissing her senseless and managed to stumble the last few steps to her chair without making a complete fool of himself. “Careful, it’s hot.” Her fingers skimmed his when he handed her a cup, and his skin burned at her touch.