Sacred (Forbidden Flowers Book 4)

by Donya Lynne

  He set the small bottle of rubbing alcohol on the counter. “So . . . can you?”

  “Can I what?”

  “Tell me what day it is?”

  “Oh! Uh, yes. Friday.” She nodded perfunctorily. “It’s Friday.” She glanced behind her at the steaming pot on the stove as her stomach growled again. Damn that chili smelled good.

  “How old are you?”

  “Isn’t it impolite to ask?”

  He grinned out one side of his mouth as he pressed the cotton square to her forehead.

  “Ow!” The abrasion felt more like a one-inch gash.

  “Sit still,” he said, dabbing her forehead. When he took the soaked cotton away, it was dotted with her blood.

  “I thought you said it was just an abrasion.” She reached up to touch her injury.

  He quickly grabbed her hand before she could contaminate what he’d just disinfected. “It is. It’s only bleeding a little.” He tore open the Band-Aid. “Now, can you tell me your age or not?”

  “Would it matter if I could?” she replied. “I mean, you wouldn’t know if I was telling the truth or not.”

  “True, but indulge me.”

  “Thirty-two.” Then she recited her birth date and said, “And we’re in New York, I drive a Fiat hybrid, and the name of my friend who just got married is Natalie.” She glanced at her feet. “And, obviously, I love Jimmy Choos.”

  “Obviously.” He smeared some ointment on the Band-Aid.

  “I also own a pair of Chanel boots I absolutely adore and live in an apartment in Soho that has a gorgeous view of the skyline,” she added. “Are you happy now, Dr. Bunyan?”

  “Dr. Bunyan?” he asked, lifting the bandage to her forehead.

  “Paul Bunyan?” she answered, as if it should have been obvious.

  “Cute,” he said, giving her a look. “Now, hold still.” He carefully placed the Band-Aid over her “abrasion,” then smoothed the tips of his fingers over it to make sure the sticky bits were securely adhered to her skin. “There, you’re all good.” He started gathering the discarded packaging from the counter.

  “So, what’s your name?” she asked.

  The permanent scowl set in his brow deepened, but he didn’t answer.

  “You know,” she added, “so I don’t have to keep calling you Paul Bunyan?”

  The bandage wrapper crinkled in his fist as he rounded the island to toss the trash into a wastebasket under the sink.

  “How about you just call me Paul. I like that name better than my own anyway.”

  “But—”

  “Paul’s fine,” he said pointedly, switching off the burner.

  She reared back. Was he intentionally trying to hide his identity? Or was the need to disown his real name another symptom of whatever had driven him to build a mansion in the middle of nowhere?

  He hesitated at her startled reaction, then sighed and bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “Are you some kind of criminal or something?”

  He met her gaze with unwavering sincerity. “No.” His voice was sure and strong.

  “Then are you a celebrity?”

  The skin around his eyes pinched, and he looked away. “No.”

  Maybe not, but based on his reaction, she was getting closer.

  “So why all the secrecy?” she asked.

  He started packing up the first aid kit. “Let’s just say that I’ve gone to great lengths to protect my privacy by moving out here.”

  “Why?”

  He remained silent as if he was considering whether to answer.

  “Come on, you have to give me something,” she said. “You can’t just rescue me from a storm, bandage me up, and then not give me some idea who my life is in the hands of.”

  He sighed and looked away. After a brief silence, he glanced back in her direction. “My family is well known. You might have heard my name before.”

  So, he wasn’t a criminal or a celebrity, but he had a familiar name. At least he’d given her that much.

  “And you’re worried I’ll recognize it?” she asked.

  “Something like that.”

  She took a closer look at him. Had she seen him anywhere? Had he been in the news? Surely, if she’d seen his face before she would have remembered. Paul was strikingly handsome. If she had seen his picture on the news, it would have caught her attention.

  “And you’re afraid that when I return to the city I’ll rush to the media—or your family”—she remembered how paranoid he’d been thinking his father or brother had sent her—“and tell them where you are?”

  “My family knows where I am.”

  “But you’re still worried that if I know your real name, I could cause trouble for you?”

  His gray eyes flicked to hers, then back down at the kit. “Maybe.” He folded the perforated square packets of antiseptic wipes and set them inside the kit. “It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened.”

  Even more interesting.

  He shrugged. “Besides, I kinda like the name Paul. It’s simple.”

  She watched him finish arranging the boxes of Band-Aids, cotton swabs, and antibacterial ointment before snapping the first aid kit shut.

  Did it really matter what she called him? She believed that he wasn’t a criminal. He’d been nothing but helpful and nice to her, albeit a bit grumpy. What could it hurt to call him Paul?

  “Okay then,” she said. “If you want me to call you Paul, I’ll call you Paul.”

  He slid the kit to the side, offering her an apologetic but grateful smile. “Thank you.”

  Could those dimples be any more enticing?

  “No,” she replied. “Thank you for rescuing me.” She gently poked the bandage on her forehead. “And for patching me up.”

  “It was the least I could do for a damsel in distress.” He held her gaze for a long moment, then winked and reached around for his coat. “Even if her footwear is completely inappropriate for the surroundings.”

  Was that humor? Was the paranoid and cranky Paul Bunyan trying to be funny?

  “Hey, my footwear would have been just fine had I not gotten lost.”

  He shrugged into his coat and zipped it up, tossing her a cockeyed grin. “But you did get lost. And Jimmy Choos are not snowshoes. You need to be prepared out here.”

  “I’ll remember that the next time I don’t anticipate getting lost.”

  “Always be prepared for anything.” He pulled his skullcap on and then began tugging on his gloves.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to get your things before the snow completely covers your car.”

  She hopped off the barstool. “Wait, no. I can’t stay here. I need to get home.”

  He stopped at the door, his good humor shifting into a stern, warning glance that stabbed a forceful punctuation mark on whatever he was about to say. “You’re not going anywhere in this weather. Now, take off those damn shoes”—he chucked his chin toward her feet—“grab a bowl of chili, and warm yourself up by the fire.” He secured his hood over his head and opened the door. “Bowls are in the cabinet to the left of the stove, crackers are in the pantry, and there’s beer in the refrigerator. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Mouth gaping, she stared after him as he left the cabin, letting a swirl of freezing wind and snow blow in before he slammed the door behind him.

  Had she just been dressed down by Paul Bunyan?

  Damn shoes, indeed. He was one to talk. Look at this place, filled with marble, granite, sleek hardwood floors, modern art, and all the stylish comfort and glamorous amenities of a mansion in Westchester County. His living room could have been a snapshot out of the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

  Her Jimmy Choos fit right in here. It was the house that was out of place. It belonged in the wealthy suburbs, not in the middle of nowhere.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten a real meal in hours.

 
; What did she know about her savior? He was cranky, obviously wealthy, had lost his wife, and cherished his privacy. She grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and peered into the steaming pot of chili on the stove. And he was apparently a fabulous chef.

  If she was going to have to stay here for the night, at least she would be well fed.

  Chapter Four

  Journey was halfway through the most delicious bowl of chili she’d ever eaten, with her bare feet propped up in front of the fireplace, when Paul returned to the cabin.

  She heard him stomp his boots outside the door to knock off the snow, then the door flew open, blasting the room with cold air. He kicked it closed behind him as he dropped her suitcase onto the hardwood floor. The unmistakable sound of broken glass rattled inside.

  Oh no.

  “I have no idea what you had packed in there,” he said, “but given the smell, I’d say it was champagne . . . and it didn’t survive.”

  She quickly hopped up, setting her bowl of chili on the end table, and rushed forward. Natalie had given everyone in the wedding party a bottle of champagne, and she’d stuffed hers in her suitcase.

  “Whoa!” he said, holding up his hand in warning when he saw her bare feet. “Careful. There’s broken glass.”

  “My clothes,” she said, not caring about her stupid feet as she flopped the case on its side and unzipped it.

  “I think most of the liquid drained out as I carried it up to the house,” he said, taking off his coat. “It’s a good bet that whatever’s in there is going to smell like a New Year’s Eve party for a few months.”

  “Funny,” she said, pulling out her soaked pajama top and holding it up in front of her like wet laundry. When she dropped it back in her suitcase, it sounded like a wet mop hitting the floor. “What am I going to wear?”

  Paul frowned and started for the kitchen. “Let me get a trash bag so we can at least get rid of all the glass.”

  The glass? Who cared about the glass? She had no clothes to wear except the ones she had on. No pajamas to sleep in or dry underwear to change into. And she certainly hadn’t packed enough clothes for an extended stay in Casa de Stranded. Who knew how long it would take to get her roadside assistance service out here to tow her car out of that ditch, forcing her to stay holed up with this man? This very sexy, very stacked, very robust man. With an attractive man like Paul Bunyan providing room and board until she could liberate her car from his driveway, the last thing she wanted was to grow pungent.

  He returned from the kitchen with the wastebasket and proceeded to help her carefully pick chunks of glass from her clothes.

  When it looked like they’d gotten it all, he took the pajama top she’d held up a moment ago and gently shook it over the top flap of her suitcase. A few small pieces of glass fell onto the nylon. “Let’s shake everything out to make sure we got it all.”

  Piece by piece, they went through her clothes, shaking and sprinkling splinters of glass everywhere. Could she even wear these clothes again? How could she be sure she wouldn’t still be finding bits of glass in her clothes a month from now?

  When he picked up a pair of her white cotton panties, heat blazed into her cheeks. She swiped them from him so quickly that she didn’t see the shard of glass hidden in the cotton until it was lodged in her finger.

  “Ow!” She dropped her panties and held up her lame hand, the tiny sliver of glass poking out like a porcupine quill.

  “Shit.” Paul jumped to his feet.

  “It’s okay, I’m fine.”

  Talk about putting on a brave face. It hurt like hell, the splinter of glass deeply embedded.

  Paul helped her up and carefully guided her around her suitcase to avoid any other bits of glass that might have fallen on the floor, then led her back to the barstool where he’d doctored up her forehead. “Sit.” He pulled the first aid kit back in front of him.

  Good thing he hadn’t put it away yet.

  “I swear, I’m not usually this accident prone.” She held her finger up in the air.

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t had my first aid skills tested this much since—” He briefly froze, his jaw clenching as he choked down whatever words he’d been about to say.

  When he didn’t speak or move for several seconds, she assumed this had something to do with his late wife.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  He quickly glanced at her, those incredible gray eyes striking hers like metal on flint. Then he frowned uncomfortably and finished unpacking the kit again.

  “My wife was a bit prone to accidents.” He kept his gaze cast downward, away from hers. “She was always tripping over something, hitting her head, knocking something over, spilling something on the front of her shirt. Of course, she only did that when she was wearing white.” A fond smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he shrugged. “We always joked that she shouldn’t buy anything white, because it was a sure bet she would spill spaghetti sauce or a glass of red wine on it the first time she wore it.”

  Journey smiled at his memory of a woman he had clearly loved with all his heart. “I’m the same way.”

  He cast her a sideways glance, his brow quizzical. “Really?”

  With her good hand, she held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor. You will find no white shirts in my closet. I stopped buying them years ago.”

  He chuckled and turned his attention back to retrieving everything from the first aid kit that he’d used less than thirty minutes ago. “Sarah refused to do that. She loved wearing white. But I swear every white T-shirt, blouse, or dress she owned ended up getting at least one stain on it that absolutely would not come out in the wash.”

  This time when he laughed, she laughed with him.

  “When was she killed?” The question tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop herself from asking it. She quickly added, “I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to talk about—”

  “Almost five years ago.” He finally looked her in the eye. “She was your age when it happened.”

  How heartbreaking. His wife had had so much life to live, and he’d obviously counted on many more years with her, or the energy around him wouldn’t have felt so sad.

  He stared at her for a long beat, then blinked and dropped his gaze to her hand as he carefully lifted it with callused fingers for a closer look. “Okay, let’s see if we can mend you up again.”

  The half-inch long piece of glass stuck out from the tip of her index finger. A tiny bead of blood pooled at the base.

  “Like I said, I’m not usually so clumsy or unlucky or whatever is happening to me today.” She hated that she’d reminded him of his dead wife.

  “Then I must have caught you on a good day.”

  She huffed out a short laugh. “Or a bad one.” She winced as he gently pulled the shard free and lightly squeezed her fingertip. A larger bead of blood formed at the site of the puncture.

  “Just flushing out the wound,” he said, squeezing a little harder before taking the cotton square soaked with alcohol off the counter and pressing it to her fingertip as he wrapped the fingers of his free hand around her palm.

  He had large, strong hands, and the calluses on the pads of his fingers and along the upper ridge of his palm rubbed roughly against hers. Not that she minded. The mildly scratchy contact sent tingles up her arms.

  He made a contemplative noise.

  “What?” she asked.

  He shifted his hold and rubbed his thumb over the base of her palm. “Are your hands always this warm?”

  She glanced to where his fingers cradled the back of her hand. She’d been so caught up in dealing with the evening’s events—getting lost, running off the road, hitting her head, and now stabbing herself with a blade of glass—that she hadn’t noticed how hot and tingly her hands had become.

  “Reiki hands,” she said without thinking, lifting the other palm up so both were side by side.

  His thick, dark eyebrows popped upward. “Come again?”

  She laug
hed, pulling her hand from his. “I’m a Reiki practitioner. I have what’s called Reiki hands.” The term was common in the Reiki community, but not so much in the world at large, so she wasn’t surprised he was looking at her like she’d just spoken a foreign language.

  “Reiki?” he said, setting the cotton square aside so he could grab the Band-Aid he had already slathered with ointment. “Is that like laying on of hands or something?”

  Journey couldn’t hide her surprise. Most of the time when she told someone she was a Reiki practitioner, they had no idea what she was talking about. But Paul obviously had some experience with Reiki, even if his assessment was slightly off base.

  “I prefer to say I use my hands to heal a person’s energy.”

  His gaze dubiously slid to hers. “How is that different?”

  “Laying on of hands implies more of a religious practice.” She watched him carefully wrap another of those waterproof Band-Aids around the tip of her finger. “You know, where a priest or minister or whatever places their hands on someone’s head and proclaims them healed.” She mimicked the action, placing both hands on an imaginary head. “You are healed!” She pronounced it hee-ulllled, shoving her hands away from her the way she’d seen religious healers do on television. Very dramatic.

  He stood to the side trying not to smile at her comically theatrical portrayal. “So, that’s not what you do.”

  “No.” She inspected her freshly bandaged finger, then dropped her hands to her lap as he began putting his first aid kit back together again. “I place my hands on or just above certain places on a person’s body and channel healing energy into them. If a client is having migraines, I focus the energy around their head. If they’re experiencing nausea, I’ll focus on their stomach. If they sprained their ankle, I’ll—”

  “Focus on their ankle,” he finished for her, closing the first aid kit.

  “That’s right.”

  “Sounds a little like hocus-pocus to me.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’ve never had a Reiki treatment.”