by Cindy Gerard
She was going to be sorry, though.
She suspected that for the rest of her life she was going to be sorry that what she'd found in that man's arms had promised so much and meant so little.
* * *
The drizzle continued all day, then finally accelerated to a steady downpour by sundown. Clay had split wood until he'd raised blisters. Then he'd stacked it, restacked it and stacked it again. He'd fiddled with the water line and the pump. He'd messed with the gas-powered generator. In the process, he'd gotten soaked to the skin and managed to upgrade his mood from foul to rotten to black.
By the time he finally gave it up and climbed the steps to the cabin, it was dark. He was cranky. He was tired. And he was hungry.
The first thing he saw when he closed the door behind him only served to sharpen the serrated blade of his temper.
Maddie, looking soft and cuddly and sexy was curled up asleep on the sofa in front of a roaring fire. The sight of her, all misty and mellow and sleep mussed, made him want to howl like a raging beast, because he didn't have the right to join her there. Because he didn't have the right to wake her with a soft kiss on her brow, brush that wild tangle of sand-gold curls away from her face and tell her with his touch how glad he was to see her.
So much for getting his head on straight.
Could you believe it? Twenty-four hours ago he could have cheerfully and without remorse turned his back on that sassy little wildcat and not given two good licks if he ever saw her or heard from her again.
Twenty-four hours ago.
Before he'd almost lost her.
Before he'd made love to her.
Before he'd held her in the night, absorbed her silky heat with his body, felt her stir and stretch and curl into him with a trust reserved for lovers.
Now he didn't know what he felt. Except the anger. He had a darn good handle on that. What he didn't have a handle on was why—even though he'd had the better part of the day to think about it.
She'd been right, of course. She'd reduced what had happened between them to exactly what it was. It was just need. Just biological, chemical need. Just sex. Hadn't he always had a curiosity about what it would be like to make love with her? Well, now that curiosity was satisfied.
Only he still didn't feel satisfied. What he felt was edgy. Among other things. Things he didn't want to think about. Things that had been giving him trouble all day.
He shrugged out of his wet jacket and hung it over the back of a chair to dry, thinking all along that he should have known. He wasn't sure what, but he just knew he should have known something, and it ticked him off even more that he couldn't put a finger on what it was.
It was like he'd forgotten everything he knew about her and their lifelong relationship. Like the fact that, except for last night in bed, the two of them mixed about as well as chili powder and chocolate sauce. Like the fact that they'd been sworn enemies since birth, he reminded himself, building on his arguments as he stalked to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. That, sure as the world, hadn't changed. She'd been a knot in his shoelace, a sliver in his finger, gum in his hair right up to the moment he'd dragged her off that cliff.
But something had changed between them then.
He could have sworn something had changed. If not then, then it had definitely changed last night.
Or so he'd thought.
Well, she'd straightened him out this morning. No regrets. No guilt. That's what she'd said. And no invitation to stick around.
Fine. More than fine. It was just dandy with him. As far as he was concerned, last night had never happened.
Now if he could just convince his body of that fact.
Obviously, that was going to be a tough trick, given the way he responded physically when she stirred and stretched like a sinuous cat, then rose from her little nest and spotted him standing there.
"Oh." The word was more sighed than spoken. "I didn't hear you come in."
He leaned his hips back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "Have a nice nap?" he asked and told himself he was just being civil. He really didn't give a horse's hind end how her nap was. And he wasn't a bit relieved to see the smudges under her eyes had lightened to a soft violet, or that the bruise at her temple appeared to have lost some of its angry color. He didn't care at all.
She shot him a tight, nervous smile. "I must have slept most of the day away. But I did stay awake long enough to make us some beef stew."
"You shouldn't have—" He cut himself off when he realized he was about to say that she shouldn't have stressed herself that way when she needed to rest and recover. "You shouldn't have bothered," he amended. "I could have done fine with a sandwich."
"Well, I couldn't. I was starving. I'll heat some up if you like."
Yeah. Like, that's all he needed.
"I can get it myself," he growled, and hoped the edge in his voice sounded dismissive instead of disappointed.
Because his mother had raised a gentleman, he told himself, he offered to heat some for her, too.
"Only if you let me set the table," she said.
More domestic bliss. How nice. "Whatever."
Her gaze skittered to his, narrowed and wary. But she didn't comment. And neither did he.
They played cat and mouse through the stew. Each eating in a silence broken only by the click of a spoon to a bowl, the rustle of plastic-wrapped crackers, the scrape of a chair on the floor.
"Leave them," he ordered a little too forcefully when she reached for his dirty dishes. There was no way he was going to let her pick up after him. "I'll take care of it."
For whatever reason, she chose not to argue. She rose from the table—but not before she gave him a long, searching look—then, with a soft shrug, walked back to the sofa and the fire.
She was still limping, he noticed with more than a twinge of concern. After rinsing the dishes in the sink, he dug out the first aid kit again.
"I'd better have another look at that knee," he said, as no-nonsense as he could manage.
She eyed him with that soft scowl that told him she was thinking about putting up a fuss. In the end she relented without a word. She did, however, hedge when it became apparent the leg of her jeans was too tight to pull up over her knee.
He let out an impatient breath and told himself he could do this. "It's a little late for decorum, don't you think? Just drop 'em and let's get this over with."
When she still hesitated, he added one more zinger. "It's not like I haven't seen it all before."
For a brief moment her eyes glassed over with moisture. And in that moment he felt an ugly blast of satisfaction for hitting a nerve. In the next he hated himself for his intentional attempt to humiliate her.
Evidently his shot hit its mark.
"Go to hell, James."
Her voice trembled with fury and the threat of tears. But her steps were purposeful and proud as she limped out of the room and up the loft stairs.
He stared at the floor, closed his eyes, uttered an oath under his breath. But he didn't apologize, and he didn't go after her.
He did admit—grudgingly—that he'd lashed out at her because he'd wanted to hurt her. He still wasn't sure why.
Dammit, he hated this. Hated the strained way things were between them. It had been easier—much easier—when they'd gone at each other without gloves, baiting and inciting and inviting fights at every turn. At least then he'd known where he'd stood with her. At least then he'd known the rules. And the rules had never been designed to intentionally hurt each other.
But last night had changed the rules. And nothing, it seemed, would ever be the same between them again.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
"Why did you do it?"
Maddie glanced up from her game of solitaire, startled out of her concentration by the sound of Clay's voice.
She was perched on the edge of the sofa, using a low coffee table of rustic pine for her game bo
ard. It was late afternoon of the third day. The last words they'd exchanged had been last night when she'd suggested that he take a fast trip to someplace a whole lot hotter than Wyoming in September.
To say that the night had been long was like saying the Tetons were just mountains. To say that this day had been strained was like saying the Mississippi was just a river. She saw relief from neither in sight.
All day long she'd made it a point to stay out of Clay's way. He'd made it his mission to see that she did. No mean feat for either of them with the rain confining them to the cabin.
Not that the cabin was small. It wasn't. Jonathan James had built the mountain retreat thirty years ago out of honeyed pine and rough-hewn timbers and beams, with his family in mind. The great room was mostly living area with a kitchen and dining room at one end. There was a small bathroom, the loft bedroom, and a large dormitory-style bedroom toward the rear of the structure. It was sturdy, homey and masculine. Whether looking through the windows or standing on the wrap-around front porch, it afforded a breathtaking view of the mountain range that towered over the valley and the meandering flow of glimmering silk that was Wind River.
The cabin provided everything a mountain retreat was supposed to provide. What it didn't offer was privacy. They were sequestered like jurors in the grips of a long, ugly trial.
And now he'd spoken, interloping on that small island of solitude she'd carved out of silence and a determination to shut everything else out until Garrett came to get them four long days and nights from now.
She looked up, holding loosely in her hand the deck of cards she'd found in a kitchen drawer. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?"
His blue eyes were hard—even from across the room she could see that. He'd been prowling around the cabin most of the day, tinkering with cabinet hinges and loose screws, planning a sticky door. In actuality, he'd been brooding, to her way of thinking.
For a moment he seemed to consider whether it was worth his effort to repeat the question. Finally he rolled his bread shoulders, hooked his thumbs on the front pockets of his jeans and leaned his hips against the windowsill "Why did you do it? Why did you run?"
She went blank for a moment. Would have given him a shrug for an answer if the look in his eyes hadn't been so intent.
Why did she run? She played the queen of hearts on the king of clubs, the six of spades on the seven of diamonds and tried to come up with an honest answer.
When none presented itself, she went back to her game, feigning absorption with the cards. "Isn't it obvious?"
She didn't have to look at his face to know he was still scowling as he shoved away from the window and stalked across the room toward her. "If it was obvious, I wouldn't be asking. Why did you run, Maddie? Was the thought of staying here with me so awful that you'd risk your life to get away?"
When she still didn't respond, he took her silence for stubbornness. Expelling a great puff of air, he laughed without humor. "And they thought things had gotten out of hand when I dumped you in the cement. Just wait until they find out I drove you over the side of a mountain."
She gave a quick shake of her head. "You didn't drive me anywhere."
The look on his face said she'd surprised him by coming to his defense. In truth, she'd surprised herself. At the moment, however, she didn't want to question her words or her motives. "I did a stupid thing. I paid the price. And unless you tell them, they don't need to know about it."
He seemed to consider that before his mouth tightened again.
Silence settled. Tentative, fretful. She used the card game as an excuse to avoid looking into his eyes. She suspected that if she did, she'd see something more than curiosity darkening them. She'd see real concern. Maybe even caring. She'd already convinced herself he was capable of neither. At least, she'd tried to.
Black jack on red queen. Four of clubs on five of hearts. Three of—
A big hand covered hers.
The warmth of his skin stopped more than her brittle, evasive motions. Her heart skidded to a halt, fluttered, then started again with a wild, reckless rhythm. In the dark of night, in the heat of passion, he'd touched her much more intimately, much more sensually, yet every erogenous zone in her body vibrated in response to the callused heat of his hand covering hers. Like his body had covered hers.
Slowly she settled herself down. Slower still, she looked up, met his eyes. There was concern there. And maybe even a little pain.
"Why?" he repeated.
Why. She'd been asking herself the same question ever since she'd realized she'd gotten herself lost up there on the mountain. What she'd done had been beyond stupid. Beyond sane. But the thought of spending a solid week with him, facing him day and night—especially the nights—had thrown her into a panic so profound, intelligence or sanity hadn't stood a chance.
She wasn't going to admit that to him, though. She couldn't confess that she'd been so afraid of giving in to her desire for him that she'd blindly run away rather than sweat it out.
Hopeless. She was hopeless and a coward and foolish to boot. And the best part was that the joke was on her. Everything she'd run away to avoid had still happened. And here she was, struggling with the insane wish that it would happen again.
When she closed her eyes and looked away, he released her hand. Swearing darkly, he dragged his fingers through his hair.
"All right, if you can't answer that, then answer this." His demand was no-nonsense and gruff. "Why do we do this to each other? Why do we bicker and snipe and constantly have to try to get the best of each other?"
Feeling very weary suddenly, she slumped back against the sofa cushions. Her admission, when it finally came, was tinged heavily with frustration, but as honest as a sunrise. "I've been wondering the same thing lately, myself."
He went utterly still, clearly surprised by her reply. Well, so was she. Any other time she'd have gladly, in typical biting form, blasted him with a laundry list of the grievances that set her off.
Since she hadn't, his features softened with the understanding that they were, at least for the moment, of the same mind on this subject. For the moment, even beyond fighting.
Uncertain how to deal with the turn of events, he reverted to one of her tactics. He feigned interest in the cards spread out on the table. "Move your black nine to the red ten," he said after a moment, then did it himself.
Momentarily stalled by his non sequitur, and his nerve, she just stared at him. When she finally recovered, her barb was knee-jerk and to the point. "Have you ever looked up solitaire in the dictionary?
"Solitaire," she began, making a show of grumbling as he sat down beside her on the sofa and she had to scoot over to make room, "means alone."
Unapologetic, he reached to make another play.
She slapped his hand.
The fool winked at her. "Just trying to help."
"So who asked for your help?" she groused, fighting the beginnings of a grin.
Completely taking over now, he neatly shifted a red seven to a black eight. "There's such a thing as double solitaire, you know."
It was the oddest thing. She hadn't actually felt the axis turn. Hadn't really sensed their world shudder and sway then ease back into its orbit. But in the last few minutes it had. As easily as a squabble over a card game, everything that was comfortable and natural and familiar between them had shifted, then settled back into place without fanfare or fuss.
They were bickering again. Like old times. Like they'd never stopped. Only the caustic edge was gone, replaced by something kinder, something gentler that made noises about being almost friendly.
He still didn't have the answers to his questions. Neither did she. For the time being, though, that was just fine. Cushioned by a teasing sort of snipe and parry, they'd settled into a comfort zone that made it easier to stay where they were than to question why it felt so right.
And, as incredible as it seemed, she understood perfectly that Clay had orchestrated the entire thing. His inter
ference with her game had been the equivalent of offering her an olive branch. Granted, it was in the form of a prickly cactus, but it was a peace offering nonetheless.
"I don't think I need you to fill me in on double solitaire," she said, grasping it like a child reaching for ice cream. "I'm familiar with the game. I also know about gin rummy. If you want to make it worth my while, I'd be delighted to beat you at it. Repeatedly."
"Ha. You couldn't give an egg a sound beating. Deal the cards," he ordered, his dark eyes glittering with a challenge and a smile as he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. "And prepare to eat your words. To show you what a sport I am, I'll even get the salt and pepper."
She busied herself gathering the deck and feeling relieved. "I'm beginning to remember why I don't like you, Clayton. You're too cocky for your own good."
"And I remember why I don't like you, Matilda," he said, smiling sweetly. "You're a brat. Always have been. Always will be. And a poor loser to boot."
She split the deck expertly, dovetailed the cards together, then bridged them. "That's because I don't get that much practice at losing."
"Well, see, that's where I come in." His grin overflowed with benevolence. "I can remedy that little character flaw in no time. Deal, hotshot. And prepare to get solidly whupped."
As she dealt, she still wasn't altogether certain how they had managed to come full circle or about the subtle change in their attitudes toward each other. She only knew she didn't have this ugly, achy lump in her throat anymore. At least, it wasn't as intense as it had been. She didn't think she'd ever get over the night she'd spent in his arms, or the hurt she'd felt that it had meant so little to him. But she knew she had to get past it. He was offering her the chance. For once in her life where he was concerned, she accepted it with grace and the wisdom not to question why.
* * *
The fire had burned down to a blue-yellow glow by midnight. Clay was into Maddie for $2.76. She'd kept careful track and had his IOU tucked in her jeans pocket.