Kiss and Tell

by Cherry Adair

  She stopped talking, but she wasn't quiet.

  Jake became excruciatingly aware of her, there, right behind him. The small grunts and groans as she placed each foot carefully on the slick ground reverberated in his gut. He wanted to turn around and tell her to shut the hell up.

  She sounded as though she was having sex.

  Good sex.

  Slow sex.

  Everything-about-the-body-involved sex.

  He didn't want to think about sex. He didn't want to think about her. And he sure as hell didn't want to think about sex and her at the same time.

  But here she was. He was the only game in town at the moment. He didn't have a choice, did he? No, he didn't. Jake trudged on.

  Belligerent. Resentful. Horny.

  He gritted his teeth as she made a sweet moaning sound behind him as she stumbled. "How many brothers do you have?" he asked grimly. He'd rather hear her babble than listen to those damn sighs and moans. He had some serious questions to ask, but he wanted to see her eyes when she answered.

  "I thought you wanted me to be quiet."

  "I changed my mind. How many?"

  "Four."

  "And you used to come up here every summer to vacation with your grandmother?" He had to practically shout. The wind blew straight into his mouth, freezing his teeth. Which annoyed the hell out of him.

  "Yes."

  The golden cone from her flashlight screwed up his night vision. First she talked too much. Now the woman was a clam. Go figure. To hell with it, he didn't want to hear her life story anyway.

  Under the tree canopy it was still the anticipatory gray before dawn. The air smelled of wet leaves, overlaid by the sharp tang of pine and the musty scent of wet dog. And it was cold.

  The rain was going to turn to snow any minute. The trail wasn't particularly steep, but in this kind of weather and with such poor visibility, it was dangerous. Mud, wet pine needles, and decaying leaves made footing unstable. He leaned against the insistent push of the wind, his muscles pulling against the back draft. It howled through the trees, whipping the hem of his thick jacket about his thighs and slashing his hair across his face. He forged on grimly.

  Behind him Jake heard a splash. A small, impatient moan. A sigh.

  It took everything in him not to stop, pick her up, and carry her the rest of the way up to the cabin before she started bitching and moaning. But he wasn't going to touch her. She and her lovesick dog had disrupted his peace and quiet. He couldn't leave her down there in a cabin of toothpicks, but by the same token, he didn't have to make her feel welcome, either.

  He didn't know who or what she was, and until he did, he didn't intend trusting her farther than he could spit.

  She started humming under her breath—something perky and totally inappropriate to the occasion, which Jake thought warranted a dirge. The woman was irritating as hell.

  "What are their names?" he asked desperately.

  "Michael—"

  "Can't hear you," he yelled. Let her work for it. Maybe she'd be hoarse by the time they reached the cabin.

  "Michael," she shouted, "Kyle, Derek, and Kane."

  Rain continued coming down in torrents. Hot on his heels, she came abreast, and slipped on the muddy runoff. Jake grabbed her arm before she went down.

  "Thanks," she panted, her breath a white drift as she paused to center herself. Through the sleeve of her jacket he felt her muscles quiver with her fight against the elements. He let go but kept one large hand open and inches from her back in case she needed steadying.

  Thank God she didn't, and he didn't have to touch her again.

  The second her boots found purchase she was off. He dropped his arm and overtook her, then positioned himself as a windbreak. Oh yeah, he was the original immovable object.

  She kept pace surprisingly well. He wasn't slowing to accommodate her shorter legs. Obviously she didn't want to have to shout.

  "They're a little overprotective. Okay, a lot overprotective," she chatted as they climbed.

  Lord, did she ever run out of juice?

  "But I'm the only girl, so I guess it was automatic for them to spoil me. Although it gets old after a while, you know?" She huffed and puffed but kept pace with his long strides.

  The woman had two speeds; on, at sixty miles per hour, and off.

  "I've been able to keep up with them for years." She laughed, and the sound grabbed a seldom-used part of his chest. Oh, man.

  "The boys are big on bets. Always daring each other to do some crazy thing or other. I wouldn't let them exclude me, so I—"

  "Ever been married?" Jake interrupted, desperate for a break from the chirpy familial story. Besides, she didn't need to tell him she'd been spoiled rotten.

  That was why cute, delicate blondes had been put on the earth. To be pampered and spoiled and doted on by thickheaded males.

  Been there, done that. Got the scar to prove it.

  He ruthlessly dredged up the memory of another "chance" meeting, another sweet-faced, helplessly appealing blonde—and felt better for it. Nothing like a quick refresher course to remind a man of his priorities.

  Jake quickened his pace, feeling the pull of his muscles and dragging in a large breath of chilly air. The tree canopy sheltered them from the continuing torrent, and the wide trunks deflected some of the wind. She kept up, close enough for him to smell. Cute, delicate. Delicious. Off-limits.

  "Nope. Never married. But engaged a couple of times."

  "Can't commit?"

  "Apparently not."

  Don't ask, he instructed himself. "Why the hell not?"

  She breathed through her mouth a couple of gut-wrenching times. "Maybe I'm picky."

  "Then you should have thought of that before you got those schmucks to fork over big bucks for engagement rings, shouldn't you?"

  "I gave them back." She was starting to breathe hard from the climb, but it wasn't slowing her down any. "And it wasn't like I broke their hearts or anything. They weren't in love with me."

  "Why'd they ask you to marry them, then?" Besides wanting to get her into the closest bed to hear those little noises she made. Between crisp sheets, instead of climbing up a mountain in the frigging rain. He didn't want to know any of this. He shouldn't have asked. He should have let her take her chances on the bridge.

  She sighed. "My family has a bit of money."

  Jake glanced down. It was hard to see in this light, but he discerned enough to know that whatever the light, whatever the circumstances, the last thing a man would think about when he looked at her was money.

  He snorted.

  "Okay, a lot of money."

  "Does your family own a liquor store?" he asked dryly.

  "A liquor store? No, why?"

  "Just an old joke." The one about the rich blonde and the liquor store required her to be mute.

  "Look, we're almost there. Conserve your energy." And give me a few moments of silence.

  She managed not to talk for a while, and he managed to block out the infernal noises she made. Jake slowed as she trailed him past the felled tree near his cabin, the one she'd sat on yesterday. The slate-colored light was now tinged with a pale yellow as dawn struggled through the thick clouds overhead. The rain had slacked off slightly.

  The dog danced around them, then raced to the front door and sat there, tongue lolling, tail thumping the wooden planks of the porch.

  The beam of Miss-Engaged-a-Couple-of-Times's flashlight wavered on the ground as Jake stepped up onto the narrow porch and opened the door. He glanced down at her.

  She looked like a drowned kitten as she lifted her eyes to his and pushed dripping strands of hair off her face. "What?"

  "After you." Jake indicated the battered front door.

  "Oh, yeah, thanks."

  She pushed it open, standing so close he could smell her evening fire on her skin. And a subtle, soft female fragrance he didn't want to notice. With her blond hair, dark with rain, molded against her skull, he could see the tips
of her small pink ears through the wet strands. The green of her jacket was black with moisture, her jeans were soaked, and she was shivering.

  He prepared for her litany of complaints once they got inside. So far she hadn't bitched once, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to.

  "Nice security system you have." She glanced around as she stepped inside. "No lock?"

  "Anyone who comes up here and needs to use the cabin would break in. This way I get to keep my front door." If it looked like a cabin and smelled like a cabin…

  "Be it ever so crumble, there's no place like home?"

  He stepped around her and struck a match, lighting an old-fashioned hurricane lamp on the dusty table behind the couch. Duchess dashed behind the counter separating kitchen from living area, making herself right at home. Her nails clicked on the bare pine floor. Marnie saw her ears swivel as she nosed a cupboard in the kitchen.

  "Well, apparently she knows where the food is." Marnie slid the straps of her backpack off her shoulders but hung on to it while debating whether to remove her soaked jacket. The cottage was frigid. She gave a massive shudder as she glanced around.

  "This is… nice."

  The large single room was almost bare, just the essentials, and none too clean. A large, grimy, maybe-green tweed couch, a few sooty hurricane lamps, an empty fireplace, and a couple of scarred, banged-up tables. Roller shades, no drapes. No carpet. No pictures. A few leaves and pine needles. A lot of spiderwebs, dust, and mud.

  In the far corner a swaybacked single bed pushed up against the wood-paneled wall was spread with an old army blanket and a pillow with no slip. Just looking at the place made her itch.

  She sneezed, clutching her wet backpack to her chest. "I appreciate your coming to get me," she said politely. He hadn't done it graciously, but he had done it. It wasn't the Hilton. But it was shelter.

  She wasn't a crier, but a good weep might relieve some of this pressure she felt right now. It had been an emotional month, culminating in a hellish night. She hadn't shed a tear since Grammy had died. The loss had been too great, the sadness too deep. But now she felt the pressure of those gallons of tears like a tightening tourniquet in her chest.

  "If you could spare a couple of towels so I can dry off, I'd be happy to borrow the couch and get a couple of hours' sleep. As soon as it stops raining I'll be out of your hair."

  He narrowed his eyes. "You should take a hot shower first. I'll find you something dry to put on and then we'll talk."

  "A shower? Oh, yes. God, I'd kiss your feet for a hot shower."

  His boot heels snapped across the floor toward the bed. The doors of the closet almost ripped off in his massive hand as he yanked them open. "I don't want you kissing anything," he mumbled under his breath. Doors slammed.

  He marched back to her side. "Here." He shoved an armful of threadbare, musty-smelling towels into her arms.

  Ookay. "Thanks."

  "I'll turn the shower on. Takes a while for the water to heat." He yanked off his own wet jacket, revealing a black T-shirt stretched over an impressive chest, and tossed the coat onto the counter. Pulling open another door at the back of the room, he disappeared inside. The door slammed behind him.

  "Nice boyfriend you have there, girl," she told Duchess. Marnie threw the towels and pack on the couch, removed her own waterlogged jacket, and laid it beside his. She heard water running, then a muffled male oath.

  Marnie bit back a grin. "What a guy. He's showering first and using up all that nasty cold water. Hey." she rubbed Duchess's ears. "Maybe your prince isn't a frog after all. Whadyaknow? "

  Taking off her shoes, she examined her wet, muddy socks, then stripped them off and set everything outside the bathroom door to clean after she'd showered. Barefoot and shivering, she inspected the stone fireplace. Wood? "Check."

  Spiders? "Ugh. Check."

  Newspaper? "Check."

  Matches? "Check."

  "Flue open? Check." With a steady blaze in the grate to start warming up the room, her thoughts turned to food. Lots of it.

  Marnie walked around the end of the counter and reached over her dog, who lay with her nose to the crack of what Marnie presumed was the pantry door.

  "You have to move, Your Majesty. I can't open the… Thank you." She opened the narrow doors. "Bingo."

  Four feet wide and only about eight inches deep, it had ceiling-to-floor shelves and was fully stocked with canned goods—about a hundred cans of chicken noodle soup and what looked like two hundred cans of chili. "Bet he likes chicken noodle and chili, huh?" Marnie said dryly.

  The shower turned off.

  Her bare toes curled against the dusty pine floor.

  He was naked in there.

  Oh, my God. She was alone in a mountain cabin, miles from anywhere, with a naked stranger.

  She wasn't sure she was ready for quite this much adventure. "And I don't even know his name," she finished aloud as he stepped into the room wearing dry jeans and a black sweatshirt, his long hair slicked back. Steam surrounded him like the smoke from Dante's furnace. Her heart did a double thump. He'd shaved. He was gorgeous.

  Apparently it wasn't necessary for her to be ready.

  "Jake Dolan." He glanced down at the cans she held. "Calisthenics or weapons?"

  "Breakfast." She hefted the cans. "You seem to be out of bacon and eggs."

  "You're turning an interesting shade of blue." He lifted a massive hand. "Here. I'll take care of the food."

  Marnie tossed the cans. He caught both in one hand.

  "Water's hot. Clothes on the sink."

  "Terrific, thanks."

  She walked into the bathroom and was about to close the door when she remembered she'd forgotten the towels and turned back—just in time to see her host rummaging through her backpack.

  In three strides Marnie was at his side. He gave her a mild look as she snatched the canvas bag out of his hands.

  "Excuse me," she said with exaggerated politeness, "but I believe this is mine."

  "Ownership wasn't in dispute. Just who the owner is."

  "You must run in very strange circles," Marnie told him, clutching the bag to her chest like a Victorian maiden. "Once I'm introduced to someone, I usually tend to believe they are who they say they are. What were you looking for? Picture ID?"

  "Driver's license or social security card."

  "Since I don't have either in here, you'll just have to take my word for it that I am who I say I am."

  "I never take anyone's word about anything," he told her flatly, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.

  What a strange guy. "That must get old in a hurry. You need a better quality of friends."

  He had no comment to that one.

  "If you shiver any harder, you're going to break in half. Go shower." He jerked his chin toward the open bathroom door.

  She stared wide-eyed at his clean-shaven neck a second too long before bolting.

  Someone had tried to cut Jake Dolan's throat.

  And done a lousy job of it.

  The bathroom was steamy, hot, and smelled of pine soap. Marnie leaned against the door, eyes closed, the backpack dangling from her limp fingers.

  Oh, my God.

  The thin white scar on his throat loomed to gigantic proportions in her mind's eye. If the light hadn't caught the shiny sliver of a curved line at the base of his throat just so, she probably wouldn't have seen it. But now she had.

  She slid to the floor, sick to her stomach, and buried her face on her knees. Who would do such a thing? Why? How dare they?

  The race of indignation and fury she felt on his behalf shocked her. Marnie snorted back a laugh of mockery. If someone had gotten that close to Jake Dolan and Jake was alive to show off the scar, then the other guy was probably stone dead.

  "Hey! You alive in there?"

  She got to her feet. "I'm taking a while to defrost."

  "Turn on the water and lock the door," he told her irritably.

  It bugged her that sh
e had to be reminded. She snicked the old-fashioned key in the lock. Cranking on the shower, she stripped quickly, then stepped into the narrow, rust-stained metal stall. She groaned as the hot water hit her cold skin. Heaven.

  Adrenaline leaked out of her as she leaned her head against the cool wall. The water poured over her head and shoulders, taking away the outer chill but leaving her still with a gaping hole of loss inside. She stayed as she was, eyes tightly closed, as the events of the last few hours replayed in her mind.

  Marnie pressed her fist against her mouth. She'd wanted more time in Grammy's cottage. More time to feel close to her grandmother before she was forced to acknowledge that she was gone forever.

  Tears fought for release in her throat, and her chest ached with the desperate need to cry. She wanted to cry, needed to cry, but her eyes remained stubbornly dry and the pressure in her chest expanded painfully. She wanted to lay her head in Grammy's lap, as she had done so many times in her life. She yearned unbearably to feel her grandmother's gentle hand stroking her hair. The pain was like a physical entity. A black hole of sorrow too deep to traverse alone.

  Yet here she was, really on her own for the first time in her life. Marnie lifted her head and rubbed the hollow ache behind her breastbone. Alone and doing a crummy job of it so far.

  The water had gone from hot to warm, and she hurriedly washed and shampooed. There was no comfort to be found in the small shower stall.

  By the time she got out, she was warm all the way through to her bones. And she remembered she'd again forgotten to bring in the towels. Darn.

  She grimaced and looked around. Should she call out to him? Let in cold air? Have him see her naked?

  The idea was dangerously appealing.

  Marnie looked longingly at the bundle of clothing he'd left for her on the counter next to the rusted sink. Then at the damp navy blue towel hanging over the towel rack beside the metal shower stall.

  He couldn't have cooties after showering, could he? If she stood around thinking about it much longer, the hot shower would have been a waste of time. She dried off with his towel. It smelled of fresh air and pine soap and wasn't too damp. She closed her eyes, imagining that the rasp of the Jake-scented towel was his callused hands skimming her damp skin.