Because her leg hurt, Cassie climbed into bed early and waited for the soft patter of raindrops on the roof. She read Billboard for a while, even though it was an old copy. She didn't know why Kajurian kept sending it. She usually chucked the magazines into the basket or the bottom of Gran's old chifforobe with all those unanswered letters from that persistent fellow who wanted to meet her. Her agent, the redoubtable Kajurian, also wrote often to beg her to come back to Los Angeles. Kajurian was the kind who never gave up—a quality she'd treasured in an agent but which she appreciated considerably less in her former agent, who clearly resented what her departure had meant to him in terms of dollars. Luckily, money didn't matter to her. Kevin's wise investments had left her independently wealthy.
It was still early when Cassie fell asleep with the lights on. She was dozing when the wind began to howl around the corners of her house, and for a moment in her half sleep she thought the pounding on the door was hail rattling the windows or the clatter of a shutter torn loose by the storm.
"Cassie! Open up! It's me, John!"
She rolled from her bed and ran to fling open the door. John Howard stood on her porch, his clothes plastered to his body, his hair soaked with rain. He gingerly cradled an inert and soggy bundle of fur in his raincoat. For a heart-stopping moment she thought he held Tigger, and her eyes widened in alarm.
Then with great relief Cassie saw that it wasn't her cat after all. It was a raccoon, drenched and unconscious but breathing.
"I was driving home in the storm and this raccoon ran out in front of me. I couldn't avoid hitting him," he said. "I didn't want to leave him on the side of the road when I realized he was still alive. He looks pretty scraped up."
"Bring him in," she said. She tossed towels on the living room table and spread them before John laid the unconscious raccoon on top. As she bustled around the room collecting supplies, ointments, and bandages, she spared John a quick glance. His teeth were chattering.
"John, you're chilled to the bone. You'll find towels in the bathroom."
John was amazed at how calm Cassie was as she checked the raccoon. He went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel. "Is he going to be all right?"
"The scrape on his right side is the worst. I'll swab it with goldenseal ointment."
As he walked back into the room toweling his hair, John raised his brows, questioning.
"Goldenseal promotes healing," she explained. She'd already washed the scrape and was liberally applying the ointment.
"Can you save him?"
Cassie glanced up. "I'll try."
John had let the towel fall loosely around his shoulders. He was still shivering. "You need a hot drink," she said. "I'll brew it if you'll put dry towels in that empty box over there." She indicated the cardboard box by the front door.
"Will do."
She hurried into the kitchen and quickly prepared her own special blend of elderberry tea.
"Shall I put the raccoon in the box?"
"Yes, go ahead."
John was tucking towels around the raccoon when she returned. It was still unconscious and didn't seem to be in pain. John accepted the mug of tea with a grateful grin.
"We might as well sit down while we wait to see what happens." She sat at the table across from where he stood, and after a moment's hesitation, he sat too. He leaned back, sipped the tea and rolled it around on his tongue. It had an unusual taste. "This is good, but I can't place the flavor," he said. "What is it? Licorice?"
"Anise," she said. She couldn't believe the absurd thrill she felt at seeing John Howard sitting at her own table. She'd imagined it so many times that he didn't seem real.
He drained the mug. "That was good. Say, I keep a change of clothes in the SUV. Do you mind if I get out of these wet things?"
"Of course not," Cassie said. "I'd better light the fire." She set down her mug and hurried to the fireplace.
He rose, and she was aware that he was watching her. Her robe was opaque, but she had the feeling that he could see right through it. Just in case, she wrapped it tighter.
He hesitated at the door on his way out. "Does it get usually get cold enough for a fire in June?"
"I always keep it ready to light. The damp bothers me, so—" Instantly she regretted saying this, even though she was always self-conscious about her leg when it ached so much. Why did she want him to know all the things that were wrong with her? She had an inexplicable urge to tell him how she had nightmares, how and why she had retreated from society to live in solitude on Flat Top Mountain, why she resisted reminders of her previous life. If he thought she was seriously neurotic, maybe he'd go away. And yet that wasn't what she really wanted.
"See you in a minute," he said before he went outside. She heard him splashing through puddles in the yard as she lit the tinder. It caught easily, and then the kindling. She backed away, welcoming the warmth.
John stomped his feet on the porch before he came in carrying a bundle of clothes stuffed into a gym bag. "The rain's not letting up," he said. "In fact, it's getting worse." He went in the bathroom and shut the door. Cassie tried not to think about him tugging off his wet jeans, yanking his shirt over his head, getting naked in her own house.
When he came out wearing a warm-up suit, she spoke brusquely. "You can sit here, next to the fire." She'd pulled an old-fashioned settle closer to the hearth.
"Might as well bring this little fellow," he said. He lifted the cardboard box from the table and stared down at the furry masked face for a moment. "I hope he makes it," and there was a wistful note to his voice. It touched Cassie that this man cared so much about an injured animal.
"I think the best thing to do is leave him alone right now," she said. "He's not bleeding, and I don't think he has any broken bones." She leaned over for another look. The movement slid the neckline of her robe to one side; for a moment John caught a titillating glimpse of brown upon brown, but the smooth curve of her breasts was quickly hidden when she straightened.
"I don't know what more to do for him other than barley water," she said. "It's a wonderful restorative."
"Can I help?" he called as she disappeared into the kitchen.
"Keep an eye on that raccoon," she answered. "If he suddenly pulls himself together and starts racing around the room, we'll have a problem with Bertrand."
"Bertrand? You mean he's in the house?"
"In the guest bedroom. Can't you hear him scratching around?"
John listened. Over the crackling of burning logs, he did hear something. Sharp little claws skittering across bare wood. Something rolling. A scamper every once in a while.
"What's Bertrand doing in there?" he said edgily. He had no desire to remain in the same enclosed space with a fully equipped skunk who didn't like men.
"Playing with empty spools and dragging around old panty hose." Cassie emerged from the kitchen with liquid in a baby bottle.
"I thought—hoped—that by this time Bertrand had rambled off into the sunset to be with his friends."
Cassie smiled. "No, he's still not feeling up to par. And I'm attached to him. I hate the idea of giving him up." She shook the bottle and expertly dribbled a few drops of the barley water on her wrist. "This is a nice lukewarm temperature. Why don't you hold our little friend's head while I dribble this down his throat."
John knelt beside her, feeling sadly inexpert. He cautiously lifted the raccoon's head. "You mean like this?"
"Slide your hands under his neck—that's right. I think his swallowing reflex will be intact."
"What if he wakes up? Have you seen the size of his teeth?" John looked distinctly uneasy.
"Don't worry. He's too weak to do anything but lie there. Probably."
"Probably?"
Cassie shot him a look. "Don't wimp out on me, John."
He didn't have any intention of doing so, but he was ready to bolt if the raccoon's teeth headed in the direction of his fingers. He watched warily as Cassie inserted the nipple of the bottle between the an
imal's jaws. A couple of spoonfuls of liquid finally slid down the raccoon's throat, but much more ran out of its mouth and over their hands. The raccoon's eyes flicked open again and then closed peacefully. His breathing was steady. Cassie tunneled her hand beneath the animal's foreleg and rested her fingers for a few seconds on the soft downy hair of its chest.
"The heartbeat seems regular," she announced in satisfaction. "I think he's going to be all right. In fact, maybe we should give him a name. I'm may have to keep him around for a while."
"How about Rupert? It's a name that seems to fit in the same general category as Bertrand."
Cassie broke into a wide smile, and the tension too often noticeable in her face disappeared. "Rupert it is."
The two of them exchanged a glance of satisfaction, of sharing. It felt good to work together to accomplish something worthwhile. Saving the life of another living thing had pulled them together, giving them something in common.
We're going to be all right, thought John in surprise and with a sense of elation. He didn't say the words out loud because Cassie didn't realize it yet. But she would. Soon.
Chapter 5
"Come on," Cassie said. "We'll wash our hands." She was at ease with John now that they'd finished with Rupert. Maybe tonight heralded a new beginning for them. Maybe she was ready for that.
John followed her into the kitchen, and she handed him a bar of pink soap. When he held it under the running water, the bar released the scent of roses.
"I make the soap myself," she explained, reaching to take it from him. Their hands touched, and suddenly Cassie felt as though she couldn't catch her breath. She didn't want this to be sexual. It was the last thing she wanted. But here they stood hip to hip, and unbidden thoughts and images strobe-flashed through her mind—his hands, his hands cool from the running water, her body tight against his, and then more. Much more.
The water trickled unheeded over her hands.
"Cassie, do you have a towel?"
She blinked to see John dripping water on the countertop. Thank goodness he couldn't know what she'd been thinking. To cover her confusion she whipped open a nearby drawer, not the one that held the towels, and slammed it closed with a clatter of cheese cutters and can openers and potato peelers. She said in an almost-normal tone, "You'll find a towel hanging on the back of the kitchen door."
He found it, she turned off the water, and she dried her own trembling hands on a paper towel.
"I suppose I should be going back to my place," John said reluctantly. He peered out the window into the night. Rain was pouring out of the sky, and wind continued to lash the trees. "How long do you suppose this will go on, anyway?"
How long it will go on? Half an hour. All night. Until morning. Until after you make love to me. More unwelcome thoughts, but real.
Cassie found her voice. "I've seen storms in the mountains last for hours." She swallowed and turned away. He would understand her statement as a half-veiled invitation to stay the night. She wiped her palms, so soon damp again, on her robe behind her back, where he wouldn't see.
A white-hot flash of lightning rent the distant sky, echoing and reverberating from mountain to mountain.
"I could wait a few minutes and see if it dies down."
Cassie was silent.
"Of course, if you'd rather I go, I will."
"You don't have to leave," she said, her voice no more than a murmur. She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, her eyes wide and dark. "Sleep in the guest room if you'd like."
Was this an overture? Would she withdraw it in the next moment or two? He forced a smile. "With Bertrand? I think not."
"I'd close Bertrand in the kitchen. I do that sometimes."
He shook his head. She was trying pathetically hard, making too much of an effort to fight the sexual tension strung tight between them, and it showed. She was so beautiful to him in that moment. Suddenly, he forgot to worry about how she would react. He strode toward her, wrenched her around to face him. "If I stay, I won't be sleeping with Bertrand," he said, his voice rough with emotion.
He belatedly recalled what had happened last time he'd held her in his arms. He half expected her to pull away this time, but she did not. Instead she went totally passive, not taking anything but not giving, either. He expected her to twist away at any moment. Thinking about that evening at his cabin when she'd run from him, he wondered if perhaps it was different with her now that they were on her own turf and not his. Perhaps being in her own house made her feel secure.
"Tell me why you keep running away, Cassie. I want to know."
She lifted her head and stared at him, her eyes bottomless pools of pain. Her eyes shouldn't look like that, he thought, not now when they were getting close. They should reflect hope or passion or longing or lust. He saw none of those things.
She leaned into him, her breath quickening against his skin and her breasts pressed against his chest, and he could no longer resist what he'd been wanting to do. He kissed her. He couldn't help it. He didn't expect her to respond, but as always she surprised him. Amazingly enough, her mouth was eager and urgent. It was more than he'd hoped for.
The passion he hadn't seen in her eyes expressed itself now. He'd known she was a woman who felt things deeply, and her response proved it. But even as he deepened the kiss, he knew that as much as he wanted her, he could wait. Having sex with her was not as important as understanding this woman for whom he had developed such strong feelings.
The kiss ended, and she buried her face in his shoulder.
"Wow," he said. "That was something." He tipped her face up. "Hey," he said. "I don't want to move too fast."
"Are we?" Her eyes were wide, unfathomable, searching his.
"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know." He held her hand as they moved into the front room where he pulled her down on the settle beside him and curved his arm around her. She huddled against him, as though seeking shelter. He didn't mind sheltering her with his body, but he refused to hide her from herself.
He spoke gently. "Cassie—Cassie, what is your real name? Not Cassie, surely?"
"Cassandra," she whispered.
"Cassandra. A beautiful name, and I will call you by it when I want you to know that what I say is important and real and true, and when what I am going to say is meant only for you."
Cassie wondered why she was sitting here with this near-stranger, listening to him shape these words that fell so strangely upon her ears. She should be lying alone in bed, raindrops whispering on the roof, thunder shaking the house.
"Cassandra, you don't need to hide from me. I won't hurt you. Do you believe that?"
"All right," he went on, taking her silence for assent. "There's no reason for either of us to be lonely. You're a fascinating woman, and you're beautiful to me. So very, very beautiful." His hand went up to cup her cheek.
No man had complimented Cassie in that way since Kevin. She didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve anything. She wasn't worthy of the dream of happiness that curled cautiously upward as she heard herself called beautiful in John Howard's voice. She tamped the pleasure down, and when it wouldn't die, she reamed it out with memories. Kevin. Rory. Root out the joy; let it wither, let it die.
She straightened and pulled away. His eyes tried to hold her, but she refused to respond. "You'd better go. I can manage Rupert just fine."
John was stunned. Things had been going well. They'd been making progress. He knew she'd felt something for him, and now this.
In a sudden flash, he understood that Cassie didn't want to feel special and desirable. If anyone tried to build her up, she immediately tore herself down. Why hadn't he seen it before? The signs were all there—withdrawal from her previous life, her reclusive existence up here on this mountain, her resistance to being admired by a man. To being touched by a man, to allowing herself that ultimate satisfaction—the pleasure of being loved by a man.
His troubled eyes assessed the stubborn set of her jaw, but now he understood m
ore about her than before. It only made him more determined to break through. It pained him that she wasn't able to accept what he was eager to give. Tentatively he reached out, and she sighed.
Amazingly she accepted his hand at the nape of her neck. He reached up with both hands and buried his fingers in the rich outburst of hair, raking through its vibrant depths until his fingertips met her warm scalp. The rosy scent of the soap lingered on his hands, and it was the roses he smelled as he drew in his breath sharply before he again lowered his mouth to connect with her parted lips. She opened her mouth to his, and slowly her arms slid up his chest and rested there.
John had never been one to take the sharing of another's body lightly. Intimate body contact was a privilege, and being naked together was a gift. The rest of it—the passion, the letting down of one's guard—was what made a man and a woman completely real to each other. If one or the other partner had reservations, the act became meaningless and left him feeling depressed and empty.
Cassie confused him. He'd already made up his mind that he wouldn't hide her from herself, and at the time that had seemed honest and good. But now they were kissing, her arms around his neck, and he couldn't imagine that having gone this far, either of them would want to stop. But what did she want? He never knew what she would do.
Before he was able to get all this straight in his head, she pulled away. Then, her gaze holding his, she rose, took his hand and led him into the bedroom. She kept her face turned away.
He didn't speak. Instead he watched spellbound as Cassie slowly let the robe slip from her shoulders to the floor. Rain drummed on the roof, or was it his heartbeat pounding in his ears? His mouth went suddenly dry.
He thought, I know her and yet I don't. And how well does anyone ever know another person? So far Cassie had seemed determined to deny him entrance to her tortured mind and thoughts, but now she was preparing to allow him entrance to her body. Her skin glowed in the lamplight, her legs shadowing into a dusky V visible through her thin nightgown.
He caught her in an embrace and rained kisses down the side of her neck until his lips reached her collarbone. "That feels good," she whispered.
Through Eyes of Love Page 5