by Susan Haught
“You’re amazing,” she whispered.
“And you amaze me.” He gathered her into his arms, a human shield protecting her from the pain of a broken past. “And incredibly beautiful, Ryleigh Collins.”
It was the first time he had spoken her name, the sound a sigh against her skin. The way he’d said it and the way he’d looked at her suggested there could be more. And yet, she didn’t know if she possessed the courage, or if she would know how to take the next step, and it certainly wasn’t one she could, or would take lightly. Plenty of opportunities presented themselves while she’d been married, but she had never crossed the line.
The security of his embrace seemed natural—and so close her skin leapt toward his, the sensitive hairs on her arms singing in rhythm to his song, the melody comfortably pleasant. Like coming home after a long absence.
Cradling his face in her hands, she stroked the day’s shadowy stubble and closed the distance between them. She touched his lips with soft brushes of hers. His mouth parted. Every pore opened to the musky scent of him, the kiss of his breath a warm massage on willing lips.
He lowered her hands to her side and claimed her mouth as his own, his tongue possessive and sweet and tangled with hers. What little reserve she clung to vanished in the wake of the gentle authority with which he claimed her. Assured of the promises his embrace foretold, she melted into the overwhelming power of his kiss.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
EVERY INCH OF him had wanted to stay, to be with the woman who had begun to chisel at the stone that had become his heart, but the reluctance to act on mounting desire had forced him to return to his suite.
He wasn’t surprised often, but when she had kissed him—as a lover would—it unnerved him, and he’d responded with a terrifying passion he couldn’t explain. She was vulnerable. And he was fighting an irrefutable battle with himself. The mental anguish was as sharp and painful as an exposed, gaping wound.
The storm raged on. Thunder echoed in the distance. Alone and unable to sleep, Logan extended his hand over cold, empty sheets. As an ardent desire grew within him to be with a woman he barely knew, the struggle to purge the torment of betraying a promise mounted, a love he’d treasured most of his adult life.
The fireplace and cove lighting cast muted shadows and Logan watched them mingle and flow in silence across the room. The cove lights sputtered, then settled briefly. But a moment later they failed completely. Logan sat up, listening. If the power failed, the generators would supply minimal power to the kitchen and main complex, but the cabins would be dark and without heat. If asleep, his only guest would awake freezing.
The telltale hum sounded in the distance and the cove lights trembled, and then once again burned steady.
Urgent raps rattled the door to his suite. Reaching for his jeans, he hobbled to the door as he pulled them on one leg at a time.
“Se fue la luz, señor! The power is out, sir!”
“Hang on, I hear you,” Logan shouted back. He reached the entrance in several long strides and opened the door to all five feet four inches of his right-hand man sprinkled with snow and fidgeting like an anxious jockey.
“Mr. Cavanaugh, sir. Our guest,” he said with obvious panic, “she will have no power. The generators for the cabins and barn have not arrived. Tenemos que rescatarla, señor.”
“Slow down, Carlos,” he said, motioning with a hand, “and speak English, please.”
“We must rescue her, sir!”
Logan couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yes, Carlos,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll take care of it. You go back to bed.”
“Carlos will be happy to assist, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
“Your concern is admirable, but I’ll take the Arctic Cat and retrieve Ms. Collins. She can stay here tonight until the power returns.”
“Sir?” Carlos’ eyes widened and he glanced around. “In here? But the staff quarters are very nice. She can stay with my Karina.” His chest noticeably puffed.
“Ms. Collins will be fine in the extra room, but thank you.”
“Ay caray.” Carlos left, sputtering a string of Spanish expletives as he hurried across the lobby.
Logan dressed and grabbed an extra set of ski bibs and followed Carlos’ path out the door, small footprints already filling with snow. The generator had successfully powered the security lights, casting the perimeter and short distance to the garage in suffused light. Snow fell in wicked sheets, silent and relentless in their mission. He hesitated, allowing his eyes to adjust.
The entire periphery of cabins was dark, the lampposts unlit, but the snowmobile’s headlight cut through the snow and darkness as he inched his way to The Whistler.
Logan rapped loudly on the door. Pain shot through his knuckles. In his haste, he’d forgotten his gloves, and he blew a string of breaths over his hands to warm them.
The door opened immediately. Ryleigh grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, and then stared at him with her lip clenched between her teeth as though she had unintentionally dragged in a stray. Without weighing her intentions, she hugged him and then stepped quickly back.
“I normally don’t receive quite this warm a welcome from my guests,” he said, waving a flashlight.
Ryleigh shivered. “I don’t care to be alone in the dark.”
“I thought you enjoyed scary stories.”
“In theory. In the daylight. And never alone.”
“It is dark, but you’re not alone.”
She peered around him, as if expecting someone else to appear.
“There’s only the two of us, but you’ve nothing to be afraid of.”
“I knew someone would come for me,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I had to. Or risk terrible embarrassment,” he said, the wake of the flashlight dancing around their feet. “Even the horse barns have heat.”
“Smart-ass,” she said, her teeth chattering. “Wait…Logan, the horses—”
“As long as it continues to snow, the temperature will remain steady in the barn even without heat,” he assured her. “Get your things. Just the necessities. I’ll send someone for the rest tomorrow,” he said, brandishing the flashlight through the cabin. “I brought you a set of bibs. You’ll stay warm until we get back to my place.”
She took a step and froze. “Your place?”
“The family suite.”
“Oh.” With only a pale beam of light from his flashlight, she shimmied into the snowsuit. Long, slim legs stepped first, and then her entire body wiggled as she pushed one and then the other arm through the bulky sleeves, and finally zipped the front and leg openings.
“All our resorts have a family suite,” he said, and swallowed a sharp breath as the short zing of the zipper came to a quiet end. “You’re coming with me.”
“I, uh…”
“You’ll be safe. However, Carlos thinks you need rescuing.”
“Who’s Carlos? And rescued from what? Or whom?” Her sheepish grin looked mischievous in the flashlight’s wake. “Never mind. I can take care of myself.”
How could he not smile? “I have no doubt.”
When they returned to the lobby, Logan escorted her into the Reading Room.
“So, do I have the honor of sleeping on the sofa?”
“No.”
“Then what are we doing in the Reading Room?”
“I thought you might enjoy a bedtime story.”
“God, you really are a smart-ass,” she sputtered. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He grabbed her hand and led her to the double doors of the owner’s suite.
She tried to pull her hand free, but his grip tightened.
“You can let go, I can find my way.”
“No.”
“Your extensive vocabulary is astounding.”
“I don’t want you to trip. As I recall, your footing isn’t the most sound.”
“And yours is?” she asked.
“Better than yours, appar
ently.”
“I distinctly recall where your butt landed.”
Logan smiled at the recollection.
“Where are you taking me?”
“My place. Now keep it down.”
“No one’s around.” She looked behind them. “Why do I have to be quiet?”
“Carlos sleeps lightly. You wouldn’t want to wake him.”
“Why? Does he bite?”
“No, but he can be quite insufferable if roused from sleep.”
“Oh, Edward Cullen vampire tendencies. I must meet this Carlos.”
“You read too much junk,” he said, shaking his head. “Vampires are one thing, but you won’t find the incredulous works of Ms. Meyers in my house.”
Ryleigh smirked. “Books—the delight of the soul.”
He turned and brushed his finger across her nose. “Vampires have no soul, Cabin Number Three.”
The feel of her skin left his finger and settled in a deep hollow somewhere beyond the farthest reaches of his gut—somewhere unreached, untouched—for longer than he cared to think. “Welcome to my place.”
INNOCENTLY PLACED, HIS touch aroused a quiver in her belly—something unnamed or perhaps a whisper of something lost, yearning to escape the confines of suppressed memory. In a feeble attempt to shake the feeling, she gazed around the suite.
The room was a mirror of the Reading Room with a smaller version of the bookshelves and stone fireplace visible on one side of the room, the ceilings as high, the beams as massive. She discovered a small collection of books lining the mahogany shelves and scrutinized the titles. She picked one, opened the cover, returned it carefully and then opened another. She stared at him. “These are signed first editions.”
“Yes.”
Ryleigh dragged her finger over the spines as she read. “Hemingway, LaHaye and Jenkins, Zane Grey, Steinbeck. Tolkien?” She looked up at him. “And these are all signed Grant editions of the Dark Tower series? It’s a rare set if you have The Gunslinger.”
“Collecting signed firsts has become a sort of hobby. I have most of Mr. King’s at my home in Chicago. The Shining is a favorite. I meant to bring it.”
“How?”
“By packing it in my suitcase.”
“You’re such a smart-ass.” She pulled her lips in on themselves, failing miserably to control the teasing declaration she had come to identify with this man’s droll remarks. “So, you’re partial to a story about a resort in a snowstorm with a psychopathic caretaker?”
“I am.”
“Should I be worried?”
Logan chuckled and pulled The Gunslinger from its spot. “In answer to the ‘how,’ Mr. King is a regular guest at our resort on the coast of Maine,” he said, showing her the autograph and then returning the book. “You’re perfectly safe here. You have my word and my protection, to answer your second. I’ll be sleeping on the sofa just outside the suite.”
Ryleigh gaped at him. “Sweet hobby.”
“Sleeping on the sofa? Or bedtime stories?”
“Stories, smart-ass. Comfort-food for bookworms.” She carefully returned The Fellowship of the Ring to the shelf. Her excitement again flared. “Have you been to The Stanley Hotel? It’s close by, in Estes Park,” she said, pointing out the window.
“Yes,” Logan said, stepping next to her. He placed one hand around her waist, took her hand, and pointed it in the opposite direction. “And town is that way.”
Ryleigh rolled her eyes. “Okay, smart-ass,” she said and stepped back.
“Checking out The Stanley was one of the first things I did when we looked into this resort. It’s a grand hotel. My first choice had it been for sale.”
She shook her head in staggered disbelief. “Crazy cool.”
“Like your host,” he said, holding up his hands to ward off the riposte. “No need to say it.”
Ryleigh simply mouthed the words instead.
He took her hand and led her to her bedroom, opened the door, and showed her inside. Flames danced in a smaller stone fireplace, the room awash with subdued light. A warm shiver radiated along her arms as he turned to face her.
“Good night, Cabin Number Three. I’ll be just beyond the double doors.” He dipped his head. “Help yourself to a bedtime story.”
The words tumbled free before she could stop them. “You can’t stay out there. There’s no heat.” She swallowed hard, scrunching her eyes shut stupidly. The generator was running. Of course there’d be heat. “This place has to have another bedroom. Besides, you promised I’d be safe. Please,” she pleaded, unsure of where the words were coming from, “I’d feel terrible dislodging you from your own bed.”
“The other master suite is across the sitting room.”
“Then it’s settled.”
“Are you sure you’ll be comfortable with the arrangement?”
The lone cry of a wolf rose above the crackle of the fire and her head spun to the window. “Quite sure,” she said, biting her lip.
“You needn’t be afraid. The wolves have never wandered close to the resort. You’re safe here.”
Ryleigh nodded, the assurance teetering on the edge of her mind.
“My room is off the kitchen if you need anything.” He turned again to leave.
“Logan, wait—there is something.”
He turned slowly.
“I forgot to bring something to sleep in. Do you have an extra shirt I could borrow?”
“Right,” he said, and raked a hand through thick waves of dark hair. “Be right back.”
Logan returned with a neatly folded, long-sleeved chambray shirt and handed it to her. Dark eyes rested on hers, tiny flickers of copper firelight reflecting back at her. “Good night again, Cabin Number Three,” he said, and turned to leave.
“Good night,” she called after him, disappointed in his quick departure, yet pleased with what seemed a rare sense of valor.
She arranged the few items she’d brought with her on the edge of the bed and sat next to them with a plop; just as quickly, her purse fell, spewing its contents. “Great,” she said, and shoved the contents back. She paused on the packets Natalie had given her, raised her eyebrows, and then stuck them in the drawer of the nightstand. “Even if they are flesh colored, I won’t be needing these. Maybe the next guest will.”
Ryleigh set her cosmetic case on the bathroom counter and pressed her palms to the cool surface of the granite. As she stood in front of the mirror, a generous amount of doubt sprouted and rallied against the incredulity of her actions.
Have you lost your mind?
The wife she’d been, the mother, nurturer, and journalist were the solid pieces of the woman who stared back at her, not the one shielding a fragmented past, the wreckage of which she had yet to clear away.
Ryleigh doused her face with warm water, caught the drops spilling off her nose with a thick terry towel, straightened, and drew a long, deep breath.
She undressed, and standing in her panties, raised the shirt to her face and breathed the freshness of laundry detergent, and then the faint recollection of his scent, musk and earth that somehow matched the deep tone that voiced his words. Her stomach fluttered. Lacing her arms through the sleeves, she hugged the fabric to her body, the soft chambray a pleasant sigh against bare skin. With the top two buttons left undone, she climbed into bed and slipped beneath a pile of blankets, their weight and the steady glow of the fire a comforting shelter.
She lay awake, reliving his lips against hers, allowing the pleasure of his touch to wash over her, and wondered why he hadn’t touched her or kissed her again, the urgency palpable, the distance between them mere steps across a solid hardwood floor. Maybe in some valiant way, he was allowing her to set the pace. Both satisfied and remotely disappointed with the idea, she closed her eyes, a private, content smile ushering her into sleep.
HALFWAY ACROSS THE suite, Logan raked a hand through his hair. He turned around, and then stopped—seeking some obstacle, anything to deter the misguided inten
tions that crept through his mind. Abject desire tore at him, but a lifetime of convictions won the battle of wills.
Firelight danced beneath the closed door of her room. He cursed himself for not kissing her and chastised himself for thinking he should have. If he had—and God knows he wanted to—would he have been able to control the desire lurking so close to the surface? Her mere touch kindled some small fire and once fanned to life, would surely burn the ragged threads of control he desperately clung to. He allowed himself to breathe, and forced himself to continue across the sitting room to his room.
Unable to chase the echoes of her laughter and eyes the intensity of viridian crystals from his mind, Logan crawled into an empty bed. Sleep beckoned him. There in the darkness, in the suspension of consciousness, he could avert the torment of guilt and fear and escape the turmoil of being pulled apart at the seams as if being dragged through a keyhole one limb at a time.
He stared into the shadows, fully awake. Few steps separated them, and the inherent desire to be with her raged its inner battle, both sides seeking to plunge the other into a cavernous abyss, a challenge for decisions hastily made.
Sleep escaped him as he contemplated how close he had come to violating the oath he had made to his wife, who slept peacefully in a grave halfway across the continent.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
RYLEIGH WOKE SATURDAY morning with no clue what time it was and a twinge in her stomach she couldn’t identify, but the soft cotton shirt against her skin intensified the feeling. She tucked her nose into the collar and breathed the subtle scent. His scent. His autograph written in her senses.
The room was quiet except for the exaggerated thump of her heart. Hearing nothing from beyond the door, she rose, grateful the shirt fell just above her knees. She yawned, rolled the sleeves of Logan’s shirt to her elbows and opened the bedroom door to a neat pile of her belongings. Her bare feet padded lightly across the wood floors as she crossed the space to the sitting room. Light spilled into the room through a bank of glass doors.