by Susan Haught
Logan opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it. “And what’s this?” The invoice for the snowmobiles fluttered to the desk and came to rest at his elbow. “And there’s a shipment of books for the Reading Room waiting in Estes Park, and what the heck did you do with Ms. Collins? She’s not in her cabin and no one seems to know where she is.” Her face was now the color of one of Max’s ripe tomatoes with the skin about to pop. “What went on around here during the storm?” She raised her arms, let them fall to her side, and shook her head. “For the love of Moses, how I despise snow.”
Fully aware of Rose’s distaste for chaos and even greater capacity to unleash her aversion to snow, Logan rubbed his hand from nose to chin to suppress his amusement and allowed her to pacify her temper before she completely imploded in front of him. “Are you quite finished?”
“Of course I am. Now, fill me in before I come uncorked and get angry.”
Logan chuckled. Rose glared. “The power failed,” he said, “and there wasn’t much we could do until early this morning.”
“We?” Her scowl morphed into curiosity.
Logan leaned over his desk and steepled his fingers as he considered Rose’s meddlesome inquisition. He hedged on his answer, or whether he should answer at all. The recollection of their night together stirred the pleasure he’d felt in Ryleigh’s arms. Their bodies as one. Her skin against his and the passion in a pair of ocean green eyes. He cleared his throat and looked away, and his eyes caught the glint of sun on glass. The photograph. Laurie’s photograph.
The spasm of pain was instant, staggering drunkenly through his gut. Though beads of sweat erupted on his brow, he turned back to Rose and answered calmly. “No need to worry, Rose,” he said, and dragged his fingers across his forehead to dispel the worm of turmoil from snaking through his insides. “I’ve taken the liberty in your absence to personally take care of the problems. I assure you, there’s plenty of alfalfa for the horses, and I haven’t seen one starve without oats, which are scheduled for delivery tomorrow. Shep is taking care of the leak as we speak and I’ve sent Carlos after the necessities for the kitchen. Tomatoes aren’t all we’re short of.”
“Hmph. And the books?”
“The books won’t freeze or sprout leaks, and last time I checked they don’t need tomatoes or hay for sustenance. They’ll wait.”
Rose visibly relaxed and a challenging smile rounded her cheeks. Curiosity twinkled in her steel-gray eyes. “And?”
Logan stood, placed his hands flat on his desk, and leaned heavily into them. “And as for the snowmobiles, I think the guests will enjoy renting them.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Any thoughts?”
“That’s not what—or rather, who—I meant.”
With two long strides, Logan rounded the desk, wrapped an arm over Rose’s shoulder and ushered her—albeit reluctantly—from the office. “Please have the details of the Il Salotto deal on my desk before morning.”
“One e-mail shy of being finished.” Rose planted her feet at the doorway and raised her chin. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
Logan dragged a hand through his hair. “She’s safe.”
“Well, it’s about frigging time,” she mumbled and waddled out the door.
With his manager back to directing the staff as if it was an entire battalion of marines, Logan closed the door and took the few steps to the bookshelf. He picked up the photograph and carefully brushed a thin layer of dust from the glass.
Years vanished. Shattered lives and broken promises stared back at him. A shiver took root and climbed from inside to outside in beads of cold sweat. His shoulders tensed. Unspilled emotion blurred his eyes, and he grabbed hold of the bookshelf to steady the shifting axis beneath his feet. He squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to keep the memories buried, but they gathered strength and pushed back. The frame slipped from his grip—falling, falling, falling—a slow-motion eternity of anguish. The crash split her photo in two and the guilt of his transgressions hit him. He squeezed his head in his hands as if to keep the torment from erupting and claiming its prey. He’d used a night of pleasure to blind the pain and the silent predator of regret seized him in an agonizing wave, one not only rooted in remorse and fear—but of remembrance.
“Blue,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with the weight of her memory. “Her eyes were sapphire blue.”
Ryleigh’s fingers lay poised over the keyboard, the cursor mocking her with an idle blink, blink, blink. The handle of the double doors rattled, startling her from her trance, and Logan stepped into the room scraping away the last bit of insulation surrounding her fragile soap bubble world.
Logan moved the laptop, sank to his knees beside her, and buried her head in his chest. He combed his fingers through her hair, his heartbeat as pronounced as the desperation with which he held her.
She wiggled free and tucked a disarray of curls behind his ears. Dread snaked its way around her middle. “What’s wrong, Logan?”
“Take a break, Cabin Number Three.” The chill in his eyes defied the warmth in his words.
“Seems I’ll have to. Someone has thoroughly broken my concentration.” And his, she thought, pushing the unsettling assumption aside. “Besides, I’m stumped.”
He situated himself beside her with his head on her lap. “What has you stumped?”
“It’s just a scene,” she said, her fingers flirting with the peppered curls that fell just above his ears, “but I can’t do it justice.”
“What’s it about?”
“Fireflies.”
“Why is that so difficult?”
“Well…if you’ve never seen one.”
“You’ve never seen a firefly?”
“I suppose you have?”
“Hasn’t everyone seen,” he said, toying with a smile, “mosquitos with flashlights?”
“Okay, smart-ass,” she laughed, “not everyone. At least not me. And they’re not mosquitos. They’re beetles.” Logan raised his eyes, the questions residing there as evident as the reflection of the fire. “I’ve done the research, I’ve just never seen one.”
“They’re so predominant in Chicago, we use them as streetlamps.”
Ryleigh rolled her eyes playfully.
“There should be images on the Internet.”
“It’s not the same.” She dipped a finger into the cleft of his chin. “When I first saw the mountains, the landscape drenched in snow, the Reading Room and rock-faced fireplace, and you, I memorized them. They’re effortless to recall.”
He nodded. “Did you know a local artist hand-picked the rock for the fireplaces from the rivers in the area? Each one placed according to color and size.”
“Really?” Ryleigh stared at him. “And how did you come across this tidbit of trivia?”
He smiled, but the spark in his eyes had dimmed. “There’s a plaque next to the stonework. Spells out the artisan and the history.”
“I fell right into that one,” she said, ruffling his hair.
“And you’ll create something for the fireflies. How’s it going otherwise?”
“Almost finished.”
“It will be amazing. As is the author.” He touched his finger to her nose and returned her smile with one that failed to meet his eyes. “You’ve been given a rare gift. All you need is the courage to show the world,” he said, rising to leave. “I have work to do.” He paused at the double doors. “Besides, Karina needs something to giggle about.”
“Why is she giggling?”
“She thinks you and I are having an affair,” he said with a wink.
“That poor girl. You’re such a smart-ass, Logan Cavanaugh.”
Logan’s laugh tickled the hollow part of her belly, and she sank into the cushions to enjoy the pleasure. She had an idea to finish the scene and was lost once again in the throes of her imaginary world.
With no more interruptions, Ryleigh worked nonstop into late afternoon, and now it was time to let it go. She attached the manuscript to an e-mail to
Evan, reiterating the fact she didn’t want anyone else to read it. Someone else reading her fantasies seemed intimidating and a whole lot terrifying. Dodging the inevitable, she e-mailed the completed newspaper columns instead.
And then she sat idle and so did the cursor, blinking in time with her stuttering heartbeat. Her hands shook. Then, digging deep for an ounce of courage, she closed her eyes and clicked.
Ping.
Swoosh.
Gone.
Evan didn’t respond.
But Natalie did, anxious for details. Ryleigh shot her a short reply, but she couldn’t fill in the details, only how this place had stolen her heart.
Logan returned to the suite with dinner (compliments of Max and fully restored services), two bottles of wine that he set on the coffee table by the fire, and four white roses wrapped in cellophane. Logan handed her one bottle and dug the point of the bottle opener in the other.
“Poetry in a bottle,” she said with a thorough inspection of the label. “Orma Toscana.” The printing was Italian, evident by the shape of the map. “A breath of Siena.”
“I take it you know something about wine?”
“Not really.”
With an inquisitive turn of the head he caught her eyes.
“There’s a map of Italy on the label.”
He smiled, but it lacked the enthusiasm to reach his eyes. “These are from the Tuscany Valley region near Siena. One of the finest in Europe,” he said, twisting the opener. “The Orma Toscana was Max’s suggestion.” The cork popped free, a spire of mist rising from the neck. He poured two glasses.
Ryleigh inhaled and sipped slowly. With the aroma of red chilies, plums, and a hint of chocolate ripe on her tongue, she swallowed, the liquid spreading a small fire of warmth in her stomach. “Italy is on my bucket list.” Their glasses clinked as glass kissed glass. “And fireflies.”
“Italy’s rustic charm will pale in comparison to your presence.”
Her cheeks warmed.
“And I have faith you’ll see fireflies in all their glory.”
“I’d rather see you in all your glory.”
He smiled and handed her the roses.
“White roses.” She caressed his cheek, the soft prickle of his beard sensual and enticing.
“In remembrance of your mother, father, baby brother and the soldier who gave you life.”
Her stomach fluttered. This man was smart, witty and fun. He loved books, words, and poetry, and was honest and sincere. She had sensed the compassion behind his deep brown eyes the first time she’d set eyes on him. Now he was proving it, presenting her with symbols of what it means to truly care about another’s feelings. He listened on every conscious level and was attentive. And he remembered. It was as simple as a child’s puzzle—he seemed to understand every facet of who she was.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said, fighting back a rush of emotion.
Logan turned her chin toward him. “Sometimes words get in the way.”
She slid into the crook of his arm and almost indiscernibly, the muscles in his arm tensed. Probably business.
“Tomorrow’s Monday,” she said, the wine tickling the back of her tongue. “I hate the thought of leaving.”
His expression turned in on itself, and an awkward hitch accompanied his words. “And I don’t want you to leave.”
The stirrings of fear tumbled in her gut, and the compulsion to curl into his chest and disappear was hindered only by the tight grip of his hand on her shoulder.
“But you must. And so must I.”
Despite the warmth of the fire, a shiver feathered her skin. “I guess I’ve known all along,” she said, biting her lip to keep her emotions in check, “since you told me about your wife.”
“Promises aren’t meant to be broken.”
“You don’t need to explain,” she said with a fierce effort to keep her voice from trembling.
“I’ve chastised myself because of what I’m feeling for you, and it’s killing me inside.” The longing in his eyes defied the avalanche of remorse spilling from his words. “I need time.”
Ryleigh stood and walked to the sliding doors. His words rose between them, an invisible barrier, a wary shadow. He had secrets. Most people do, carrying the baggage through life. God knows she had her own baggage, but his—his was an inconceivable burden. She contemplated the silent landscape before her and felt the echoes of her past rebound.
An oppressive silence swallowed her, the quiet of the world beyond the glass cold and stark, but the woman she knew herself to be fought the cold fingers of disappointment clawing their way into her heart. The burn of tears threatened, but she kept her emotions in check.
He came into her life unexpectedly, a sudden mutual attraction, but his was marked by respect and not the usual intents of a man. Content to simply stand beside her, he’d let her set the pace. She’d been the one to make the move. The one who shattered his convictions. Overwhelmed and sickened with grief and heartache had been a constant in her life, and she felt its ugly head rearing again. She shuddered—as if the river had swallowed her again.
Logan came to stand next to her. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for what we shared. I’m not sorry.” She turned to face him. “But I am scared.” She swallowed a growing lump in her throat. “Scared to let go. Terrified to stay.”
Stars winked acutely against a black velvet sky and the snow glistened in the amber wake of the moon. Logan wrapped her in his arms, and she leaned her head against his chest. It seemed a magical shift of time and space, and she groped for words to tell him how he felt against her, afraid if she said it out loud the spell would shatter into a million pieces. A discreet tear stained his shirt.
Logan lifted her face, the implication of unspoken words as clear as the night sky. She resigned herself to the inevitable and tried to pull away. “I’ll get my things.”
“Please.” He tightened his embrace. “Stay with me tonight.”
She pushed him away, shaking her head. “One minute you want me to leave, the next you want me to stay.”
“I never wanted you to leave.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Don’t leave. Not tonight.”
“You’re confusing me.”
“I want to be with you.”
“It doesn’t seem that way.”
“I betrayed a promise.” Ryleigh felt the pause as much as heard it. “And I’m caught in the middle of a battle I don’t know how to fight.”
“Everyone struggles with their past,” she said, touched by the anguish in his voice. “You can’t undo what’s been done and you damn sure can’t outrun it. And why tell me to embrace my past and not let it steal the person I can become, when you don’t trust or even believe it yourself?” She threw his words back at him.
The pause was as paramount as the insinuation. “Please,” he whispered, taking her hands. “Fall asleep with me tonight.”
Ignoring or making sense of the incredulous reservations clashing in her head was useless. But in the quiet of her heart, she heard a whisper.
And she stayed.
They undressed each other in silence and slipped beneath the sheets, their secrets as exposed and naked as their skin. She closed her eyes, but sleep did not come, overshadowed by the feel of him curled into her back, the gentle sigh of his breath on her bare shoulder and the desperate longing to mold herself into him. With his knees fitted into the back of hers, Logan cradled her against him, and through the night—illusive yet soothing in the hollow of the mountains—they clung to each other and the fragments of recent memory, content in the quiet intimacy of each other’s embrace.
Ryleigh’s arm fell across an empty bed. She longed for a few more hours of night, for a few more hours of his body next to hers. Tightening the sheet around her, she curled into a ball to fill the empty space. To be alone with this man was to be fully embraced in a protective joy. To be alone without him was nothing more than being alon
e. Beyond the bed lay too many empty days, too many lonely nights and too much empty space.
Knowing she had to leave and not knowing what their conversation meant for their future—if there was a future—left her numb, the uncertainty a heavy weight pressing on every fiber of her being. A casual affair had never crossed her mind and for her it wasn’t. She was crazy about a man who rarely called her by her name and who had inadvertently saved her from more than the shattered ice.
She showered, dressed for the flight home, and set her things by the double doors. Max had fixed a breakfast fit for a queen, but even the yeasty aroma of fresh croissants soured her stomach. The deep rumble of his laugh echoed through the empty chambers of her heart, and the thought of leaving here—of leaving Logan—buckled her knees. Tears threatened to overtake her composure and maybe they would have spilled, but a moment later, he walked into the room.
Logan met her at the door and wrapped her securely in his embrace, so close she could hear him breathe, yet to truly reach out and touch him, all the parts that made him whole, seemed as remote as touching stars.
Her fingers trembled as she adjusted his lapel and smoothed his shirt, a light gray, opened loosely at the neck. A tangle of chest hair poked over the top button, and she resisted the urge to touch the wiry curls. Waves of dark hair touched with silver and still damp from his shower kissed the tops of his ears, and her fingers traced the shadows of a smooth face.
She thought him tactfully gorgeous.
“Nice suit,” she said, her words masking the ache attached to her heart. “Where’re you headed?”
“Chicago.” He raked her into his arms again, his solid warmth molding them into one—for one last time. Comfortably whole and safe, she gave freely what strength she had left, and her body went soft and liquid as she clung to him, afraid to let go—afraid if she did so, she would collapse under the insurmountable weight of losing someone she cared for deeply. Again.
Though she smiled, tears blurred her eyes. “I need to go or I’ll miss my flight.”
“Carlos will take care of your things and he insisted on bringing your car around.”