Kiss or Kill Under the Northern Lights

by Susan Johnson

  Once inside his suite, he set her on her feet, slipped off his jacket and tossing it on a chair, turned to shut the door. Swiveling back, he held out his hand. “Come here.” His voice was hushed.

  How effortlessly beautiful he was, she thought, crossing the small distance between them. He was to blame for her desperate need, for the damnable fluttering of her heart and she wanted parity, a balance of sorts. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  He pulled her close. “Now?”

  She nodded, her pulse racing. Absurdly, she wanted him to feel the same rising tide of awareness.

  His mouth curved. “Can I make something up?”

  She punched his chest, a little fretful pique in her gaze. “You have to tell me.”

  He slowly inhaled, exhaled, shifted his stance as if bracing against disaster. She wanted the truth, a rarity in situations like this, unheard of in his former life. It took him a few seconds to shift through what was clear-cut and mere shadow. “I remember the first day you walked into the kitchen,” he began, quietly. “I wondered what your skin would feel like next to mine, whether I could make you smile”—he paused—“whether you’d deliberately left the top two buttons on your shirt unbuttoned.”

  Her cheeks flushed beet red.

  He laughed. “You didn’t know your shirt was unbuttoned?”

  A little crunch of a grimace. “Talk about a bad first impression.”

  “Who said it was bad? Can we stop talking now? Is that enough?”

  “Over your word limit?”

  “Yeah, a while ago.” A beat, a pause while he got it all straight, tamped down the wildness. He drew in a breath. “I’m trying not to scare you.”

  Eva gazed up at him, huge blue eyes, rosy cheeked, her smile slowly unfurling. “Okay,” she said, reaching for the top button on her shirt. “Why don’t I start?”

  He drew her hands away. “Let me. I want to do this slowly.”

  “Not too slowly.”

  His look of quiet astonishment was quickly replaced with a ghost of a smile. “Seriously, orders?”

  His voice was deceptively soft, and she understood it wasn’t actually a question. “I’m impatient, eager, over-eager. Better? I wouldn’t want to offend you at this critical juncture.”

  “There’s not much that can offend me right now.” He glanced down at the strained zipper on his jeans, then looked up and grinned. “But then again, I’ve never had the pleasure of”—he discarded a cruder word—“entertaining you.”

  “So all the other ladies are quieter, complacent. Grateful?”

  He looked at her from under his dark lashes. “Less combative.” He began unbuttoning her shirt. “If we’re getting into the ring, I need your clothes off.”

  “You first,” she said.

  He began stripping off his clothes with a casualness that suggested a familiarity with sexual amusements. Kicking off his boots, he pulled his t-shirt over the back of his head with a jerk.

  Mesmerized by God’s gift to women undressing before her eyes, Eva had to remind herself to breathe. God almighty, he was fine; broad-shouldered, lean, ripped, his erection so huge her body began throbbing in anticipation. “Turn around,” she said on a suffocated breath.

  His head came up.

  She pointed. “Your tattoo.”

  He straightened and after a minute hesitation, turned.

  “I suppose everybody asks to see your dragon tattoo.”

  He shot a look over his shoulder, flashed a grin. “I’m straight, so not everybody.”

  “You looking for trouble?”

  The little defiant tilt of her chin was both sweet and sexy. “Not on your life.” Turning around, he moved in close and cupped her shoulders. “I’m looking for you in my bed, under me and over me and any other damn place else you want to be.”

  “Okay.”

  He laughed. “Don’t be shy.”

  “What you see is what you get.”

  A smile lit his eyes. “Good. I like you just the way you are.” Dipping his head, he dropped a kiss on the bridge of her nose. “Come on.” Taking her hand, he led her into his bedroom.

  Stopping at the bedroom door, she made a face. “That’s a whole lot of mirrors.”

  “Those closet doors were here when I bought the place,” he said, reading the wariness in her expression. “We can go to another bedroom if you want. But no one else has been in here—just you.”

  An under-the-lashes look at him. “Was I that obvious?”

  “Deer in the headlights, babe.”

  “So they’re just doors.”

  “Yup. Told you before, I’m a simple guy.”

  Later, reluctant to relinquish the all-consuming bliss, she finally put her hand on Bodie’s chest and said, weakly, “No more.”

  “Sorry.” He gave his head a shake, shoved his damp hair off his forehead, met her gaze. “You okay?”

  “I’m super, just faint from—” She smiled. “No complaints.”

  “Yeah, no crap.” Resting on his elbows, he dropped his head, and waited for his heart to stop pounding.

  Eva lay motionless, eyes shut, her body strumming.

  As the silence lengthened, they both started to speak, stopped.

  Bodie sighed.

  “The cold light of day, right?” Eva said.

  His dark brows lifted. “Not exactly a surprise.”

  8

  A few minutes later, Bodie dropped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “We shouldn’t have done that.” Running his fingers through his hair, he slicked it back, dropped his hands, exhaled a ragged breath and turned to her. “Sorry,” he added softly, his gaze shuttered. “I’m too damaged for a fresh start.”

  It hurt more than she could have imagined. But her voice was clear and unfaltering when she spoke. “It’s all right. Neither of us is ready for a fresh start.”

  There was a sudden amused twist to his mouth. “Is this where we say, friends?”

  She felt his eyes on her face. “Might as well.” She was lying, of course; maybe he was too.

  He gestured toward the bathroom. “You first?”

  So that’s how it’s done in Hollywood, she thought. A polite sendoff. “I’ll use the other bathroom.” Gathering the sheet around her, she rose from the bed, walked into the sitting room, collected her clothes and left.

  He swore as he heard the door close, and he wasn’t sure he would have left the bed that day if the scent of cinnamon rolls hadn’t wafted in from the kitchen. Even then, he almost stayed in his rooms, his emotions in shambles, the fact that he’d made a horrendous mistake irksome, awkward. Presumably, further apology was in order. Fuuuuck…

  But the lure of hot cinnamon rolls outweighed embarrassment, as well as fraught issues and when he appeared in the kitchen, Eva turned with a pleasant smile. “Told you so.”

  Grateful for her understanding, he said, “I’m an idiot.”

  “But hungry. Sit.”

  “Yeah, and you’re way too nice.”

  “We don’t all have Camille’s killer instincts,” she said sweetly, placing a plate of iced cinnamon rolls on the table. “The omelet’s almost done,” she added, walking back to the stove.

  “I really feel like a jerk.”

  She gave him a quizzical look, as if vetting his sincerity before she said, “Don’t. It takes two to tango. It was nice. It’s over.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I hope you like Florentine omelets.”

  “I do,” he replied, not entirely sure he was pleased with her cool acceptance or insulted at her casual dismissal of what to him had been the equivalent of numerous world-shattering earthquakes. Eva was one super-hot babe: passionate, provocative, impatient, greedy.

  All of which was pointless.

  He’d never been impulsive by nature and now he was more locked down than ever; perhaps he’d never be free. So he dismissed torrid memory, accepted he’d made a regrettable mistake and followed her casual lead.

  Breakfast was a strange combination of polites
se and prurience, both incredibly aware of each other, neither willing to breach the rules. Anything more was ill-advised.

  Their taut, delicate détente continued over the next few days, a tribute to Bodie’s prevailing detachment and Eva’s studied pragmatism. But Bodie spent most of his time in his apartment and he was drinking again.

  He came out for meals because he couldn’t help himself. Eva had spoiled him. He was unwilling to return to his previous isolation. He was even charming when he appeared, like an award-winning actor saying his lines.

  Less of a chameleon, Eva struggled to respond to his affable urbanity. Each day exacted its price on her nerves, every lazy smile and indifferent exchange, every measured nod and comment on the weather. Until, four days later at lunch, she finally lost her temper. “Do you really care what country the saffron in the paella came from?”

  His expression bland, his eyes half-lidded from drink, he said, mildly, “Of course I do.”

  “You’re a damn liar.”

  His eyes widened with an elaborate air of surprise. “Was it something I said?” he drawled.

  She threw up her hands. “No, it was all you didn’t say, and never will say because you can’t or won’t or are clueless.”

  He blinked. “You’re upset.”

  “And you’re drunk.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  His eyes had cooled; he wasn’t completely detached after all. “I think it’s time for me to move on. You owe me for three days.”

  “You’re quitting?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Of course I can.”

  “Do you want more money, less hours? What do you want? Name it.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not shaking you down, Bodie. It’s just time, that’s all.”

  “You have another job. I’ll double the wages, triple them, quadruple—”

  “Stop. I don’t have another job.”

  “Good. Am I supposed to quit drinking, is that it?”

  “God no, Bodie. As if I could stop you anyway. Look, if you must know, I’m uncomfortable after…well—what happened between us. It makes no sense, I have no explanation other than my nerves are more jumpy than they used to be. And calming them down would take more hours of therapy than either of us can afford.”

  “Like hell. Go, I’ll pay for it. Talk to a battalion of therapists ’til their ears bleed for all I care or have them come here if you prefer. Just stay. I like you around.”

  “Sorry.” She couldn’t possibly say that she was maybe, probably, more than probably in love with him. Even she knew it was the height of stupidity after only ten days.

  He’d never begged before; even in that cage, even tortured, he hadn’t once. “How much do I owe you?” he said.

  “It’s a lot.”

  “A relative word.”

  “Three thousand.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He shoved his chair away from the table, stood, walked from the room, returned in under two minutes, and tossed a strapped stack of hundreds on the table. “A small tip for the food.” His face was a mask. “Thanks.”

  She counted out thirty bills. “I don’t want a tip, but I appreciate the offer.”

  “Take it, it’s nothing.”

  That’s the problem, she wanted to say. You’ve cut off or quashed every emotion, feeling, every chance to connect with the world; no one gets in. Honestly, she didn’t know if she was capable of sharing in any real way either. Rising from the table, she pocketed the bills, and forced a smile. “Goodbye, Bodie. Good luck.”

  “You too.” He didn’t move as she walked from the kitchen, nor did he move when the front door slammed shut. And for a lengthy interval, he stood utterly still, not stunned so much as numb. Then, with a sigh, he turned and was about to walk from the room when he saw her sweater neatly hung on the back of the kitchen stepstool.

  Walking over, he lifted it from the chair, brought it to his face, and inhaled her scent. She wore some flowery perfume with an undertone of vanilla. He couldn’t have identified the flower, but the vanilla reminded him of her chocolate chip cookies.

  Tossing the blue bumble bee sweater over one shoulder, he returned to his apartment, laid it over a chair and half-smiled. He could pretend she was here, the impulse so outré he thought he’d finally crossed into lunacy. But his next thought reminded him to have a drink and that was standard, every day routine, so he relaxed.

  But he did make a mental note of the day, Friday, November 15, as if her walking out was a return to his standard, every day shitty life.

  Eva drove home in a haze of despair. Really, she morosely reflected, you thought it would be a good idea to have sex with a bona fide, too-handsome-for-his-own-good, sex god? You thought Bodie Rourke would leave his many circles of hell and offer you his bleeding, broken heart because you were fool enough to actually fall in love with him after a ridiculous, laughable ten days? What a dumb ass.

  Need I remind you, should you harbor any illusions of requited love, he practically threw you out of his bed afterward. Don’t forget that highlight. On the plus side, you finally woke up from your fairy tale, got real, put on your big girl panties and walked out on the SOB.

  Good for you. You did the right thing. Now forget the ill-judged, ill-advised and all around foolhardy madness. Get on with your life.

  And when it came to issues of man trouble there was no better listener than her sister. So the moment she got home, she called Lucy and started throwing clothes in a duffel bag. “I’m driving up,” she said. “Care to entertain me for the weekend? No, I’m fine. Yeah, it’s going well. Same old, same old, super as a matter of fact.” Then she screwed it all up by bursting into tears.

  “Hey, hey, no man’s worth it,” her sister said, picking up on the problem like a seer of long standing. “Tell me all about it when you get here.”

  “He’s a real motherfucker,” Eva hiccupped.

  “Damn right.”

  “I want pasta and wine, lots of both.”

  “You got it. Drive fast, don’t drive too fast, be careful going through Saint Jo, they have a traffic light now.”

  As it turned out, Eva stayed at Lucy’s longer than the weekend, talking and crying, sobbing and talking, rinse and repeat. Lucy listened patiently, never judged, and said all the right things. Sometimes love sucks. You don’t need him. He’s not worth it. You’ll find someone better, someone with a heart, just you see.

  But on Thursday, Lucy said, “Sorry, you’re busted. Mom and Dad worried because you weren’t answering your phone, and figured you were here. They mean well. They’re on their way. Stay and talk to them.”

  Eva shook her head. Her parents were math teachers who believed rational discussions solved any problem. And while she’d pretended to agree when she’d first come home from the Congo, she was too fragile now to listen, no matter how well-meaning their concern. “Tell Mom and Dad I went back to work,” Eva said. “It’s not a lie. I’ll get another job.”

  “No problem.”

  Eva could always count on Lucy. “Thanks, and I won’t tell Mom and Dad that you didn’t actually stop seeing Kurt.”

  “Hey, everyone needs a fuck buddy. You should learn to compartmentalize.”

  “Right after I stop waking up with nightmares.”

  “Sorry.” Lucy smiled. “You look whole, normal.”

  “That’s the plan. Invisible scars.”

  9

  As if the world was indifferent to her vast despair, the sun shone brightly on her drive home, even the temperature was unseasonably balmy. Where was the snow? It was almost December. Cold, grey, snowy days would better suit her insurmountable sorrow. Speaking of snow, maybe she should consider skiing again as an antidote to her consummate sadness. Finally! her inner voice yelled. I thought you’d never snap out of it. Bravo! Stay active, keep busy, sport is healthy, not to mention distracting. So in the interests of forgetting her heartbreak and renewing her will to live via sports, Eva
was actually running through a mental shopping list of ski equipment when she pulled up in front of her house.

  Poof. Her list vanished.

  Bodie was sitting on her front steps. He looked terrible, bleary eyed, in need of a shave, his clothes rumpled; he could have used a haircut or at least a comb.

  As she walked up, feeling simultaneous hope and panic, he slowly unfolded his large frame and came to his feet. “Where have you been?”

  Not exactly a Prince Charming question, and her feelings showed when she said, crisply, “Out of town.”

  “With?”

  She raised one brow at the irritation on his face. “You can’t be serious.”

  A twitch of his jaw.

  “I don’t answer to you.” Then it occurred to her that she might be misreading the situation egregiously because he’d been waiting for her, looking if not exactly sad, confused, so being snappish may not be the best way to go. “Actually, I was visiting my sister.”

  “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  Lord, she hated it when men never said what was on their mind but spoke in cryptic sentences that could be interpreted a thousand different ways. But she tried to make her voice good natured rather than judgmental. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Maybe we could change that.” Without warning, without so much of a hint of romantic sensibilities, not an orchestra or violin in sight, he pulled a small box from his jeans pocket and held it out.

  She gave herself points for not fainting on the spot and further points for not having deliberately antagonized him when he looked awesome as usual, even unshaven and with his hair a ruffled mess. But the same purposeful intent that had kept her more or less functioning the last year prompted her to ask, “Do any words go with that box?”

  He gave the blue velvet box a baffled look as if seeing it for the first time. “Right.” He took a breath. “I should have planned this better.” He brushed a hand over his wrinkled t-shirt. “I should have changed too. Sorry.” He dropped to one knee clumsily, caught himself before he toppled over and looked up. “I’m not good at this…I don’t mean I do it a lot—” he paused—“or at all, actually. In fact, I’ve never even thought about…oh hell, I’m screwing this up. Will you marry me?”