by JoAnn Ross
Not to hold the cold at bay, but to hold in the trembling?
“These dishes were one of the first things I bought when I was on my own,” she said after a moment, obviously aware that he was watching her. “My apartment was a tiny studio. No bedrooms. I didn’t have furniture; just two folding chairs, a card table. An air mattress. One of those blow-up things that people use for camping. I’d stick it in the closet during the day. It wasn’t much, but it was a home of my own creating. And I bought this set of dishes.” She shook her head a little. “Silly, isn’t it? Riley hoped they weren’t the family china.”
“These mattered to you more.”
“Yes.” Her voice was painfully soft. “Goodness knows, my mother would never have trusted me with her china.”
“Your mother was a bitch.”
He heard her suck in a breath. Slowly let it out. Then she pushed to her feet, stepping away from the mess in the kitchen. She stopped in front of him, keeping a good foot of distance between them. “If Will isn’t paying you to retrieve Riley, then why are you doing it, Logan? You don’t strike me as a man who owes anyone favors. So why are you really here?”
“You have to ask?” Yeah, Cole had asked him to take this on, but Logan could have refused to come to Turnabout if he’d wanted to.
He hadn’t.
He still didn’t know why. Curiosity? Stupidity? Or more likely that he had never fully gotten Annie out of his head.
She crossed her arms. Uncrossed them. “Apparently, I do have to ask.” She crossed them yet again. “Is it your family? Sara’s doing fine, you know. She misses you, I think, but she’s in a good place in her life. And Dr. Hugo—”
“I’m not here because of them.”
“Then why? Why get involved in another Hess mess?” She hesitated for a moment, looking pained. “I may have thrown myself at you years ago, but I have no desire to repeat that.”
“Really?” He could practically sense the fine hair on her arms standing at attention because of the tension passing between them. She’d been too young all those years ago. But that couldn’t be said now. And there was no pretending the chemistry wasn’t alive and well between them.
“I don’t go around asking for second helpings of humiliation,” she said flatly. “One was more than enough.”
His laugh was short on humor. “Humiliation? You? Come on, Annie, I’m the one who couldn’t—”
“Stop!” She lifted her hand.
Exactly, he thought grimly. He hadn’t stopped. And he damned well should have.
But she was talking again, looking vaguely desperate and entirely exhausted. “Let’s just forget about it, okay? It was a long time ago. I’d just as soon forget it ever happened.”
“Believe me, darlin’, so would I. Unfortunately, I haven’t quite mastered it.” The memory of that night had dogged him ever since.
“Good grief. It was a long time ago, Logan. I was seventeen years old and I threw myself at you shamelessly. But you’re the original good guy. You weren’t interested. You’d never do anything unsavory.” She shook her head, her lips turning down at the corners. “If you weren’t, we’d have been lovers sixteen years ago.” She thrust back her hair and turned away from him. She picked up a candle and headed down the hall.
He stood there in her quiet kitchen, listening to the faint sounds of her moving around in her bedroom, the soft whoosh of the ocean beyond her back door.
She didn’t remember.
The night that had haunted him for sixteen long years simply didn’t exist for her.
Chapter 7
Her heart thudded. Her skin felt too tight. For hours–days–she’d wanted to taste his kiss. To feel his body against hers. To touch him. He was different than anyone else. Especially Drago. And now was her chance.
She pushed herself up on her elbow and leaned over his prone body. There. She slid her fingers through his thick hair, carefully drawing it off his forehead. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
He didn’t reply.
Then she would kiss him. She leaned over him, hesitating for a breathless moment as her breasts pressed against his chest. Then she slid upward, nearly crying in delight at the feel of his chest hair—crisp yet soft—against her tight nipples. Feeling dizzy, she quickly pressed her mouth to his.
His lips were soft. Pliable. She felt his chest lift in a deep breath. She curved her body more closely against his. Nothing had ever felt as good, as strong, as steady as he did. She kissed him, aching for him to lift his hands, to hold her. Tell her that he felt the same, that he cared.
But he stubbornly remained silent.
She drew her leg up his, catching her breath at the sensation. Roughened by hair, and oh, so very warm. Her head swam. Before she backed out, she quickly shifted, slipping over him.
Oh. She weakly dropped her head forward, resting against his chest. Knowing what to expect in theory was a whole lot different in reality.
A whole lot better.
He made a low sound and caught her hips in his hands, pressing up against her. Yes. He was just as she’d imagined. Better. Hard where she was soft. Strong where she was not.
Before she could chicken out, she slid her hand down his side, his hip, where his skin felt impossibly smooth. She reveled in the varied textures of his body for a breathless eon. Then she shifted, reached between their bodies. Found him.
He felt hot. Hard.
For her.
She exhaled, truly shaken with want. For the first time in her life. “Now, Logan. Now, please.”
He turned her, suddenly. Colors spun in her head. And then he was over her, his mouth on hers, his hands fisting in her hair—
Annie opened her eyes with a start, sitting bolt upright in the middle of her bed.
Her fingers dug into the mattress beneath her. She was on Turnabout. In her own room. In her own house that smelled—impossibly—of coffee.
She was alone.
She exhaled shakily and slowly relaxed her grip. Her eyes felt gritty and dry from too little sleep. Weak sunlight filtered through the unadorned window beside her bed, and she automatically reached over to turn on the small lamp sitting on the bedside table.
The bulb remained dark.
The electricity was still out.
She fell back against the pillows, bending her arm over her eyes. Could half a night of dreams as tangled as the bedding that twisted about her legs cause the imagined smell of coffee?
Somehow, she doubted it.
Which meant that Logan was out there finding some creative way of brewing coffee that smelled heavenly. She usually preferred the herbal teas she and Sara produced, but right now, her nerves were crying for a solid jolt of caffeine.
She groaned softly and turned her face into her pillow. If only the previous day had been as unreal as the dream. She’d long ago accepted that the dream was a defense against a reality that so shamed her she couldn’t bring herself to recall it. But this time, the dream had been particularly...lifelike.
It’s just because you knew that Logan was sleeping on the other side of the wall behind your bed. Just because you were exhausted after lying awake most of the night.
Right. All the excuses in the world couldn’t make her forget that, even now, her body hummed.
She was torn between wanting to stay in bed with her head buried like an ostrich in the sand and a need to put herself as far away from the bed and dreams of Logan as possible. She knew from experience that the ostrich approach would accomplish nothing. And the dreams were nothing more than a defense.
The day before had happened. The week before had hap
pened. The mistakes of her past had come back to haunt her.
So she pushed aside the sunny yellow blanket that she’d retrieved from the bathroom tub-shelter when she’d left Logan standing in her living room the night before. She untwisted the white sheet from her legs and forced herself out of the bed.
Unfortunately, every movement she made awakened a host of aches from head to toe. And alerted her to the fact that it was freezing.
She replaced her flannel pajamas with thick sweatpants and sweatshirt. Then added another sweatshirt over the first. She pushed her feet into rubber-soled socks and padded out of her room, stopping briefly in the plastic-roofed bathroom. One glimpse of herself in the mirror over the sink was enough to shock her back to her ostrich position in her bed, but she resisted the urge.
She wrangled her hair into a clip at the back of her head, and warily tried the faucet. Water spat from it, then eventually ran in a thin, clear trickle.
Hallelujah. She’d never felt more thankful for her antiquated water cistern.
Still, she didn’t waste a drop as she quickly brushed her teeth and washed her face. Feeling somewhat more alert, she went in search of the fragrant coffee with a silent, fervent assurance to herself that she did not care if Logan thought she looked as bad as she knew she did.
That assurance fizzled the moment his shocking-blue gaze looked at her over the mug he had lifted to his mouth. He lowered the mug, revealing the amused tilt of his lips. “Morning, sleeping beauty.”
She briefly considered baring her teeth. Why was it that men like Logan actually improved—a feat in itself—under circumstances like these? He hadn’t shaved, his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them—which he probably had. And he still looked like fantasy-fodder.
Or dream-dweller.
She focused on the green metal camp stove sitting on top of the real stove. A blackened coffee pot sat on one burner, and a large saucepan on the other. The cupboard and mess of broken dishes had been cleared away.
Obviously Logan’s doing.
She walked past him and looked into the pan on the camp stove. It contained water that was just coming to a boil. “You’ve been to town?” Obviously he had, since she didn’t own a camp stove.
She should have awakened earlier. Gone to town herself. Checked on Riley.
Checked on a way to get Riley home as quickly as possible.
“Yeah. I went by your fields, too. I’m no master gardener, but I didn’t see much damage that a few days of sun won’t cure. The town’s a mess, though. Looks even worse in the daylight.”
Her knees felt weak. “Thanks for checking the fields. Did you see Riley when you were in town?”
“Yeah. Maisy’s put her and some other kids to work, keeping April and some of her friends out of mischief while their folks start putting things back to order.”
She blindly reached for a mug and concentrated on pouring coffee into it as Logan spoke. April was Maisy’s granddaughter, and after a lifetime of poor health that had been reversed thanks to an operation earlier that year, was becoming quite a handful. She figured Riley—who’d been resourceful enough to find her way alone from Olympia to the island—was probably equal to the task. “What about the, um, the ferry?”
“Two of Diego’s boats sank. The third needs major repairs. The Coast Guard has already been out; picked up the heart-attack victim and a couple other injuries to transport them to the mainland.”
“Then we could get another charter out here.”
He shook his head. “The coastline is fogged in. Flights are grounded. The guard will be back with some supplies when they can, but they’re dealing with other problems that are considerably more their domain. Why are you so anxious to get rid of Riley?”
Coffee sloshed over the side of her mug. “You came to the island to get her.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Annie ripped a paper towel from the roll and sopped up the spill. “She’s safer with Will and Noelle.”
“Are you so sure about that?”
The towel crumpled in her fist. “You’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, Logan. And look at all that’s happened in that time.”
He leaned his elbows on the breakfast counter and his shoulders strained against the wrinkled fabric of his shirt. His expression was unreadable. “I’ll be as happy to get off this rock as anyone. But there’s been a storm. Nobody’s fault but nature’s. Riley is fine. And nobody is any closer to knowing the real reason she ran away. So what’s the hurry?”
She dropped the balled paper in the trash as she took a sip of the coffee. It nearly scorched through the roof of her mouth.
“It’s hot,” Logan offered blandly.
She let out an exasperated breath. “Gee. Thanks for the warning.”
The corner of his lips tilted. “Anytime.”
Her stomach was in knots and thanks to her tumbles the previous day, her body ached nearly everywhere. Yet she found herself struggling not to smile at him.
She didn’t want to like Logan Drake. She’d liked him years ago. Too much. But that period of her life was so full of painful memories that anyone from it—including him—seemed tainted with it.
All of which was moot. The only thing that mattered right now was getting Riley back home—away from Annie—before something even worse happened. That was the hurry, she silently reminded herself.
She gingerly sipped the coffee, hoping it would dissolve the pained lump in her throat. All she succeeded in doing was burning her tongue.
“Annie.”
She glanced at Logan. It was all she dared. Then she looked back down into the strong black coffee steaming inside the mug. Still too hot to drink, but at least holding the mug warmed her cold hands. “I don’t think it’s ever been this cold since I’ve lived here.”
“It’s in the low forties, probably. Thanks to the generator, everybody in the big building was warm, though. Including Riley. Sam doesn’t have a clue when the power will be restored. Half the plant’s fried. Looked like it took a hit of lightning.”
She nodded. Tried to drink a little more, but contented herself more with inhaling the heated aroma. “I’m glad she was warm there, then.”
“Thanks for the bed last night.”
Her cheeks warmed, right along with her palms around the mug. “I, um, you’re welcome.”
“Not that I gave you much choice.”
“True.” She chanced another look at him, only to find herself unable to look away when his gaze captured hers. He still had that thin black ring surrounding his irises, making the blue seem even bluer.
“I was interested.”
“Excuse me?”
“Last night. You said I wasn’t interested. I was. And you knew it.”
Her mouth ran dry.
“When you were seventeen.” He pushed off the barstool. “And now.”
Her spine bumped the refrigerator when he rounded the counter, seeming to take up all the space in her minute kitchen. Panic and something else—something she desperately feared was longing—streaked through her veins.
Longing? She didn’t long for anything. She didn’t allow herself that luxury.
“Stop!” She put out her arm, splaying her fingers against his chest. “I, um, I don’t do this.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Ever?”
“Never. And I don’t believe you about...about before.”
His lips twisted. “Right.” He
covered her fingers with his, pressing them over the heavy beat of his heart. “Feel that? Nothing’s changed.”
She swallowed. She couldn’t have spoken just then to save her soul.
Despite the blur of beard, his jaw looked tight. “I thought I could clear my conscience. About this, at least.”
His conscience? “I don’t...Logan, I—”
“Hell,” he whispered. Then covered her mouth with his.
Her mind went blank. Her nerves came alive.
A dream was one thing.
Reality another.
Not hell, she thought vaguely. Heaven.
Flavored with the heady taste of dark coffee. Textured with the soft rasp of an unshaven cheek against the palm of her hand. Protected by shoulders that she knew were wide enough to hold the world at bay.
Just that easily, that rapidly, she wanted to drown in it. Drown in his kiss. In his touch. But she couldn’t. Oh, she couldn’t. She’d shut off that part of her, hadn’t she? Cut it out of her existence, because it was so much safer.
His arm slid behind her back, pulling her closer, keeping her upright when her knees dissolved, setting her coffee mug aside when she was in danger of dropping it. She shivered, a trembling that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with his fingertips, slipping beneath her layers of fleece, grazing her spine. “Logan—”
“Sshh.” He tightened his arms around her, and she sucked in a harsh breath as he lifted her and settled her on the counter, stepping between her legs, capturing her face gently between his hands, turning her lips up to his yet again.
Her head swam. Was this another dream? So exquisitely vivid that waking from it was almost painful? She dragged her mouth from his, pressing her forehead against his jaw.
This is real. He is real.