by JoAnn Ross
“Then you’re stronger than I am.” He wouldn’t release her hand, but she had the rest of her body at her disposal, and she arched against him, fitting herself against him. “Because I can’t.”
He let go of her hand and suddenly lifted her until she sat on the edge of the bed. Some portion of her mind thought he must have eyes like a cat to be able to make out anything at all in the night-blackened room. She heard a rustling, sensed that he’d risen and was pulling off his jeans.
Then his hands slid over her thighs, between them, and she stopped thinking altogether.
She felt his kiss on her knee. Her thigh. Her shoulder. Her breast.
Never expected, a random delight.
She dug her fingers into the bedding beneath her. Her head fell back like an overblown bloom; a moan rose in her throat. Where his lips fell, his hands teased elsewhere. Sliding down her spine, seeming to feel out every vertebrae, grazing soothingly over the still-tender scratch, then pressing against her throat, as if to absorb the feel of the gasping moan she couldn’t seem to contain. Skimming over her panties again, slowly urging them away from the moisture where they clung.
And his rough exhalation when his hand covered her.
Her stomach clenched, hard.
Her thighs instinctively closed and he made that soft shushing sound again, stilling until she relaxed once more.
And then she felt his fingers draw through that moisture, sift through that down. She sank back against the bed, pulling at him, certain that their heartbeats were as loud as their uneven breathing.
She wasn’t a virgin, there was no point in pretending she was. But this was still new to her.
New and—oh, please—so excruciatingly wondrous.
His hand rocked against her. “Yes?”
Her head twisted. She pressed her heels against the mattress. “Yes.”
Then his mouth was on her, and everything she thought she knew ceased to exist. There was only him. His loving.
She cried out, and the bed squeaked ever so softly as she convulsed, only his hands on her to keep her from flying apart.
Shudders still quaked through her when he finally—finally—moved up onto the bed beside her. She was barely aware of the hot tears that had streaked out from her eyes, but he seemed to know they were there, and he brushed them away, murmuring nothing as he tucked her head against his chest, and held her while her world tried to right itself.
A futile endeavor.
There was his heart, thundering beneath her cheek. His abdomen rigid beneath her palm as she slowly stroked down his torso.
He caught her hand before she could reach him. “Wait.”
She could no more wait now than she could have stopped earlier. But he didn’t go anywhere. Just leaned away for a moment. Then she heard a soft tear, and the bed gave that little squeak.
Realization nudged through the desire that shrouded her. “I’ll bet you were an Eagle Scout,” she whispered.
“Always prepared.” He tipped her back and her thighs eagerly welcomed the weight of him.
And then there were no more words. Nothing but her soft cries and his long, low groan, as he pressed into her tight body. Again. And again. And when she started trembling wildly, his hard palms slid against hers, his fingers threading through hers.
He could protect her from herself. But as they hurtled into the abyss, and his head fell to her shoulder, her body a cradle for his, she had the fleeting thought that, perhaps, she could protect him, too.
* * *
Annie’s eyes came open with a start. She propped herself up on her arm and Logan’s hand slid through her hair.
“You okay?” His voice was husky with sleep.
She listened, not sure what had wakened her. But the house was silent. No storm raged outside. The glimmer of dawn had broken through the window, bathing her bed in hazy silhouette.
“I don’t know. Yes.”
She looked down at him, and, no matter that she still felt weak from his lovemaking, her blood suddenly ran streaking through her veins.
His hair looked darker than ever against her white pillow and his shoulder where her hand rested looked like bronzed satin. But it wasn’t his darkly handsome looks that made her nerves sing. It was the way his gaze touched her face, the way his eyes looked into hers, intensely intimate. Sunlight unfurling her petals.
Helpless in the grip of it, she leaned over him, her lips a hairbreadth from his. She slowly drew her leg up his, and reveled in the way he inhaled, his chest pressing against her breasts. His hands skimmed down her spine, then curled around her hips as she slid over him, and with agonizing slowness, began taking him in.
He groaned. His fingers flexed against her hips, and she cried out, her senses racing as he thrust upward, then twisted over, dragging her beneath him. Stealing all coherent thought but one.
Reality was better than the dream.
Chapter 13
He’d filled the bath for her. And the water was warm enough to actually steam the air in the chilly bathroom.
While she’d slept, he’d heated gallon after gallon of water.
She was still scrambling for composure against the thoroughly unexpected gesture when the door creaked and he joined her.
A practical man who could be impractical.
She leaned up, sliding her arms around his shoulders.
“Hey.” He hastily set down the pot of hot water he carried. “If I’d known all it took was warm water—”
She laughed softly and pushed away, tilting her head away from him to dash at a tear. She slipped off her robe and quickly stepped into the water.
It felt heavenly. She slowly sat and leaned back. Even though she was anxious to get to the community center and check on Riley, she sighed deeply. How much could a little time hurt? “Ohhhh, yes.”
He made a strangled sound.
She looked up at him through her lashes. “Come on in, Logan. The water’s perfect.”
“I heated the water for you.” He moved the pot of clean water until it was within her reach.
She slid down until the bathwater lapped her chin. Her hand lazily drifted through the water. “We already know there’s room for two. I’ll wash your back,” she added.
“And what will you let me wash?”
“Whatever you can reach,” she said, and bit her lip at her own bravado.
He dropped his jeans. “Scoot forward.”
Annie swallowed at the sight of him, bravado fading. No moonlight shadows to hide behind, no tangle of bedding. Only...him. Mercy. She let out a little breath and sat forward, the water sloshing.
He stepped into the water. As he slid down, the water level rose dangerously high. Then his arm scooped her back against him, and a small wave lapped over the side of the tub. He reached for the oval cake of soap sitting in the abalone shell she used as a soap dish and held it up between his fingers. “Island Botanica?”
“Of course.”
He dipped the cake in the water, then rubbed it between his hands until they were slippery with a velvet-soft froth. “Smells like you.” His deep voice vibrated through her back.
She plucked the soap from his hand and—sacrificing another splash of water over the side—slid around until her back was against the other end of the tub. If he touched her with those soapy hands of his, she’d be lost. “I want to get to Riley this morning.”
“Before the Denver delinquent gets to her first?” He caught her ankle and lifted it out of the water, soaping his way from her toes toward her ankles and beyond. “Relax. It’s early yet. You wake up at the crack of dawn. It’ll be a while yet before anyone’s stirring over at the community center.”
Relax? His hands were slipping over the sensitive skin behind her knees. “On an ordinary day, I work in
the fields before we open the shop. Whoa.” She jerked her leg back. “Enough of that.”
He slanted a knowing look at her, then captured the cake of soap from the water that was turning milky. His legs bumped hers. “Never enough of that.”
He was wicked, that’s what he was. She curled her legs closer to her side of the tub and finished washing them.
He laughed softly.
And she had a long moment’s qualm over her ability to keep this in perspective.
They traded the soap back and forth. Cursing under his breath, he used her razor to shave, then—despite her embarrassment—watched avidly as she quickly dashed it over her legs.
Perhaps bathing with a man was ordinary fare for other women, but it wasn’t for her. She’d never felt more exposed, or more disgustingly gleeful.
Ordinary. Ordinary. Pretend this was ordinary. “What’s an ordinary day like for you?” She quickly tilted her head back into the water, poured shampoo in her hand and started working it through her hair. The water was cooling all too quickly. “When you’re not stuck on islands you hate while trying to retrieve your friends’ runaway kids, that is.”
Her tone was light, her half smile teasing. But the words only served to remind Logan that his days on Turnabout were numbered.
“That’s more ordinary than you’d think.” The irony tasted bitter. He reached out for the pot of clean water and handed it to her to rinse the shampoo from her hair. While she did so, he stood. Water sluiced down his body and he very nearly scooped her out of the water despite everything when her green gaze widened and lingered on him.
That vaguely shocked, utterly fascinated look of hers was enough to melt an iceberg. He stepped out of the tub into a good inch of water on the floor. “There’s another pan of water on the stove.” If it hadn’t boiled dry by now. He left the room, snatching a towel off the rack as he went.
He wrapped it around his waist. His wet feet slapped against the tile as he headed into the kitchen. The water hadn’t boiled down to nothing, but the flame had gone out.
The fuel can was empty. Only one full can remained.
He sighed. Damage to Turnabout wasn’t extensive enough to warrant federal assistance, and—to Sam’s well-earned disgust—the town council had already assured other emergency channels that they were handling their own recovery efforts perfectly well.
Yet they hadn’t managed to get power restored; they hadn’t done anything to bring necessities to Turnabout. They had only ensured that the severest injuries had made it off Turnabout.
He didn’t doubt his ability to get off the island. He’d never doubted it. He wouldn’t have come to Turnabout without being entirely certain about leaving it again and the storm hadn’t changed that.
So what the hell was bugging him about it now?
He exhaled, shoving his hand through his hair.
With no effort at all he could go back into that dinky bathroom, scoop Annie against him and stave off coherent thought for a considerable length of time.
But reality—his reality—would still be waiting.
He slowly unscrewed the fuel can, threw it in the trash with vicious aim and turned away.
Annie stood there wrapped in a towel, her eyes wide. “You’re upset.”
Aggravated, annoyed and generally frustrated didn’t begin to cover it. “No.”
Her gaze slipped to the narrow trash can. She sucked in her lower lip for a moment. “You can talk to me, you know.”
Could he? They’d climbed inside each other’s skin until they were inseparable. But had they really talked? “I’m not angry,” he said.
Her lashes swept down. She gave an acquiescent little nod that made him feel as if he’d kicked her. “I should get to Riley.”
“That’s it? No argument from you, no debate, no challenging what I say? You just accept it and head on down the road for another day?”
She winced. Kicked again. “What do you want from me, Logan?”
He hadn’t wanted anything from her. “I want you to stop acting as though life is going to punish you if you don’t toe some line of perfection that your head has drawn in the sand.”
Her eyes looked like bruised gems, but at least they contained a spark. “Life’s already punished me, Logan. And frankly, I like myself a lot more now than I ever used to. Can you say the same?” She shook her head after a moment. “Of course, you won’t say anything. You can come here, play hero where Riley is concerned, get a little action from good ol’ Annie, who’s more like poor little Annie nowadays, and head on out again feeling like you’ve done us all a service.”
“I didn’t—”
“You ought to look in a mirror, Logan. You need help just as much as the rest of us human beings. Do you even let anyone know who you are? Let anyone inside?”
“I let you inside,” he said flatly.
She looked startled. Then sad. The corners of her lips curved downward. “I think we both know there’s little truth in that statement. Despite what...what we’ve done together, there are too many things we don’t know. Too much we hide.” She looked down and tucked the folds of the towel more securely around her. “We’re a lot alike, Logan. You and me. I don’t think I realized that before.”
“You’re nothing like me.” She planted, nurtured, harvested, and went back and repeated the process.
He destroyed. Once and for all. End of story.
“You let someone in—me—only as far as you deem comfortable. But the rest of you, you hold off. You’ll chance yourself only so far. Because you don’t want to get hurt.”
“I don’t get hurt.”
Her eyes went soft. “I think you’ve been hurting longer than any of us, Logan Drake.”
He deliberately eyed her. “The only thing hurting me is caused by wanting what that towel covers.”
She swallowed. He watched the motion all down the long line of her throat. Then her fingers flicked the knot holding the towel and the thick, soft terry cloth plunged to the floor, piling around her feet.
She had a beautiful body.
But what grabbed him by the throat was the sight of her pulse throbbing at the base of her neck.
She lifted one foot clear of the towel. Then the other. Until she stood right in front of him, a feast of slender, soft skin and lush female curves. And he had no clear idea of how he’d come to have his backside against the counter, and her tight nipples pressed against his bare chest.
“What’s hurting you, Logan, isn’t here.” Her hand skimmed over the front of his towel, so lightly he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it. “It’s here.” Her palm settled on his chest, over his heart. And even though her touch was still light, still little more than a hint of contact, he felt the burn of it as if she’d pressed a hot poker to him.
Then she turned and walked away, gracefully bending down without slowing to pick up the towel. A moment later, he heard the soft, definitive click of her bedroom door latch.
After a long while, he forced himself to move. To pull on another set of borrowed clothes.
He was waiting outside when Annie finally let herself out the front door. If she was surprised to see him still there, she didn’t voice it. Nor did she make any comment when they silently walked to Leo’s golf cart that sat on the side of the road where he’d left it the night before.
Was she glad he’d turned that cart back?
Or was she sorry?
The sun was warm in the sky as it cleared the horizon; there was only the faintest of breezes and not a cloud in sight. A perfect Turnabout day, hinting at nothing but the coming spring.
The irony felt black and heavy.
They went straight to the community center.
A column of smoke rose from the fireplace in front. Someone had set up several long tables outside the double doo
rs. They were laden with large plastic bins containing fruit—oranges, grapes, apricots. A wide basket held muffins, and steam billowed up from a tray of scrambled eggs.
At least the generator was powered by gas and Diego had a good supply of that down at the dock.
Maisy—looking small next to the two men with her—seemed to be directing operations. She spotted Logan, and waved him over. “Perfect timing. Come help me move these tables. We need more room.”
Logan had no interest in seeing Hugo again. But he wasn’t going to ignore Maisy just because she stood next to him.
Annie looked from him to Hugo. With a murmured “good morning,” she headed inside the building.
Maisy pulled him by the arm and gestured where she wanted everything arranged. “George is cooking up breakfast here. Kitchen’s useless at the inn. Perishables have to be used up or thrown out.” She gestured at her cook—a lumbering man with a tattoo that seemed to shimmy covering his entire right arm as he whisked a huge bowl of eggs. “Might as well use the generator here for something. Everyone from the inn will be working their way up here soon.”
“Along with everyone else on this rock when they smell bacon cooking,” Hugo said. He studied his cigar for a moment, then stuck it between his teeth and grabbed the other end of the heavy iron table. The legs scraped against the flagstones as they dragged it where Maisy wanted.
Annie returned. “Logan. Riley’s not here.” Her face was pale. “She didn’t sleep here at all.”
Maisy looked up from the box of cooking utensils she was rummaging in. “Saw her this morning, Annie. Just a little while ago. On the beach. She was with that Hobbes boy—”
“Kenny.” Her voice was tight. Gravel crunched as she spun away on her heel.
Logan caught up to her in half a stride.
“This is my fault.” Her hands raked her hair back. “I should have kept her at the house with me.” She broke into a jog, her smooth-soled shoes skidding as she hit the hill that led down toward the beach.
She had barely rounded the old stone sea wall when she broke into a run. “No! Get away from her!”