She located it at last as it swung back and forth gently, hanging by one strap on the branch of a slender birch sapling, and she scowled at it as she rubbed her sore, scratched shoulder where the pack had rested. Then she squinted at the sky which had shone with such promise just an hour ago, but now looked so sullen, and she could have cried. Nothing had really gone right since she had got out of bed that morning.
As there was nothing else to do, she flexed her fingers and grasped hold of the sapling's smooth, slim trunk to give it a good hard shake. A swallow exploded into flight with a panicked warble and something hit her on the head. Blowing feathers out of her face, she looked around in time to see the bird's nest bounce into the ferns.
'Oh, damn!' she exclaimed in remorse. All she had managed to do so far was to dispossess a bird, and the pack still hung on the branch.
'I'm beginning to think,' said a conversational voice from above, 'that you should be kept on a leash.'
Her heart jolted with surprise and with a supreme effort of will she managed to avoid her head jerking up. It was too much to hope that he would go away if she ignored him, but she was too disconcerted by the way her skin had flushed hot and her limbs begun to shake at the sound of his voice, so she tried anyway and concentrated on narrowing an assessing gaze at the twelve-foot slope in front of her. If one could call it a slope. It was a nearly vertical wall of crumbling soil, rocks and protruding tree-roots, far easier to fall down than to climb up.
'What,' continued the infuriating fellow, 'no glad amazement, no astonished cry of welcome?'
At that Kirstie did glance at him. Francis's green eyes smiled down at her from over the edge, his chin propped in one hand. 'I should have expected you to show up,' she told him flatly. 'All misfortunes come in threes.'
'I must be quite mad,' he said placidly. 'There are far easier maidens to rescue in this world.'
'Did I say I needed rescuing?' she snapped.
'I see you get my point.'
'What happened to my pack? And how did you know I was down here?' Now that he had found her, she was going to have the devil's own time losing him again. She couldn't remember when she had last been so intensely irritated with a man.
'Your pack was well within reach from up here.' He dangled it briefly over the edge to show her. 'And as far as locating you goes, I just happened to be taking a stroll around this side of the lake and followed the sight of this sapling's spasms and the sound of your charming curses. Are you hurt?'
The last had been asked without a change in his calm expression, but the light tone in his voice had gentled so unexpectedly that she felt those stupid, irrational tears prick at the back of her eyes again.
'No,' she replied grudgingly, 'only shaken. Go away.'
He shook his head and a black lock of hair fell into his eyes. 'Not until I see that you're safely out, and soon. In case you hadn't noticed, it's about to rain and, when it does, that ravine is going to fill up with water.'
She tilted back her head and a large raindrop fell on the side of her nose, to trickle tear-like down her cheek. Clenching her teeth, for he was right, she said between them, 'All right, all right. But as soon as I'm out, will you for God's sake leave me alone?'
His expression revealed absolutely nothing. 'If that's what you want,' he agreed equably. 'If you can climb part-way up, I'll lift you the rest of the way out '
'The thing is, Francis,' she said, her gaze dropping doubtfully to the crumbling wall in front of her, 'I'm not entirely sure it's possible '
'Of course, if you're not up to a little effort, I can always go back to the cabin for a length of rope,' he added.
'I'll be right up,' she told him grimly, and started to climb.
The first three feet were easy, but it had begun to rain in earnest. Not only were all the available handholds becoming slick, but the footholds were rapidly dissolving. She managed to scrabble up another half-yard before risking a glance at Francis. He had swung his strong legs over the edge, braced one foot at the base of a young tree that was growing out of the side of the gorge and was leaning over with his hand outstretched.
'Come on,' he encouraged, 'almost there.'
Hot and panting, Kirstie longed to tell him to speak for himself but she didn't have the breath. She peered past a dripping fringe of blonde hair to work out her next handhold. If she went left, then right to the tree Francis was using, she should be able to reach those long, inviting fingers.
The first part of the plan was no problem. She stretched out, arm shaking, tendons straining. Her hand clutched the trunk by Francis's foot; she trusted her weight to her grasp.
'Well done!' he said and reached for her wrist.
But the rain had already done its damage. The tree came loose from its weakened foundation and shuddered forward. Francis rocked off balance. Flat against the side of the gorge, she felt a tiny shower of dislodged dirt and pebbles against her neck as she slipped downwards two feet.
'Look out!' she shouted warningly. He made one more attempt and lunged desperately for her hand. With a creaking and a snapping of roots, the tree broke free. She instinctively ducked her head into her arms as she fell for the second time, crying out as her bruised shoulder connected hard with the ravine floor.
Francis twisted as hard as he could to avoid the impact with her slight-boned body, but he still landed half on top of her. She grunted and he rolled away immediately to come up on his knees and bend over her.
'Dear God,' he said, in a shaken voice quite unlike him. Her eyes flew open, for she had never heard him sound like that before. 'Are you all right?'
'I—I think so,' she whispered, staring up at him.
'Are you sure?' He ran his hands up her legs, probing with care, then checked her arms. Icy shock from both her falls had set in, and the warm, sure touch of his fingers brought a languid, blood-red tide of heat washing over her so that she shivered in convulsive reaction.
Rain had plastered his black hair to his head and ran in rivulets down the side of his neck. He slipped one gentle arm under her shoulders and lifted her against his chest. Turning his vivid green eyes down to hers, he splayed one hand along her side. 'What about your ribs?' he asked.
The ball of his thumb collided with the swell of her breast and, betrayingly, he caught his breath. Electric sexuality crackled through her body as she stared at him, helpless, caught by the wild race of her heart. He had to feel it. It thudded against the palm of his hand. His eyes flared with green fire, and with a tiny clenched shift he cupped her breast.
Her whole body arced in shocked pleasure and as her face tilted upwards he made some small sound at the back of his throat and kissed her, soft as the rain, like the last time, but then his head slanted sideways and he drove between her lips with his hot, seeking tongue, and the last time was banished forever into the past as he hungrily invaded every part of her mouth.
A moan broke from her at the piercing, darting sensation, and he drank the sound away, then unabashedly, voluptuously sucked her tongue into his mouth. She shuddered all over, her one free arm sliding up around his neck, her hand seeking the evocative curve of the nape. It brought him down on top of her, sliding the heavy weight of his torso along hers, an unbearable friction that brought them hip to hip.
His fingers slid over the top of her breast and slowly, tightly raked across the raised nipple he felt through the soaked fabric of her top. Rampant fire shot through her so sharply that her mouth moved, but his was the groan that vibrated through both of their chests. With abrupt urgency, he left her mouth, ran his tongue down the length of her pale, exposed throat and bit at the nipple thrusting so tantalisingly against her T-shirt.
She cried out, twisting underneath him. She was so achingly hot, she felt as if clouds of steam should be rising off her body. His head pulled back up to her face where the skin was tautened over the delicate bones, and as he bent to lick her lips he thrust the bulky, hardened weight between his hips against hers in an ancient communication of desire
. It pressed her on to the uneven ground, upon which the rain was pounding, and she lifted her own hips in silent, hungry answer.
And opened her eyes at the same time. And looked at his darkened, heat-flushed face.
Realisation, like a lightning bolt, was fatal in this climate.
Dear God. She looked up and saw Francis Grayson. What was she doing? How could she act like this? A simple touch, a single kiss, and she would have lain back on this fern-filled bed and let him take her. To go from heated passion to being stone-cold sober was as agonising as coming down from a drug. She pulled away from his kiss. His black, wet head reared back. He opened brilliant eyes, but they were blind.
She said stiffly, 'If you're quite through, perhaps we should try that climb again.'
Slowly expression came back to him. She turned her face away from it. 'What happened?' he asked.
'Nothing. Do you mind getting off me? Thank you.'
'What do you mean, nothing happened?' Francis sounded very odd. He sounded too patient, as if he were humouring a recalcitrant child. 'One moment you're with me all the way, and the next it's switched off. What flipped the switch, Kirstie?'
Kirstie pushed herself up on hands and knees, her short hair darkened and plastered flat to her head. 'I'm tired, and this mud feels foul, and all you want to do is sit in a puddle and argue,' she gritted, near to tears, she was so upset with herself. 'Well, argue with yourself. I'm getting out of here.'
The tree she and Francis had dislodged had wedged itself about halfway into the gorge. She scrambled on to it, stood, and swung herself on to the edge at the top. Then, without waiting to see Francis emerge, Kirstie fled—she couldn't kid herself, she knew it— back around the lake towards the cabin.
She got as far as the fishing-hole. At that point she heard Francis behind her. His was a body well trained in short bursts of speed and manoeuvring. Even as her head turned, he scooped her up in both large hands. The impetus of his dash sent them over the edge of the rock.
They hit the lake together. Kirstie screamed in surprise at the chilly water that closed over her head. All the breath left her body in a choked gasp. She fought to get to the surface as Francis grabbed hold of her again and pulled her head out of the water.
The water was five and a half feet deep at the spot where they had fallen in. Francis could easily stand, whereas Kirstie couldn't touch the bottom. His hands went to her waist and he pulled her against him as she gasped and sputtered.
'Why did you go and do that?' she cried furiously.
His own eyes glittered hot and bright with anger. Water cascaded down his neck and off broad shoulders, and more was falling into his eyes from the sky. He gave her a grim smile. 'Took care of the mud, didn't it?'
Out of sheer temper she splashed his face in retaliation, an action so ridiculous that he laughed, which made her even angrier. 'Let ' kick '—go' kick '—of me!' In the lake she wasn't able to do much damage, but the last kick against his shins was violent enough to loosen his hold on her waist.
Awkwardly she splashed to the tangled, overgrown shoreline and tried to drag herself out, but the muscle in her left thigh protested against all the abuse she had heaped on it, and cramped. 'Ah!' she cried, doubled up. 'Oh, ouch!'
At once Francis was at her side. As soon as he had climbed out of the water, he reached and picked her up. She was tempted to lash out at him again, but the cramp in her leg was too absorbing. She couldn't even straighten her knee. Evidently he had no desire to rile her further, for when he had reached dry, solid ground he dropped her and strode towards the cabin. She immediately crumpled into a heap, wrapped her arms around her body and shivered.
Francis glanced over his shoulder. When he saw her crouching, bedraggled figure, he walked back to stand in front of her with hands on hips. 'Since you were the one who was so uncomfortable, why aren't you getting up?' he asked suspiciously.
She glared at him through the wet strands in her eyes. 'I would if I c-c-could,' she bit out. 'I've g-got cramp.'
'Heaven give me strength!' He scooped her up again as easily as if she were a ten-pound sack of potatoes and once more strode for the cabin.
Kirstie considered the shape and grace of his collarbone directly in front of her face, bracing herself as well as she could against his chest as she ground her teeth at the painful muscle spasm. The downpour had become a torrent, and the clearing was almost totally dark. So was the cabin as they entered.
'Where's the light switch?' he asked shortly. It was right by his shoulder. She reached out and flicked it on by way of answering.
He crossed the room, set her gently on the settee and started to shove logs from a well-stocked bin into the empty fireplace. A large box of matches was on the mantel. After he had placed logs in a compact, well-designed stack, he lit both ends and soon had a fire going well. The first welcome hint of heat licked across his skin.
He looked at her. Kirstie sat hunched and grimacing over her awkwardly doubled legs. 'I'll go get blankets. Can you strip off those wet clothes by yourself?' he asked.
'I can try,' she muttered, shooting him an annoyed glare.
She managed to unzip her jeans but couldn't get them down her legs when he knelt, dripping, in front of her. 'Look, I'm sorry,' he said when she tried to push his hands away. 'I lost my temper. It was a stupid thing to do. But you've got to get out of those jeans before the heat will do your leg any good. Let me help.'
If looks could kill, God would have had the grace to sizzle him by now. She gave up on her fit of pique, lifted her hips and hissed as he eased the wet denim down both slender white legs. Then she grabbed one of the blankets and wrapped it around her torso.
Francis knelt by her leg and contemplated it with a frown. The muscle spasm was visible to the eye under the velvet skin. 'There's no other way to do this,' he warned. Before she could stop him he had taken firm hold of her thigh and massaged the length of it for several minutes. Kirstie squirmed a frantic protest against the pain, but eventually she was able to uncurl enough to straighten the leg properly.
How strangely comforting, she thought as she watched those long fingers curl around the back of her knee. He was still dripping wet, yet the touch of his hands was warm. As the muscle unclenched, his massaging grew lighter. Seen from that angle, the line of his jaw was beautiful.
What had made him so angry?
'Better now?'
'Yes.'
He looked up and into her open eyes. This time the sexual voltage was so leaping, it seared her to the bone. Her expression filled with dismay; she drew back.
But Francis was already rising smoothly to his feet. 'Fine,' he said, his voice carefully neutral. 'I'll go start you a hot shower. If you stand on under it for a good long time, you won't even be left feeling stiff.'
By the time she remembered to thank him, he was already out of the room.
Forty minutes later, Francis walked out of the bathroom and to his bedroom, a bath-towel slung around his waist, his manner preoccupied. Kirstie's eyes gobbled up the sight of the man, for he was magnificent. She swung out of the living-room chair she had been sitting in and walked into the bathroom.
It was full of steam and Francis's fresh body scent. She could develop quite a reaction to his scent. His sodden clothes were in a pile at one end of the bathtub while hers were still in the sink. The lacy white strap of her bra hung over the side of it. She stuffed it under the shirt while her face burned.
Who would have thought it? Francis Grayson, Wall Street's seventh wonder, kissing skinny little Kirstie Philips from New Jersey. Put like that, the incident in the ravine sounded at best inexplicable. At its very worst it could have been manipulative, coercive.
But she knew better than that. The sensual awareness had been all too apparent in his eyes. Her own face had been naked with it.
She piled the heavy clothes into the laundry basket and threw it outside the door, in a turmoil of disorganised thought. Complications—everything about the man was a complication. Ki
rstie had no problem with the fact that Francis was supposed to be a very attractive man. She just wasn't supposed to be affected by it.
Today was early afternoon on Wednesday. That meant three more nights alone with him. It was a totally unacceptable computation. She scrapped it and counted up the hours. That, too, sounded astronomically high. What if he tried to kiss her again? What if he tried to seduce her? She'd be putty in his hands, and the worst part was that the fate sounded thoroughly enjoyable.
What if she tried to kiss him?
With the edge of her sleeve, she polished the bathroom mirror in obsessive circles. Kirstie's imagination on the subject was a bit too vivid. Her body flamed over.
Maybe there was something wrong with her. She stuck out her tongue and looked at it.
'Are you all right?' Francis leaned against the doorpost, eyeing her sceptically.
'Probably not,' she sighed and flinched away from the sight of his hair sprinkled, healthy chest. The least he could do was have the decency to cover himself. She forced herself to stare at him, hard. 'Louise did say one thing that could be taken in your favour. She said you always kept your word. If you were to promise me something, would you stand by it?'
A wary look crept into his eyes. 'If I make a promise, I keep it,' he replied, stressing the first word.
'Can you promise me to keep away from Louise until after the wedding? I mean, not even so much as to give her a phone call?'
'By this I take it you want to go back early and your decision hangs on what I reply to that,' he said, with dry acuteness. A shutter came down over his face. Not by his stance or by so much as a twitch of an eyebrow could she tell what he was thinking. 'No. I won't promise it.'
Did he still want Louise after all? Kirstie had to turn away as a headache began to throb at her temples. She busied herself with straightening the handtowel on its rack. There was utter silence in the doorway until, finally, she turned around to give him a tight, pale smile. 'Get your things ready. We can leave in a half an hour.'
Passage of the Night Page 7