From them.
His hands slid up her back, dragging her closer, closer, hungry and hard. She breathed in his touch and pressed into him, felt herself twisting, pulling, fighting closer, his tongue plunging deep, her mouth wild and dark, his need feeding hers.
She twisted her fingers into his hair, felt the ends curling into her palms. Her fingers clenched and his mouth closed deeper on hers as her body convulsed against the hard pressure of him against her belly.
She cried out when he jerked his head back.
He filled her view, the harsh lines beside his mouth, his eyes a dark smoky fire she needed to burn in. She stared into his eyes and felt her world spin.
Sensations. The crackling fire behind her, the hard pressure of his arm on her back, her body crushed intimately against his from hip to breast, pulse beating so hard she wasn't sure whose heart kept the rhythm.
Her fingers tangled tighter in his hair and she tried to draw his mouth closer.
Gray spread one hand over her cheek, forcing her face up to his with his thumb under her jaw.
"Is it like this when you're with Alex?"
His words sent hot awareness flooding over her. Gray's erection, hard and needy, pressed against her belly. Her response clenched deep inside, the pulse beating hard at the fork of her body, a madness in her veins.
Right now, if she pulled his mouth back to hers, pulled the fabric of his shirt aside and pressed her throbbing breasts to his naked flesh...
"Is it, Emma?"
He pulled her harder into him and her eyes closed, her body melting into him, throbbing yes against his, her heart losing its own rhythm. Then his hand slid down and grasped the aching mound of her breast and her head fell back.
His voice twisted in her. "How can you want me like this, Emma, if you love him?"
She jerked free—or he released her; she wasn't sure which. Her heart pounded hard like an out-of-balance washing machine, the air suddenly cold and harsh through her sweatshirt, her hands empty.
She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered, couldn't pull her eyes away from him. She needed his hands back on her flesh, needed his body against hers, naked, flesh to flesh.
"Why did you do that to me?"
"Emma..." He stepped back one pace, then two. "You'd better get some sleep," he said harshly.
Somehow she found strength to tear her gaze from his, to turn away. She opened the flaps to the tent and crawled in, onto the sleeping bag on the right side, hands on the cold surface of the bag. She sat and turned to take her shoes off and slip them outside the tent wall. Through the open flap she saw him turn with an abrupt motion and disappear.
She had to sit on his bag to get hers unzipped. Two bags, identical to the touch, illuminated in shadows as the flames outside sent subdued light through the tent wall. When Gray's hand had pressed her into him, her body had responded hungrily, starving for him. It would be so easy to remember how his hand would slip through the layers of fabric, searing her breast, making it swell and peak.
Oh, God. All those years ago it had been a hot madness when he touched her, but this was worse. Her body throbbed as if it would die without him.
This was some sort of reaction to Chris's disappearance, not real, no more real than Gray MacKenzie had been to her all these years.
How could hands and lips and a man's hard body combine to set off a nuclear explosion inside a woman? She was tired—overtired, overstressed, short of sleep and short of sanity. And he wasn't real. He was part of the wilderness, and she was anchorless out here, cut off from her own reality.
How much clothing would he take off before he got into his sleeping bag? How much should she strip off?
Which bag did he want?
She hadn't the nerve to call out and ask which side he preferred, a crazy intimate detail she would be wise not to learn. She crawled into the sleeping bag on the left with all her clothes on. When she turned over to face the wall of the tent, the lining of the sleeping bag caught and turned with her.
Where was Chris?
She tried to visualize him sitting comfortably under a tree somewhere along the shore, imagined that when she found him he would look at her in that too-grown-up way and say, "Aw, Mom, you didn't have to start all this search business. You should have known I'd be okay."
Gray would find her son and everything would be fine.
As she rolled onto her stomach, her clothes twisted and pulled uncomfortably. The flames threw monstrous shadows onto the wall of the tent and enough light to illuminate the lumpy shadow of Gray's empty bag.
She'd been curious, that's all it was—curious in flashes all day whenever she looked at him, whenever she saw his body move or caught his eyes on her, remembering his touch all those years ago. Remembering once, just once, his hands caressing her naked flesh to evoke the trembling sensations of awakening womanhood.
She'd wondered what his touch would feel like after all these years. It was natural to wonder, wasn't it? He'd been her first lover. She was curious about what it was like to go skydiving too, but that didn't mean she was about to jump out of a plane in flight.
It would have been better not to know.
Madness. It would be gone with the morning.
* * *
Gray could see moonlight through the nylon of the tent, which meant the storm had cleared enough to let some sky show. By the wind in the trees he could tell the gale was still blowing, but the clearing sky spoke of change.
He figured two kayaks could have ridden out last night's south wind if they were in one of the narrow channels, if their occupants were experienced and smart enough to head for shore during the hours when current and wind fought each other to create huge standing waves in the tide rips.
Chances were the kid was smart, and he did have some experience. Also, he wasn't alone, which upped his survival odds considerably. But hypothermia could steal two lives as easily as one, especially if they'd both taken a soaking in a stormy sea.
It seemed more likely they'd run into some problem with their equipment or a medical problem, and they were stalled on shore. Hopefully it was equipment, which would leave both boys fit. Their Outward Bound training should give them the survival skills to make sensible choices that would maximize their odds.
Best case scenario, it would be just a matter of time until someone found them, healthy and hungry and eager for rescue.
He knew Emma wasn't sleeping. She'd been facing away from him when he came into the tent and switched on his flashlight, her body held rigidly motionless. Pretending to sleep.
"Take your clothes off," he'd told her. "If you sleep that way you'll wake up sweaty and miserable."
She'd given no response except for a tense quality to the stillness.
"Take them off, Emma, or I will."
He'd turned then and gone back outside. Motionless, he'd listened to the rustling that was Emma undressing, trying not to think of exactly which garments she might be removing. He'd been obsessed by a woman all his adult life and had no idea what she wore when she went to bed.
It made no difference what was—or wasn't—between her skin and the sleeping bag so long as she'd shed enough clothes to sleep comfortably. He damned well wouldn't let it make a difference. She had concealed his child from him for seventeen years. Whoever she was, she didn't match the fantasy he'd created of her. Why in God's name would he want to become entangled with a woman who'd never been anything but trouble? She'd promised him the earth and stars with her eyes and her lips, but when it came to the crunch, all she'd given him were lies.
He'd lain awake for hours now, too aware of her, torn between storming out of the tent and turning toward her. He needed to pull that thick sleeping bag away and bury himself in every female curve of her body, to caress her until she turned hot and frantic, until she moaned his name.
Or Paul's name?
Face it, she'd married Paul, had stayed married for years until Paul died. The odds were it was Paul playing the lover in any
nighttime fantasies Emma had.
Or perhaps it would be Alex now, the man she was going to marry. Gray hadn't believed in Emma's fiancé when she first mentioned him, but when she talked about his magic with kids, he'd heard tenderness in her voice.
Not love, just tenderness. But how could he know for certain?
Damn! His thoughts and emotions were swinging like a randy teenager's. He closed his eyes and began deliberately to review this section of the coast, to plan tomorrow's search. Eventually, he managed to drift into that state between wakefulness and sleep.
"Gray?"
It was only a whisper on the night, her voice as he remembered it, close and uncertain after their passion was exhausted.
"Gray, are you awake?"
If he turned toward her, he would reach to touch, so he kept his hands clenched at his sides. He wasn't about to let himself be torn apart over Emma Jennings again.
"Yeah," he growled.
"I hear sounds outside."
He stretched his attention and noted the rustle of branches. The wind must be shifting to southwest, which meant the storm was moving past. He heard a groan, probably the friction between a standing tree and the trunk of a windfall tree rubbing against it; some small animal rummaging nearby. There were always sounds in the bush, like an old house at night.
He'd been hanging around the bush behind his father from the first time he could remember. He couldn't remember a time when the wild had seemed strange, but Emma would have no way of recognizing any of these sounds.
Back when they were kids, he'd never taken her inexperience into account. He thought of the day he'd challenged her to prove she loved him by packing a suitcase and running away with him.
I was too scared to follow you into the wilderness eighteen years ago.
"Is it an animal?" she whispered.
He turned his head and saw the shape of her face. Not the color, just clean lines and shadows. Her hair was caught back from her face. He could see the sweep of it and the angle of her jaw.
"Probably raccoons. They'll be down by the water."
He reached his hand to touch her face, stopped himself in time, but couldn't get rid of the memory of how she'd felt in his arms only hours ago. As a girl, she'd been all coltish sensuality, but earlier tonight it was a woman he'd held in his arms, lush curves and quick sensual breath. He'd kissed her and felt her hunger meet his, setting off a raging need that still pulsed hard in his body.
Had he imagined her response, creating passion and need because he wanted it that way, because it was too long since he'd been to town, too long since he'd been with a woman?
"Can we see them?"
He jerked at her voice.
"What? What did you say?" Jesus, man, get hold of yourself!
Why the hell had he suggested she sleep in the tent? The plane would be better, separated by the seats. But he'd seen her rub her leg so often through the day, had noticed her placing it carefully at lunch when they walked. She hadn't complained. He couldn't remember her ever complaining about her leg, figured she wouldn't no matter how much it throbbed. She'd always been so damned determined not to be held back by anything, especially her weak leg.
Whatever else had changed about her, her stubbornness remained intact.
He heard her sleeping bag rustle, knew she was facing him and imagined he could feel her breath on his cheek.
"I've seen raccoons in the city," she said. "Near the hospital at night sometimes I get a glimpse of one. If I went outside, do you think I'd be able to see them, or would they run?"
Outside would be better than here with the knowledge that he'd told her to take her clothes off. He could see a pile of clothes at the foot of her sleeping bag, so she wasn't wearing much. Although she was probably scared and vulnerable and worried sick about Chris, and he was worried, too, because he knew just how easy it was to die out here, that didn't seem to stop his wanting her.
She needed comfort, not sex.
"Gray?"
"Yeah." He shoved aside the sleeping bag and reached for his jeans. He had to get out of here.
He had his jeans in his hand and the tent zipper open when he made the mistake of turning to look at her in the moonlight.
If he bent down, if he touched her face...
"Come outside," he said gruffly, "but be quiet."
He stood outside the tent to pull on his jeans, his hands were shaking as he zipped them. It would be a miracle if he got through tonight without touching her again.
He should have taken her back to the house for the night, should have headed home earlier, before the storm started. Separate rooms would have put a wall between them.
He damned well needed walls. Earlier, she'd been wildfire in his arms only moments after she told him she'd promised herself to another man. Nothing much had changed, he told himself brutally. Emma Garrett was the same woman who'd once been Emma Jennings, who had professed undying love to Gray MacKenzie, then given herself to his best friend the instant his back was turned!
She came out of the tent wearing jeans and the fleecy sweatshirt she'd worn earlier. She looked very young in the moonlight, her hair tied back with a scarf, her fists clenched at her sides.
He held out his hand.
She hesitated, then put her hand into his. Her fingers felt cool and very, very smooth. When they curled around his, he felt their strength and realized she would need strong hands and a very precise strength to use her fingers and the tools of a surgeon to repair broken bodies.
He led her to the broadest log, walking ahead of her, stepping to the next log only when he spotted solid footing for her. As he stepped down onto the gravel beach, moonbeams streaked raggedly across the bay to the shore. The wind hadn't shifted directly into this inlet yet, so he knew the southerly hadn't finished its blow.
When a black silhouette moved just at the water's edge, Gray murmured in Emma's ear. "There he is." He reached across her shoulder to point, felt her hair brush his naked arm as she turned her head. The night air moved on his chest without chilling him—no shirt, and he was burning inside like a furnace. Man heat, hunger driven.
He would simply have to starve it.
Down at the water's edge, the coon stretched one paw into the water.
Emma's voice was a throaty whisper on the night air.
"What's it doing?"
Gray bent close to murmur an answer and his nostrils caught the scent of the perfume she must have put on yesterday morning.
"Eating," he growled softly.
"Eating?" she echoed.
He told himself not to touch her shoulder, even as his fingers closed on the curve where her upper arm began. He slipped his arm around her and felt her tremble. She stood tall, but he knew how she would feel if he drew her back against his chest. He knew, too, that it would be a mistake.
He pulled her back until the solid warmth of her back pressed through her sweatshirt into his chest. A ripple went through her and it ceased to matter that this was insanity. He needed to feel her, closer.
Whatever the price of this mistake, he would pay.
His hand found the softness of her midriff through the sweatshirt and his arm tightened, increasing the pressure. She tensed and he held his breath, bracing for the shaft of pain that would come when she broke free.
The breath went out of her with a soft sound and he knew she wasn't going to push him away. He wrapped his other arm around her, drew her more tightly into his chest and met the roundness of her buttocks against his thighs with a hard shudder of arousal. He had to fight to stop himself from pulling her around to face him, from tearing her clothes away and plunging himself into her heat.
Slowly, his pulse slowed to a hard hammering and he became aware of the individual sensations that were Emma, silk in his arms, soft and strong. He spread his fingers and felt the ridge of her waistband through the fleecy sweatshirt. He breathed her scent in, felt the tickle of her hair between his face and her throat. He buried his face in it, and with his mou
th he sought the scarf she'd used to tie it back.
When he pulled with his teeth, the wind caught the scarf and took it away. He stood there in the moonlight with her softness in his arms, her hair blowing all around them. If he moved his hands up a few inches, he would have the soft abundance of her breasts in his palms. He closed his eyes and let himself drown in her breath, in the feel of her body pressing against his hands with each ragged pulse.
He didn't give a damn what was in her dreams. Right here, right now, she was his. Nothing else mattered.
He slipped his hands down to the hem of her shirt. He held his breath, felt her gasp as he found the silky warmth of her naked flesh underneath. His hands sought and captured the warmth of her breasts.
"Emma," he groaned, "so incredibly soft..."
The peaks of her breasts grew hard against his palms. He bent his mouth and buried his lips against her throat.
His name trembled on her lips, pulsing and breathless. He caught her erect nipples gently with thumbs and forefingers, and when she groaned, he felt an answering shudder deep inside his body.
She caught his hands with hers through the sweatshirt. Slowly she turned to face him, gasping as his fingers slid away from her breasts. Her face was white under the moon. He reached out and closed his fingers over the hem of her shirt and slowly lifted the fabric with both hands.
She lifted her arms as he stripped away the barrier. For a moment she was imprisoned, the shirt covering her face and raised arms. The blood of some barbarian ancestor throbbed in his veins, urging him to take her naked breast, to feel her writhing, willingly trapped against him, her naked torso glistening and white.
He tossed the shirt aside, eyes locked on the woman. Her breasts had always seemed too heavy for her slight body to carry, lush and inviting. When he cupped them, a shudder tore through her.
"This is wrong," she whispered.
He stared at her body, saw her breasts swell with each gulp of air as if she needed to wrest oxygen from the night.
If You Loved Me Page 12