“Fortunately, it’s a cool night,” Cat declared, and stalked out.
Just what the hell had she meant by that remark? Raven wondered. Idle conversation? It was cool, a welcome contrast to the eighty degrees when they’d left Golden Beach. Did Cat simply mean they’d be able to sleep inside their bags instead of lying exposed, side by side on top? Or had she actually noticed his state of arousal? The damned lantern had very strong batteries.
Fortunately, Raven had come equipped with a T-shirt himself. Black, extra long. He hadn’t been stupid enough to think he could sleep in the raw with a bunch of strangers. He’d been visualizing a cabin full of people, however. Not sharing a tent not much bigger than a card table with Catriona MacDuff. The situation was lethal. Two nights of torture with no way out unless he wanted to blow off the whole investigation. Mark, if you only knew what I’m suffering for you . . .
After digging his oversize T out of his carry-all, Raven groped for the switch on the lantern. The tent plunged into darkness illuminated only by the faint wash of light from the bathhouse. He wiggled out of his tunic and full pants, left his briefs in place, then shimmied his way into the T. Changing clothes someplace you couldn’t stand up was definitely a diabolical punishment designed by a particularly nasty grinch.
Raven glanced up. Cat was nicely silhouetted against the glow from the wash house as she headed back toward the tent. He scrambled into his sleeping bag, somehow managing to keep his eyes on Cat. Oh, yeah! Nothing but a T-shirt became her. Particularly one intended for someone much shorter. It clung in all the right places, flopped enticingly above legs that seemed to go on forever. When she crawled into her sleeping bag, he just might be able to cop a peek of something more. Raven heaved a sigh. He bet she was wearing undies too. Probably armor-plated. Maybe one of those Medieval chastity belts.
The picture of innocence, he crossed his hands under his head, stared at the nylon ceiling as Cat bent down to enter the tent. He felt like a ten-year-old peeking through a crack in his parents’ bedroom door as his eyes shifted right, hoping she wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t. She was, in fact, doing her best not to look at him as she inched her way into her bag, wiggling, tugging down her hemline, wiggling, tugging . . .
Oh, hell, she’d outfoxed him. And she was going to pretend she thought he was asleep. Too bad. He wasn’t through with her yet.
Chapter 8
“You don’t have to cringe, you know,” Raven said, his voice crossing the inches between them like a caress. “That wasn’t pea soup they were serving tonight.” A soft sigh. A hairline crack in the Viking façade?
“I-I’m sorry about that story,” Cat murmured. “Max just loves it, I’ve never figured out why.”
“It’s a virility tale. A Medieval Viagra joke. Max probably needs it. In a way it might have been easier for him if he’d been more severely injured. He’s still got enough smarts to understand he’s damaged.”
“That’s occurred to me a time or two,” Cat admitted. “Alys tells me he was hell on wheels for mischief and having fun, but always gentle. He only looked like a rough, tough biker. She says he was always the one who stepped in to break up fights. They called him Bubba the Bouncer.”
“There’s nothing that can be—?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Alys is a saint.”
“Right.” Cat tugged the sleeping bag up under her chin. “Hard to believe it was hot when we left home,” she murmured.
Weather. They were reduced to talking about the weather?
“Oh!” Cat exclaimed. “I forgot to tell you I signed you up for Newcomer Class. Nine to eleven in the morning in the Feast Hall.”
“Kate! Uh–Cat,” Raven groaned, “I didn’t join LALOC to go back to school.
“The teacher is great, you’ll love him. And you have to go. You can’t show a serious interest in LALOC and not take the Newcomer’s Class. You’re entering a whole new world here. You have to understand the rules.”
Raven shifted his body, trying to get comfortable. No way was he going to be able to sleep in his briefs. Now if LALOC had a class in how to prevent living in a continual state of arousal while sharing a tent with a celibate female . . .
“I signed us up for the Lech class too.”
“The what?” He couldn’t have heard correctly.
“The Fine Art of Lechery,” Cat quoted. “It’s a first-time class, so I have no idea what it’s about. But the title sounded intriguing, so I signed us up.”
“I thought LALOC was into fighting.”
“That’s just one aspect. There’s archery, leather-working, manuscript illumination, weaving, music, brewing, children’s activities. Not everything happens at every Event, but there’s always a variety.”
One word caught his attention. “Brewing?” Raven echoed.
“Mead. You wouldn’t believe the variety of flavors. Magnifique!”
Great. But puzzling over what the hell mead was wouldn’t ease his pain. And a cold shower had little appeal on a nippy Florida night.
“Uh, Cat?” He wasn’t just prolonging the conversation, Raven told himself. This was something that needed to be said. Had to be said. “I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for what you’re doing. I know this can’t be easy for you.”
Silence. Finally, a very soft, “No, it’s not. Goodnight, Raven.”
“Goodnight, Cat.”
Easy, Cat groaned. Easy? Dear God, it was torture. Even exhausted and surly as he’d been the night he’d tried on his garb, Michael Turco had exuded enough pheromones to saturate the air of her mobile home. The overpowering lure of sex—blatant lust—had filled her brain and body with dizzying thoughts and sensations she’d thought long shut away, like outgrown toys or games played once too often. And in a tent . . . in a tent he was devastating. Cat doubted she’d sleep a wink. She’d known this wouldn’t work. Couldn’t work. She hated being attracted to him. And if she gave in, let nature take its course, she’d hate him and herself as well.
Oh, lord, he was moving! Cat tensed, ready to whack him or run for it. Raven’s wiggling subsided. More rationally, Cat considered his contortions, decided Raven had removed his underwear. Boxers . . . briefs? Did it matter? She squeezed her eyes shut, ordered her heart to stop pounding. Why he’d done it was all too obvious.
She wasn’t exactly comfortable with her bikini panties either. But damned if she was going to take them off! She’d toss and turn and stay awake all night before she’d remove her panties. Which was, of course, perfectly ridiculous. Symbolism, that’s all it was. Stupid, ineffectual symbolism. She was trying to fool herself into thinking she was protected by a scrap of fabric that could be torn away in an instant. Cat squeezed her eyes tight shut, burrowed into her pillow. Raven’s aura was surrounding her, suffocating her. Miserable man! She wasn’t going to sleep a wink.
Raven was unsure of the time. Certainly well before dawn. He’d finally fallen asleep, and was as suddenly awake with no idea why. Then the distant sounds hit him. Screams, shouts, general commotion. Pausing only long enough to scrabble around inside the sleeping bag for his briefs and plunge his bare feet into his boots, he was off and running.
Ignoring the danger of ruts and wayward tree roots, he pounded down the sandy road toward the buildings in the center of the campground. The sounds which had echoed through the night diminished to an occasional short shriek. His well-honed cop’s instincts said this was no wild goose chase. He burst out onto the main camp road, skidded to a halt, his boots kicking up a shower of sand. What the hell? The area in front of the Feast Hall was alive with people, each silhouette moving at a frantic pace in some strange choreography that might have been a segment out of an early silent movie. A farce. Because every movement, every person, every booth, every tent was being deluged with fountains of water. Shimmering arcs of silver illuminated by the spotlights under the eaves of the Feast Hall.
Raven shut his open mouth, firmly told himself it wasn’t funny, before approaching the
chaos at a trot. Obviously, the vendors needed to salvage their merchandise, but had anyone gone to the heart of the problem? Tried to find a way to turn off the automatic lawn sprinklers?
He shouted his question through the deluge. The answer came back in a chorus of no’s. The vendors had been so busy rescuing the crafts they had spent long hours creating that no one had tried to get the water turned off.
Raven surveyed the buildings along the main road. The Feast Hall, the Trading Post, the central restrooms were the only places he was sure of. The ranger had to live close by, but where? He turned away from the first building he approached when he saw the red cross on the door. Loping on down the camp’s main road, Raven pounded on the next door. A small building. No answer. He kept on going. Ah, a good-sized cabin—maybe this was it. He was hopeful when a light switched on, the door swung open.
“I’m looking for the ranger,” Raven declared.
A young man, garbed in a long brown tunic and matching rumpled curls, drew himself up, gave Raven a look which clearly said that anyone running around a campground in the middle of the night in T-shirt and briefs must be a sexual offender. “This,” he announced grandly, “is the royal enclosure. The abode of King Corwyn and Queen Eilis, Prince Marius and Princess Kiriana. We haven’t the slightest idea where the ranger is.” He slammed the door in Raven’s face.
The little prick—he’d like to tear him limb from limb. Raven raised his fist, paused within a fraction of an inch of the door. Not the way to ingratiate himself with LALOC. And the vendors were still being deluged with water. After a glare which should have ignited the wooden door into spontaneous combustion, Raven jogged toward the next building, a solid, promising structure set back under a canopy of trees.
Cleve Johnson opened the door, surveyed his unexpected visitor from head to toe. “Nice outfit,” he intoned.
Michael could have sworn he hadn’t blushed since eighth grade, but something was flooding over his bronzed skin and up his neck that made him exceedingly grateful for the dim light. He supposed running around a campground in a black T that flirted with not quite covering the bikini briefs beneath wasn’t quite the accepted attire, particularly at a LALOC event. Quickly, he mumbled the reason for calling on the ranger in the wee hours of a Saturday morning.
Raven was rewarded for his efforts by being returned to the Feast Hall via Cleve Johnson’s golf cart—after they paid a visit to the shed housing the controls for the sprinkler system. The Feast Hall area was quiet now, the vendors standing in huddles, looking over the dripping mess, shaking their heads. Several had dug out towels and were drying themselves off, mopping up their now-empty display tables. Among them was Cat, her soaking wet nightshirt a sight to behold. She might as well have been naked. The excitement of the night, Raven’s speculations on how it happened, faded away. Forget queen or princess. Catriona MacDuff was a goddess.
He didn’t hear the ranger apologizing to the vendors, assuring them he had personally turned off the sprinkler system earlier in the day. Raven didn’t need to listen. He and Cleve Johnson had had a thorough discussion of the mysterious deluge while driving the golf cart to the rescue.
Raven held out his hand to Cat. “Come on, let’s go,” he said. “We’ve done all we can. It’s going to take sunshine to dry things out.”
Cat murmured a soft round of condolences to the vendors, offered her help in setting things to right in the morning. She did not take Raven’s hand. As he swung into step beside her, however, he had no trouble seeing her blue lips, the rigid set of her shoulders against the chill night. Raven peeled off his T-shirt, ignoring Cat’s protests as he pulled the dry shirt over her head.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, averting her eyes from the sight of his bronzed inches clad only in black brief and zippered boots. “You’ll freeze,” Cat added, almost sounding as if she cared.
“Well, maybe a little,” Raven conceded, “but I know how to fix it.” He folded an arm around Cat’s shoulders, tucked her into his side.
Cat stiffened, tried to jerk away. Raven held on tight. “It’s okay,” he soothed. “I’m only keeping us both warm ’til we get back to the tent. I never thought I’d think so longingly of a blasted sleeping bag.”
Cat withdrew into herself, refusing to allow her mind to function. There was nothing but the nearly pitch black night, the soft scuffle of sand, the warmth provided by Raven’s rugged body plastered to hers. No coherent thoughts, no fears, no emotion at all. No anger, no resentment of male dominance. No desire. Just the soothing noises of deep woods at night, the sound of their breathing—too harsh, too fast.
The lights on the wash house nudged her back to reality. If anyone saw them, it would be a boost to their cover story. The two of them cuddled together, one in a T-shirt, the other wearing only briefs. They looked as if they’d sneaked off into the woods for more privacy than the tent afforded. Cat winced. Even fate was conspiring against her.
No, not fate. Cat’s brain slipped back into gear. The ranger said he had personally turned the automatic sprinklers off. Therefore, this was another mysterious prank to be added to the odd list plaguing LALOC and the Medieval Fair circuit. But she wasn’t about to discuss it with a nearly naked man.
As their tent loomed up before them, Raven let her go. Cat ducked down into the gloom of the interior, Raven on her heels. She was cold, wet, tired. Panic surged back with a vengeance. “Turn your back,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am–uh–my lady. Do you mind if I crawl in my bag first?”
“Go ahead.” Cat found a towel, then rummaged through her pile of garb. She’d brought only one nightshirt, so for the rest of the night an old tunic would have to do. She glanced at Raven. There was enough light filtering in from the wash house to show his head firmly turned toward the far wall. Cat peeled off the two layers of T’s—both now soaking wet. She picked up the towel, hesitated, despising herself for her inner turmoil. She might as well have been a nun set down in a monastery. Her instinct was to turn her back to Raven while she toweled herself dry. Worldly cynicism decreed she couldn’t trust him. Warily, Cat compromised on a rapid dry from a three-quarter position which allowed her to keep one eye on her tentmate.
A swift pull, and the old tan linen tunic was over her head. Heaven! The simple comfort of being dry. Cat went outside, laid the towel and two T-shirts on top of the tent where they would catch the early morning rays of the Florida sun. They should be dry well before noon.
At last, cocooned in her sleeping bag, Cat had to face her errant thoughts. Raven’s touch—even while she was dripping wet—had burned. Tucked into his side, his arm around her shoulders, she had plunged into some strange nirvana of sensual pleasure, shutting out everything but his consuming warmth, his nearness, the wonder of being held. She’d forgotten what it was like to feel that good. Had she ever known? For with Raven she felt . . . perfectly safe. Even though common sense screamed that was the most foolish, misguided thought ever to pass through her pea-sized brain.
Hidden by the darkness, Cat allowed herself a tiny smile. She closed her eyes and promptly fell asleep.
Raven was still tossing and turning when the birds burst into joyous chorus and the sun penetrated the trees, shining off the Spanish moss dripping from the live oaks, illuminating the tent as if it were high noon. Jesus! What he’d give to be back in his sound-proof condo with heavy vertical blinds. Then he peeked at Cat, sound asleep, her blond hair splayed over the pillow. Raven recalled the all of her revealed by the soaking wet nightshirt. Okay, so there were worse places than an igloo tent containing a beautiful Amazon. His admiration turned to a glare. Things had to change. He couldn’t go on like this.
It’s a job, Turco. Just a job. You’ve been undercover before. That auto theft ring, the rental car scam . . . You need a new woman like a hole in the head. Particularly, a complicated mixed-up female like this one.
Raven groaned, heaved himself out of his sleeping bag. One good thing about being up with the birds. He had first dibs
on the wash house.
Cat pried up one eyelid, then the other, following Raven’s long strides toward the restrooms. A shaving kit dangled at the end of one well-muscled arm. What would he think when he discovered there were no mirrors? She should have spoken up, offered her traveling mirror which could be hung from any convenient nail, branch, or loop of fabric.
But she’d wimped out, pretending sleep when his first faint stirrings had brought her instantly awake. The birds she was used to; a virile male body lying next to hers was a whole ’nother ballgame. She was no longer alone. She was terrified. She loved it. She was so unaccustomed to having anyone near her while she slept, all he had to do was twitch, and she was awake. Which is why she’d been close on Raven’s heels when he’d gone running toward the commotion outside the Feast Hall. So many of the vendors were her friends, she’d plunged straight into the frenzy of saving the merchandise, confident Raven would find a way to get the sprinklers turned off.
And, of course, he’d done just that. Hollywood would undoubtedly take one look at his rough-hewn face, the deep, true black of his hair, and cast him as a villain, but Cat recognized hero material when she saw it. She just didn’t care to dwell on it as he was enough of a threat to her inner self without having to admit his bare skin glowed like shining bronze armor.
Cat sighed. After last night there was no way she could disguise him as a tame housecat. She would have to show him off as a prize. The man who had enough . . . Cat shied from naming what Raven had. He’d wanted to blend in, be as close to anonymous as possible. Instead, he was the man of the hour. The ranger’s buddy. The man who was sleeping with Catriona MacDuff.
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