by Gina Wilkins
He drew back far enough to cup her face in his hands, studying her with anxious eyes. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.” She reached up to touch her fingertips to the deep cut on his forehead. “How did this happen?”
His shrug was impatient, dismissing his latest injury as unimportant. “I saw you go under. I never saw you come back up.”
“It took me a while. The force of the water kept shoving me back down.”
“You could have drowned.” His voice was suddenly bleak. “I was afraid you had.”
“I thought the same about you,” she whispered. “I was so afraid for you.”
“We’re okay now. It’s over.”
“Yes.” She tried to give him a smile. She couldn’t quite manage it.
A new look of panic flitted across his face as he leaned over her. “Don’t cry, Chloe. We’re safe.”
“I’m not crying,” she insisted. She was sure the moisture on her cheeks were raindrops, not tears. Until her breath caught in a sob. And then another.
Donovan groaned. “Damn it, Chloe.”
He touched his lips to one of her rain-and-tear-streaked cheeks, and then the other. His mouth felt so warm against her icy skin—and yet she shivered in reaction to his touch.
When his lips settled on hers, she forgot all about the rain and the cold, her aches and pains, and their bleak situation. She simply wrapped her arms around his neck and allowed herself to get lost again. This time she didn’t even try to find her way to safety.
Their lips had touched before, but this was the first time he had really kissed her. And it answered one question once and for all—
Donovan really did kiss as skillfully as he did everything else.
His lips were hard. Hungry. Either his emotions were being influenced by the dramatic near-miss they had just survived or this kiss had been building for a long time. She knew which one was the case for her.
Four days ago, this man had been a complete stranger to her. Sometime between that day and now, she had managed to fall in love with him.
She had waited so long for it to happen to her. She had almost given up hoping that it ever would. How could she have known that love would find her so soon after she’d finally stopped searching for it?
He lifted his head only a fraction of an inch and started to speak. Chloe wasn’t quite ready to hear what he might have said. She drew him back down to her.
He kissed her again, but something had changed this time. She sensed him trying to gather himself, trying to get his needs under control. Donovan wasn’t a man to let himself get swept away for very long, if ever.
She didn’t try to stop him when he pulled away this time. He rolled to his back, letting the rain pelt his face for a moment before he shoved himself upright.
“We should walk as far as we can before dark,” he said, his voice impassive, his face expressionless. “We’re both too wet to worry about the rain now, anyway, so finding shelter wouldn’t do us much good. And you’re shivering. You’ll probably warm up quicker if we’re moving than if we sit still.”
She knew he must be fully aware that her trembling had little to do with being cold, but he seemed to be pretending nothing earth-shattering had just happened between them. “Donovan?”
“At least we’re on the other side of the stream,” he said, half turning to look back at the water. “Not exactly the way I would have preferred to cross, of course.”
“Donovan, I—”
Still without meeting her eyes, he offered her a hand. “Here. Let me help you up.”
He wasn’t going to talk about it. Not now, anyway. She took his hand, but was careful to support her own weight as she rose slowly. “Do you know how to get back to the road?”
“Yes. You really weren’t carried very far by the water. Not as far as it probably seemed to you.”
“The rain seems to be letting up a little.”
He moved a spreading bush aside and held it until she moved past. “Yeah. I think it’s about to stop. It’s about time we had a little luck. Watch your feet. It looks slippery ahead.”
It was ridiculous that they were discussing the weather, she thought as she glared fiercely at the ground ahead. How could he kiss her the way he had and then start talking about the chances of rain?
He was right, of course, to change the subject. This was hardly the time to discuss the future—at least any future beyond getting out of these woods.
And still she heard herself saying, “I’m not going to marry Bryan.”
Donovan hesitated a few moments, then stumbled on. “That’s between you and Bryan. But I still don’t think you should make a decision of that magnitude under these conditions.”
“I’m not being impulsive. My decision would have been no different even if we hadn’t been kidnapped.”
He stepped carefully over a fallen tree trunk, grimacing when he was forced to put his weight down on his right leg. “Let’s just concentrate on getting out of here, shall we?”
He moved ahead of her, and she looked at his back. His shoulders were squared, his spine very straight, even though his steps were slow and halting. He had withdrawn from her mentally, emotionally and physically.
Her instincts warned her not to push him. He was the one who obviously needed time to process what had happened between them. Maybe it wasn’t as easy for him to identify his emotions as it had been for her when she’d been struck with that stunning revelation that she was in love with him.
Remembering the unguarded look on his face when he had first seen her after fearing that she’d drowned, she told herself that he had to feel something. Replaying those passionate kisses in her mind, she wanted to believe that his feelings were as strong as her own. It was the possibility that she was wrong—that she had only read into the kisses what she wanted to find there—that kept her quiet now.
As badly as she wanted to be rescued, she couldn’t help wondering if leaving this forest would also mean saying goodbye to Donovan.
After finding the dirt road again, they struggled along without giving each other much assistance, since neither of them was in much better shape than the other. It had stopped raining again, though the air was still so heavy and damp that it was almost like breathing water.
Wet and cold, miserable and edgy, Chloe winced in pain with every step. She knew Donovan was hurting every bit as badly—if not more so—though he didn’t complain. He didn’t say anything, actually. He just limped on, his face grim, his movements determined.
He’d become the uncommunicative stranger again. Only this time she sensed that he was having to make an effort to remain that way. Now that he had reached out to her, she thought he would have liked to do so again. She could only speculate about his reasons for withdrawing so abruptly—loyalty to Bryan, uncertainty of her feelings, fear of the future or baggage from his past. All of the above.
“It’s getting so dark,” she gasped after stumbling into a rut and nearly falling on her face. “I can’t see where we’re going. Shouldn’t we find another cave or someplace to spend the night?”
“Try to make it just a little farther.”
Was he uncomfortable with the idea of spending another night in a cave with her? They’d spent three nights in each other’s arms now, their feelings escalating each night—was he afraid of what might happen if they spent another night that way?
Personally, she didn’t think he had much to worry about. She was so tired she suspected she might become comatose the moment she stopped moving.
She started to tell him so, but he reached out suddenly to grab her arm. “What—?”
“Look—over that way.”
Frowning in bewilderment, she followed the direction of his pointing finger. “I don’t—oh, my God. Is that—?”
“Yes. Come on.”
He hadn’t let go of her arm. Half supporting her, half dragging her, he led them off the road and across a rocky clearing toward the small, battered-lo
oking mobile home they had spotted.
Her heart pounded against her chest, and her breath caught in excited half gasps, half sobs. Rescue, she thought. Only now did she admit that she had begun to wonder if it would ever happen.
It took them a good fifteen minutes to make their way across the rough clearing to the trailer. There were no lights on in the windows, and Chloe had the distinct feeling that no one was inside. The feeling was confirmed when Donovan pounded on the front door and no one answered.
“Now what?” she asked wearily.
“We break in,” he answered, as if it should have been obvious to her.
“Just—break in?”
“Under the circumstances, I don’t think anyone would blame us. And if I cause any damage, I’ll pay for it. I just hope there’s a phone in there. At the very least, we can get dry and warm.”
Because dry and warm sounded so appealing at the moment—not to mention the prospect of a telephone—she stood aside without further comment and watched him efficiently break into the locked trailer.
She no longer even questioned where he’d learned the skills he’d displayed during the past few days. She was just glad he’d picked them up somewhere in his undoubtedly colorful adventures.
Motioning for her to wait a minute, Donovan stepped inside first. “Hello?” he called out.
Silence was his only answer. He groped at the wall near the door, and a moment later light flooded the main room of the trailer. “We have electricity,” he announced with satisfaction.
Her knees almost went weak in relief. She moved in behind him. The room was furnished in a style she could only think of as “early garage sale”—but it was warm and dry.
“I would speculate that this is someone’s hunting and fishing retreat,” Donovan said, glancing around the sparsely decorated trailer. “We must be close to a river—probably the one that stream empties into. And I’d guess we aren’t very far from other people.”
“Thank God. Is there a phone?”
“Not that I’ve seen yet. I’ll check the back rooms, you look in the kitchen.”
“I’m dripping all over the carpet.”
Donovan glanced down at the ragged green shag carpeting beneath their feet. “I’m sure it’s not the first time it’s been dripped on. Don’t worry about it.”
“I know. You’ll buy him new carpet, right?”
“Hell, I’ll buy him a new trailer,” he answered rashly. “Check the kitchen.”
It felt so good to flip a switch and have lights come on as a result. She didn’t see a telephone, but there was a sink, an old electric range and a small refrigerator/freezer combination. The fridge hummed; she opened the door and cool air brushed her wet skin, making her shiver and smile at the same time.
Closing the refrigerator door, she moved to the sink and twisted the left knob. After a moment, warm water cascaded over her hand. She could have a hot bath, she realized in delight. The prospect made her almost giddy.
A thick quilt was draped suddenly over her shoulders. Clutching it around her, she turned to find Donovan standing behind her. “Did you find a phone?”
“No. But there are some men’s clothes in one of the bedrooms. Jeans, flannel shirts, a couple pair of shoes. No shower, but a bathtub with hot water. And I found a real treasure under the sink—bars of soap, packages of disposable razors, several new toothbrushes still in the packaging. Why don’t you take a hot bath and put on some dry clothes while I look around for clues about where we are.”
Toothbrushes. If her feet hadn’t hurt so badly, she might have bounced in anticipation. She settled for a smile. “I feel a little odd about raiding someone’s closet without permission—but I’m sure you’ll buy him a whole new wardrobe when we get back to civilization.”
He almost smiled. “Absolutely.”
“Then I’ll ignore my scruples and take you up on that suggestion.” She smiled in anticipation as she hobbled past him.
“Chloe.” Donovan caught her arm when she would have passed him.
She looked up at him. He pressed a hand to her forehead, testing for fever. Their faces were very close together and for a moment she saw real emotion in his bright-green eyes. A quiver of response ran through her. But then he masked whatever he was feeling, released her, and stepped back. “You’re still running a fever. I didn’t see any aspirin in the bathroom, but I’ll look around in the rest of the trailer, see what I can find while you’re taking your bath.”
She nodded and left the room as quickly as her battered feet would allow.
Donovan was waiting outside the bathroom door when Chloe finally emerged. He’d begun to worry that she’d been in there too long. For all he knew, she could have passed out in the tub or something. He was too tired and stressed to consider how unlikely it was that, having survived a flooded stream, she would drown in a bathtub.
Her hair was wet again, but looked squeaky clean this time. Her fresh-scrubbed skin was starkly pale, except for the purple smudges beneath her eyes. She wore a big flannel shirt that almost swallowed her, falling all the way to her knees. Her poor battered feet were bare, revealing all the abuse they had taken in those woods.
The big shirt made her look small in comparison. Delicate. Almost fragile. He knew first-hand how deceptive that impression could be.
He remembered the first day he’d met her, when he’d thought of her as more pretty than beautiful. Funny how that impression had changed during the past few days. Now he was convinced that he’d never seen a more attractive woman.
“I found coffee in the kitchen, and I brewed a pot,” he said, his voice a bit brusque. “And I heated some canned soup. I also found a first-aid kit stuffed in one of the kitchen cabinets. I set out a bottle of acetaminophen. Take a couple to reduce your fever and then you can eat while I bathe. After that, we’ll see about treating some of your wounds.”
She nodded in response to his list of directions. “Soup and coffee sound good,” she admitted. “The hot bath warmed my outside, but I still feel cold inside.”
He smiled a little, as she had hoped he would, but it was hard for him to find any humor in what she had been through. “The food is in the kitchen. Have all you want, I’ve already eaten. I’ll hurry with my bath and join you in a few minutes.”
“Don’t hurry. Trust me, it feels too good to be clean again to rush through it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He watched her walk away, taking a moment to appreciate the graceful sway of her hips. Even walking on shredded feet, she carried herself like a princess, he thought—then scowled at his uncharacteristic fancifulness as he turned to lock himself in the bathroom.
A short while later, bathed, clean-shaven, dressed in a flannel shirt that was too short in the sleeves and jeans that were too big in the waist, Donovan ran his tongue over his brushed teeth and reminded himself to reward the owner of this trailer generously.
He’d removed the waterlogged, rigged-up splint before his bath. His leg was about three different shades of purple, but the painkillers he’d taken while he was making the coffee had eased the throbbing somewhat. He didn’t know if his leg was broken, cracked or bruised to the bone, but he figured it wouldn’t fall off before he could have it treated.
The cut at his temple had stopped bleeding, but that was a new lump and bruise to add to his collection. In his ongoing battle with nature, the other side was definitely a few licks ahead, he thought in resignation.
He found Chloe in the living room, sitting on the couch cross-legged with the first-aid kit beside her. She was making some rather odd contortions in an attempt to see the bottom of her feet.
“I told you I would help you with that,” he said, moving toward her as quickly as his own injuries would allow.
She must not have heard him approaching. Hurriedly making sure the big flannel shirt covered her adequately, she tucked an almost-dry strand of hair behind her ear and asked, “Why did you take off your splint?”
�
�I couldn’t take a bath in it.”
“I’ll help you get it back on.”
“Never mind. I’m not sure it was helping much, anyway.”
“But—”
“Forget it, Chloe. Let’s see about your feet.” He sat beside her and reached for the first-aid kit. “Did you have enough to eat?”
“Yes, plenty, thank you. The soup was wonderful.”
“Straight out of a can. You were just hungry enough for anything to taste good.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Give me your feet.”
“That sounds a bit odd,” she murmured, even as she turned sideways on the couch and complied.
Donovan ordered himself to keep a tight lid on his emotions as he reached for her right foot and rested it on his knee. Even making a fierce effort to be completely objective and impersonal, he couldn’t help noticing that her feet were small, high-arched and perfectly formed.
And so bruised and torn that the sight of them made his chest ache. “Damn, these must have hurt,” he muttered, running a fingertip very lightly over her scarred and peeling sole.
She squirmed and laughed softly. “That tickled.”
“Sorry,” he said, but he had liked hearing her laugh. He would bet she did so often under the right circumstances—and in more entertaining company.
Frowning, he set to work with antibiotic ointment and bandages, covering the worst of the cuts. Two cuts looked badly infected; he suspected they would have to be treated by medical professionals. “I hope you’re current on your tetanus shots.”
“I am.”
“Good.” He reached for her left foot. To his relief, it didn’t seem to be as badly damaged, though there were several deep scratches around her ankle. Looked as though she’d tangled with a thorny vine. He spread ointment on those wounds, as well, still trying to keep his mind off the intimacy of their position.
Not to mention the fact that she was wearing nothing but a large flannel shirt.
Either his awkwardness was affecting her or she, too, was trying to divert herself when she asked, “Why do you suppose the electricity is turned on in this trailer? D’you think the owner leaves it on all the time, even when he isn’t here?”