A Promise of Fireflies (36 page)

Logan set her in a chair in the sitting room and carefully pulled her boots and socks off, her skin as cold and gray as death in his hands.
Her hands
. Vivid memories paralyzed him and the hair on his arms rose in a wave of gooseflesh. Then, as if slapped back to reality, he tugged the blanket from the sofa, draped it around her and wrapped himself around them both.

Still, she shivered in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and tucked her hand under the blanket.

“I told you,” she said, her lips quivering, “not to apologize.”

Logan wanted to smile, but his muscles refused to obey. He gently wiped the dripping hair from her eyes. “Forgive me.”

She smiled.

“Karina’s on her way.”

“Who’s Karina?”

“Carlos’ daughter. She’s an EMT.”

“I don’t need help,” she said, squirming. Logan tightened his embrace and she collapsed against his shoulder the same time Karina entered the room and knelt beside her.

“Let’s take a look, Miss Ryleigh.”

Ryleigh shivered. “I’m okay.”

Logan rose to allow Karina room to work. Ryleigh tightened the blanket and straightened. “I can dress myself.”

Karina turned to Logan, her brows knitted together. “We need privacy. Please, sir, carry her to the bedroom.”

Logan nodded and did as he was instructed. Karina went to work removing the blanket from one shoulder and taking Ryleigh’s hand in both of hers in a practiced movement.

“Pulse is a little weak, Mr. Cavanaugh, but not dangerous.” Ryleigh pulled her arm free. Karina took it back, gently inspecting the skin. “Skin looks good and her breathing is normal.” She turned back to Logan. “She’s lucky. As far as I can tell, she’s in no immediate danger.”

Logan relaxed. “What can I do to help?”

Karina smiled. “Fix something warm to drink. No alcohol or caffeine. A warm drink won’t hurt either one of you, and I’ll help her get out of these wet clothes.”

“I can dress myself.” Ryleigh closed the blanket around her.

“The effects can last for some time, Miss Ryleigh.”

Ryleigh suffocated a shiver. “I’m fine.”

Karina pursed her lips and tossed Logan a sharp look. Logan shrugged off the silent inquisition. “If anything changes, come for me immediately.”

Ryleigh forced a smile between involuntary shudders. “I’m sure we can manage.”

Karina covered her mouth, smiled, and unleashed a torrent of rapid-fire Spanish. She crossed the room and tugged at her father’s sleeve to follow.

“Ay caray!
” The two stepped through the doorway.
“No quiero saber.”
Carlos raised his chin in a mock salute to his boss.

Logan scratched his head and then sat next to her. “Why didn’t you let Karina help you get into dry clothes?”

“I’m fine,” she said, throwing the blanket aside. “Really. I just want a hot shower.”

“Not until you’re thoroughly warm. Basic first aid for hypothermia. Does funny things, Cabin Number Three.”

“I flunked first aid.”

“Now who’s being smart?” Logan rose and eyed her with guarded concern. “No shower. Get out of those wet clothes and come sit by the fire until I’m sure your blood has thoroughly warmed. There’s a bathrobe next to the towels. I’ll be in the sitting room if you need me,” he said, and then shut the door behind him.

RYLEIGH STEPPED INTO
the bathroom and turned the faucet. Water pattered against the tiles. She stepped into the steaming shower, tank top and panties clinging to her skin. Warm, soothing water flowed over her as if she stood in a downpour of summer rain, washing away the fear. Life was short. Hadn’t the river shown her that? Chandler had been the only man she had ever been with, but she had no room left for doubt. The water spiraled down the drain and took with it any lingering thoughts of returning to that part of her life—a part that had slowly withered and died. She felt no remorse, no guilt, nor any regret with its passing.

The flow of warming blood pushed the chill from her skin in a wave of prickles, the challenge of desire battling with inherent need. But a lifetime of shared intimacy first absent, then broken, did nothing to quench the desire for the pleasure of a man’s touch. His touch. Dark eyes filled with unpretentious compassion. The gentle strength of his embrace. Her body molded to his, unfamiliar, yet with an unexplained sense of belonging.

“You shouldn’t be in there.” Logan’s words penetrated the cadence of the water, more a statement than command.

She held her breath and waited, afraid to move, and terrified not to.

“Ryleigh?” Restlessness seasoned his words. “Answer me!” Bare feet padded across the tiled floor. “Obstinate woman,” he muttered and burst around the corner and into the shower, eyes averted to the floor. Twin showerheads sprayed at his feet and soaked his clothes. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” It was her turn to play the one-word game.

“You sure?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, eyes moving slowly from his feet to her bare toes and stopped. Slowly, he raised his eyes upward until they met the hem of her top. Only then did he breathe. Only then did he reach out and take her hand. “You okay?”

“Quite.”

“Then what is it?”

Drops of water blurred her vision. She blinked them away. The words she had planned in her head drowned in his immediate presence. “I need…some help.”

“I’m here.” With unspoken permission, Logan stepped under the spray. “And I won’t let you fall.” He took her shoulders in his firm grip.

Ryleigh raised her eyes to his, circled his wrists with her hands and held them tightly, an anchor in a sea of turbulent emotions. She eased her grip and skimmed her hands over his chest, his shirt clinging to his body as black and sleek as seal’s skin. The swell of muscle and rise of his chest beneath her fingertips a liquid memory purling in her belly. Freeing the hem, she leaned into him, her hands resting in the soft nestle of hair beneath his shirt, his heartbeat a rapid tickle against her palm.

Logan grabbed her hands. Brown eyes burned into hers with questions she had no answers for, but with a coveted hesitation wavering on the crest of uncertainty.

His breathing quickened. “Ryleigh—”

She pressed a finger to his lips.

He curled his hand around hers and held it tightly to his chest. “Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

“I need you.”

His features softened from confusion to one of empathy. “This isn’t….” He swallowed the remainder of his words with a slight shake of the head.

The deliberate silence swept over her in a liquid wave.

He pulled her against him, two layers of wet cloth the only distance between them, his firm embrace the quiet to the deafening chatter of trembling limbs. “My God,
mia bella
, if only it were so.” He stroked her hair, fanning the dripping locks between his fingers. “Trauma speaks a foreign language.”

Unchecked emotion rose and spilled from her eyes, the shower of warm water masking the evidence.

“You’re trembling.” The words rumbled against her cheek. “You shouldn’t be in here. It’s the hypothermia speaking.”

She closed her eyes, the realization of how foolishly she’d written the ending to a story that didn’t exist taking hold until every ounce of strength she possessed drained from her.

Logan circled an arm around her waist, braced her firmly against his body, and together they stepped from the shower. He wrapped the bathrobe around her and wiped her hair and face with a towel gently, as a father would a child. He tucked one arm under her knees and lifted her into his arms, his hold strong and sure, and clearly embarrassing. Leaving a puddle of wet footprints, he carried her to her room.

With a solid hold around her waist to steady her he set her down, his interest surprisingly apparent on the back of her legs and as confusing in her mind. A rise of blood heated her face.

“Good sign.” He cleared his throat, and wiggled a finger at her face. “The color’s returning in your cheeks, so I assume I can trust you by yourself for a few minutes?”

She grabbed his arms, welcoming the assistance while her legs decided if they’d stand on their own or send her crashing to the floor, unsure whether to blame her instability on trembling legs, an icy bath, or a terribly stupid notion. He cupped her elbow firmly and directed her to the bed, the mattress giving slightly under her weight.

With the bed solidly under her, she scooted back. “You’re leaving?”

“I have some things to check on.”

“Better check on a mop,” she said, nodding toward the floor.

Logan lowered his eyes to the growing puddle of water at his feet, mumbled something very similar to a bullfrog in complete distress, and turned to leave. He smacked the doorframe and faced her, fingers drumming on the oak trim. “No shower.” His penetrating gaze spoke deeper than his words. “When you’re ready, come sit by the fire.”

Ryleigh pulled the bathrobe tightly around her. “Where’re you going?”

“There’s still no power and we need to eat. I’ll see if Max can throw something together.”

“Good. I’m starving.”

He tucked his chin to his chest and looked up at her, a grin curling one side of his mouth. “Classic.”

“What’s classic?”

“If you’re going to play in the snow, you should brush up on your first aid. Hunger’s another classic symptom of hypothermia.”

She stood and tightened the belt around the bathrobe. “I’m fairly certain it’s a classic symptom of not having eaten in a very long time.”

“I won’t be long.” Logan stepped into the hall. “And stay put.” The authority in his voice didn’t match the gleam in his eye. “I think trout is on the menu.”

“Sounds good.”

“You’re quite the fisherman.”

“Me?”

“Found a rainbow trout stuck in the pocket of your ski bibs.” He turned briskly and walked away.

She flopped on the bed, arms sprawled above her head and the full force of her body weight the catalyst for an ailing squeak from a set of stiff but comfortable springs. “Smart-ass,” she said and stared at the line of deep notches in the beams overhead. Whether hand hewn by a farmer in need of a barn a hundred years ago or manufactured to pass as an antique she didn’t know. Nor did she particularly care. She locked her hands behind her head and took some comfort in knowing her embarrassing and altogether stupid charade in the shower had been shrugged off as the aftereffects of nearly drowning in an icy river.

Lemon zest and garlic with the slightest hint of a dry white wine mingled with the sweet redolence of shrimp. A far cry from trout. And if she had to be perfectly honest, she was grateful for an exoskeleton and paper-thin tail instead of a plate teaming with tiny bones, no matter how fresh the catch.

The door shut behind her with a faint click. She swallowed the last bit of reservation that hadn’t dried up while blow-drying her hair and headed to the sitting room. The fire crackled brightly, glowing bits of ash rising with the heat and winking out as they disappeared up the chimney.

Logan was nowhere to be seen, though she knew he’d been here by the wonderful smells of what she assumed to be dinner. Her mouth watered. And since he wasn’t here, she slipped around the sofa to the bookshelf to steal another look at his collection of first editions.

She pulled
The Gunslinger
from the shelf and carefully opened the cover as if the creatures inside would jump off the page. The binding creaked. The pages lay before her, as pristine on the inside as the dust jacket outside. Her fingers gravitated to the author’s signature and settled for a moment on the angled scrawl. “Crazy cool,” she murmured and then turned and ran headlong into the engulfing chest of her host. She let out a squeak and the book flew from her hand. Logan caught the book in his right hand and her with his left in a favorable attempt to keep both from crashing to the floor.

“Another bedtime story?”

Crushed against his chest and eye level with a tangle of hair peeking through the vee of an obviously dry shirt, she unraveled herself from his grip. “You scared the crap out of me. Again.”

A grin spread over Logan’s face that ended with a laugh, the deep rumble taking root in the lower region of her belly. To quell the imprudence, she crossed her arms over the invisible web of jumbled nerves.

“My apologies, Cabin Number Three, but I believe the illusions Stephen King creates are far more alarming than anything I could come up with,” he said, handing the book back to her.

She pointed the book at him. “This is fiction.” She placed her hand on the cover of the book. “You aren’t. And you have a very real, very disquieting infatuation with a rather sinister resort caretaker,” she said, returning
The Gunslinger
to its proper space on the shelf.

Logan’s deep laugh echoed in her bones, and she turned to see the amusement mirrored in his eyes before it flickered and died. “And speaking of books, I have a lot of work to do on mine. I should get back to it.”

“Please,” he said, and offered the sofa with a wave of his hand, “sit with me by the fire for a while. Besides, Max has thrown together something that smells quite good and I’ve brought an Italian Pinot Grigio to complement.”