A Promise of Fireflies (39 page)

With the memory of him still fresh on her skin, she immersed herself around him, threaded her fingers through his hair and eased him inside her.

They made love again as the quiet stillness of a winter storm lay perfect and untouched just beyond their world.

SUNLIGHT PLAYED OVER
her eyes, rousing her to the blissful pleasure of half sleep. Ryleigh stretched an arm across a jumble of blankets, the bed still warm where he’d slept beside her. During the night she had reached out only to find him waiting, his body a warm, solid fortress and eyes pleasuring her in the same way his hands had. And he had reached for her, pulling her to him, the rhythm of his heartbeat a lullaby against her skin.

With the sheet curled under her nose, she breathed in. The masculine, heady spice stirred the recollection of his touch and the intimacy of giving wholly, not only of the body, but mind and spirit and the consummate relinquishing of her dreams.

Reluctantly, she pushed back the blankets, rose, tied his robe around her, and followed the aroma of coffee to the kitchen. The sight of him wrapped only in a towel teased something deep inside her. She paused to cherish the sensation and the view.

Logan’s back and arms tensed with each tap, tap, tap as he made a fierce attempt to obliterate whatever was on the counter. She approached from behind and skimmed her hands over his chest. He turned and pulled her against him.

“Good morning, Cabin Number Three,” he said, and brushed her nose with his index finger. She warmed under the pleasure of his concentrated gaze, memories of the night clearly written in his.

“It’s a grand morning, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she said, peeking around him and then raising an eyebrow at the remnants of strawberries and mango that looked as if Jack Torrance had taken his infamous ax to them. She scrutinized a strawberry slice carefully before popping it into her mouth. “You haven’t been to The Stanley Hotel this morning, have you?”

Logan bent to her ear and dropped his voice to an ominous tone. “Heeeere’s Johnny!”

“Smart-ass,” she said and smacked him lightly on the arm. “I’m quite impressed you’re fixing breakfast, even if you are using a rather sinister-looking butcher knife.”

Logan laughed. “Not so much fixing as mutilating, perhaps.”

The sound of his laughter purled in her belly and spread its warmth over her body. “Well then, you’re using the appropriate knife.”

“Max put together what he could, but the power hasn’t returned and the kitchen has minimal usage. No croissants today. Fresh or otherwise. But there’s plenty of fruit.”

“Someday I’ll show you what I can do with fruit.”

As if pondering the implications of her words, a slow smile settled in one corner of his mouth and met the mischievous glint in his dark eyes. “If it’s anything close to what you do to me, Cabin Number Three, it will be a most painful wait to find out.”

She tucked her lip between her teeth. “Do I smell coffee?”

“I can’t boil water, but lattes are one thing I’m good at.”

He handed her a steaming mug. “Only one?” She sipped the latte, her eyes fixed on his. “I can think of a couple of things you’re pretty good at.”

“Oh?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Smart-ass remarks for one.”

“And the other?”

“That’s for show. Not tell.”

Logan’s sly half-smile tickled that place low in her belly and she buried a smile in her mug. “How are the roads?”

“Snowplow has been through. They’re passable.”

“Too bad.” She smiled playfully. “I favor having the place to ourselves. Except for Rose and Max, of course. They’re handy to have around.”

He gathered her into his arms and rested his chin on top of her head. “And I’m not?”

“Eminently,” she said, nestling herself into his chest, the mat of curls a soft landing against her cheek. “Your hands are extraordinarily nice.”

The deep timbre of his laugh rumbled through her and her heart leapt at the sound. She immersed herself in the power of his embrace as his hands moved over her with gentle assurance, sequestered memories tucked safely between them.

Inside the Rocky Mountain resort suite, their souls had been adrift, yet they’d weathered the storm, a palette of turbulent color in the hands of a skilled artist whose brushstrokes had blended them together into the subtle hues of a watercolor landscape.

The day blossomed brightly, spilling sunlight over the sofa where they sat together, the warmth of the fire still a welcomed necessity in the absence of power.

Ryleigh stretched her legs across Logan’s lap, nearly spilling his coffee. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t look up, and he grinned at the inadvertent simper she made when his fingers crept under her fleece socks and stroked her ankles. He fought the niggling urge to continue his path up the back of her leg.

The lights above the fireplace flickered indecisively, and then settled for good. Logan’s iPhone chirped. “Power and cell service are back.” He tossed the phone to the end of the sofa.

“I prefer moonlight and the sounds of silence,” she said, brushing a palm against his clean-shaven face, “even without fresh croissants.”

“I can find no fault in your observation.” Logan closed her laptop, set it on the flokati, and pulled her under him. “But I fear Rose’s wrath after being cooped up for two days not knowing what’s going on, the nosy old woman.”

“Surely not our Rose?”

He laughed and kissed the palm of her hand. “And if I don’t leave now, she’ll think we got buried in an avalanche.”

“It’s not far from the truth. When you’re near me, I seem to forget to breathe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I told you not to apologize.”

“I’m sorry.” He leaned in, her face a breath away. “Breathe,
mia bella
, breathe,” he said, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

“Indisputable smart-ass,” she said, the words mingled with their combined laughter.

Disentangling himself, Logan tugged at the collar of his shirt and mumbled something in a futile attempt to straighten the wrinkles as he disappeared through the double doors.

Logan’s laughter echoed in that place deep inside where all the feelings, all the pleasures, the whole of him dwelled, and for a long time she stared at the double doors, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. He was an accomplished businessman, extraordinary employer, and consummate, sensual lover, and she pushed thoughts of leaving him—of leaving this place—out of her mind. She cringed at the thought of facing Chandler to tell him there could be nothing more between them except their mutual love for their son. It seemed ages ago now, but she had once loved him deeply. Feelings didn’t switch on and off, but their passion, their love, had dimmed—imperceptibly fading to a cool ember and then like a puff of air on a candle flame, extinguished. She would always love him—the father of her son would always hold a special place in her heart—but she hadn’t been in love with Chandler for quite some time.

The difference was palpable.

Ready to work on the epilogue of her story, she took a deep breath and settled in. A few hours of quiet and an absurd amount of coffee and her fantasy would be complete, the ending as tragically sweet as any love story. As for her real life, starting over seemed an incredible adventure. Like dreaming awake. Her eyes blurred, thinking how this could be the beginning of her own personal Neverland.

In the short time since the roads had been cleared, the resort flurried with activity. The remainder of the staff had arrived and everyone bustled about. Carlos barked orders and Rose had returned as boisterous as ever with a renewed disdain for weathermen. And snow. Nestled at the base of the Rockies, Whisper of the Pines was fast becoming Logan’s favored resort with its sheer beauty and laid-back nature. But it was eminently due to a certain writer who had wandered into his life and placed a bookmark in the center of his heart.

As a sense of normalcy returned, Logan spent most of the day in the office under a never-ending flood of paperwork with his iPhone stuck to his ear. Carlos wasted no time insisting—in emphatic Spanish—that the generators be delivered pronto, and at Logan’s request, he procured six more snowmobiles (they were “crazy cool”).

Karina passed by his office with a furtive glance inside and plastered her hand to her mouth, unsuccessfully covering a giggle. Logan winked and nodded back as if they shared a secret. By this time, he was sure it wasn’t.

“Well, well, well. Looks like you made it unscathed through the storm.”

Logan leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Welcome back, Rose.”

Rose parked her hands on a pair of over-abundant hips. “Welcome back my foot! Snow is piled up past my
chiappa,
there are no tomatoes for Max’s marinara sauce, Shepherd is out of oats for the horses, and the automatic watering thingies,” she said through puffed cheeks and waving her arms, “on the north side of the barn froze and are spewing water like Old Faithful.”

Logan opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it. “And what’s this?” The invoice for the snowmobiles fluttered to the desk and came to rest at his elbow. “And there’s a shipment of books for the Reading Room waiting in Estes Park, and what the heck did you do with Ms. Collins? She’s not in her cabin and no one seems to know where she is.” Her face was now the color of one of Max’s ripe tomatoes with the skin about to pop. “What went on around here during the storm?” She raised her arms, let them fall to her side, and shook her head. “For the love of Moses, how I despise snow.”

Fully aware of Rose’s distaste for chaos and even greater capacity to unleash her aversion to snow, Logan rubbed his hand from nose to chin to suppress his amusement and allowed her to pacify her temper before she completely imploded in front of him. “Are you quite finished?”

“Of course I am. Now, fill me in before I come uncorked and get angry.”

Logan chuckled. Rose glared. “The power failed,” he said, “and there wasn’t much we could do until early this morning.”

“We?” Her scowl morphed into curiosity.

Logan leaned over his desk and steepled his fingers as he considered Rose’s meddlesome inquisition. He hedged on his answer, or whether he should answer at all. The recollection of their night together stirred the pleasure he’d felt in Ryleigh’s arms. Their bodies as one. Her skin against his and the passion in a pair of ocean green eyes. He cleared his throat and looked away, and his eyes caught the glint of sun on glass. The photograph. Laurie’s photograph.

The spasm of pain was instant, staggering drunkenly through his gut. Though beads of sweat erupted on his brow, he turned back to Rose and answered calmly. “No need to worry, Rose,” he said, and dragged his fingers across his forehead to dispel the worm of turmoil from snaking through his insides. “I’ve taken the liberty in your absence to personally take care of the problems. I assure you, there’s plenty of alfalfa for the horses, and I haven’t seen one starve without oats, which are scheduled for delivery tomorrow. Shep is taking care of the leak as we speak and I’ve sent Carlos after the necessities for the kitchen. Tomatoes aren’t all we’re short of.”