A Promise of Fireflies (40 page)

“Hmph. And the books?”

“The books won’t freeze or sprout leaks, and last time I checked they don’t need tomatoes or hay for sustenance. They’ll wait.”

Rose visibly relaxed and a challenging smile rounded her cheeks. Curiosity twinkled in her steel-gray eyes. “And?”

Logan stood, placed his hands flat on his desk, and leaned heavily into them. “And as for the snowmobiles, I think the guests will enjoy renting them.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Any thoughts?”

“That’s not what—or rather,
who
—I meant.”

With two long strides, Logan rounded the desk, wrapped an arm over Rose’s shoulder and ushered her—albeit reluctantly—from the office. “Please have the details of the Il Salotto deal on my desk before morning.”

“One e-mail shy of being finished.” Rose planted her feet at the doorway and raised her chin. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

Logan dragged a hand through his hair. “She’s safe.”

“Well, it’s about frigging time,” she mumbled and waddled out the door.

With his manager back to directing the staff as if it was an entire battalion of marines, Logan closed the door and took the few steps to the bookshelf. He picked up the photograph and carefully brushed a thin layer of dust from the glass.

Years vanished. Shattered lives and broken promises stared back at him. A shiver took root and climbed from inside to outside in beads of cold sweat. His shoulders tensed. Unspilled emotion blurred his eyes, and he grabbed hold of the bookshelf to steady the shifting axis beneath his feet. He squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to keep the memories buried, but they gathered strength and pushed back. The frame slipped from his grip—falling, falling, falling—a slow-motion eternity of anguish. The crash split her photo in two and the guilt of his transgressions hit him. He squeezed his head in his hands as if to keep the torment from erupting and claiming its prey. He’d used a night of pleasure to blind the pain and the silent predator of regret seized him in an agonizing wave, one not only rooted in remorse and fear—but of remembrance.

“Blue,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with the weight of her memory. “Her eyes were sapphire blue.”

Ryleigh’s fingers lay poised over the keyboard, the cursor mocking her with an idle blink, blink, blink. The handle of the double doors rattled, startling her from her trance, and Logan stepped into the room scraping away the last bit of insulation surrounding her fragile soap bubble world.

Logan moved the laptop, sank to his knees beside her, and buried her head in his chest. He combed his fingers through her hair, his heartbeat as pronounced as the desperation with which he held her.

She wiggled free and tucked a disarray of curls behind his ears. Dread snaked its way around her middle. “What’s wrong, Logan?”

“Take a break, Cabin Number Three.” The chill in his eyes defied the warmth in his words.

“Seems I’ll have to. Someone has thoroughly broken my concentration.” And his, she thought, pushing the unsettling assumption aside. “Besides, I’m stumped.”

He situated himself beside her with his head on her lap. “What has you stumped?”

“It’s just a scene,” she said, her fingers flirting with the peppered curls that fell just above his ears, “but I can’t do it justice.”

“What’s it about?”

“Fireflies.”

“Why is that so difficult?”

“Well…if you’ve never seen one.”

“You’ve never seen a firefly?”

“I suppose you have?”

“Hasn’t everyone seen,” he said, toying with a smile, “mosquitos with flashlights?”

“Okay, smart-ass,” she laughed, “not everyone. At least not me. And they’re not mosquitos. They’re beetles.” Logan raised his eyes, the questions residing there as evident as the reflection of the fire. “I’ve done the research, I’ve just never seen one.”

“They’re so predominant in Chicago, we use them as streetlamps.”

Ryleigh rolled her eyes playfully.

“There should be images on the Internet.”

“It’s not the same.” She dipped a finger into the cleft of his chin. “When I first saw the mountains, the landscape drenched in snow, the Reading Room and rock-faced fireplace, and you, I memorized them. They’re effortless to recall.”

He nodded. “Did you know a local artist hand-picked the rock for the fireplaces from the rivers in the area? Each one placed according to color and size.”

“Really?” Ryleigh stared at him. “And how did you come across this tidbit of trivia?”

He smiled, but the spark in his eyes had dimmed. “There’s a plaque next to the stonework. Spells out the artisan and the history.”

“I fell right into that one,” she said, ruffling his hair.

“And you’ll create something for the fireflies. How’s it going otherwise?”

“Almost finished.”

“It will be amazing. As is the author.” He touched his finger to her nose and returned her smile with one that failed to meet his eyes. “You’ve been given a rare gift. All you need is the courage to show the world,” he said, rising to leave. “I have work to do.” He paused at the double doors. “Besides, Karina needs something to giggle about.”

“Why is she giggling?”

“She thinks you and I are having an affair,” he said with a wink.

“That poor girl. You’re such a smart-ass, Logan Cavanaugh.”

Logan’s laugh tickled the hollow part of her belly, and she sank into the cushions to enjoy the pleasure. She had an idea to finish the scene and was lost once again in the throes of her imaginary world.

With no more interruptions, Ryleigh worked nonstop into late afternoon, and now it was time to let it go. She attached the manuscript to an e-mail to Evan, reiterating the fact she didn’t want anyone else to read it. Someone else reading her fantasies seemed intimidating and a whole lot terrifying. Dodging the inevitable, she e-mailed the completed newspaper columns instead.

And then she sat idle and so did the cursor, blinking in time with her stuttering heartbeat. Her hands shook. Then, digging deep for an ounce of courage, she closed her eyes and clicked.

Ping.

Swoosh.

Gone.

Evan didn’t respond.

But Natalie did, anxious for details. Ryleigh shot her a short reply, but she couldn’t fill in the details, only how this place had stolen her heart.

Logan returned to the suite with dinner (compliments of Max and fully restored services), two bottles of wine that he set on the coffee table by the fire, and four white roses wrapped in cellophane. Logan handed her one bottle and dug the point of the bottle opener in the other.

“Poetry in a bottle,” she said with a thorough inspection of the label. “Orma Toscana.” The printing was Italian, evident by the shape of the map. “A breath of Siena.”

“I take it you know something about wine?”

“Not really.”

With an inquisitive turn of the head he caught her eyes.

“There’s a map of Italy on the label.”

He smiled, but it lacked the enthusiasm to reach his eyes. “These are from the Tuscany Valley region near Siena. One of the finest in Europe,” he said, twisting the opener. “The Orma Toscana was Max’s suggestion.” The cork popped free, a spire of mist rising from the neck. He poured two glasses.

Ryleigh inhaled and sipped slowly. With the aroma of red chilies, plums, and a hint of chocolate ripe on her tongue, she swallowed, the liquid spreading a small fire of warmth in her stomach. “Italy is on my bucket list.” Their glasses clinked as glass kissed glass. “And fireflies.”

“Italy’s rustic charm will pale in comparison to your presence.”

Her cheeks warmed.

“And I have faith you’ll see fireflies in all their glory.”

“I’d rather see you in all your glory.”

He smiled and handed her the roses.

“White roses.” She caressed his cheek, the soft prickle of his beard sensual and enticing.

“In remembrance of your mother, father, baby brother and the soldier who gave you life.”

Her stomach fluttered. This man was smart, witty and fun. He loved books, words, and poetry, and was honest and sincere. She had sensed the compassion behind his deep brown eyes the first time she’d set eyes on him. Now he was proving it, presenting her with symbols of what it means to truly care about another’s feelings. He listened on every conscious level and was attentive. And he remembered. It was as simple as a child’s puzzle—he seemed to understand every facet of who she was.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said, fighting back a rush of emotion.

Logan turned her chin toward him. “Sometimes words get in the way.”

She slid into the crook of his arm and almost indiscernibly, the muscles in his arm tensed.
Probably business.

“Tomorrow’s Monday,” she said, the wine tickling the back of her tongue. “I hate the thought of leaving.”

His expression turned in on itself, and an awkward hitch accompanied his words. “And I don’t want you to leave.”

The stirrings of fear tumbled in her gut, and the compulsion to curl into his chest and disappear was hindered only by the tight grip of his hand on her shoulder.

“But you must. And so must I.”

Despite the warmth of the fire, a shiver feathered her skin. “I guess I’ve known all along,” she said, biting her lip to keep her emotions in check, “since you told me about your wife.”

“Promises aren’t meant to be broken.”

“You don’t need to explain,” she said with a fierce effort to keep her voice from trembling.

“I’ve chastised myself because of what I’m feeling for you, and it’s killing me inside.” The longing in his eyes defied the avalanche of remorse spilling from his words. “I need time.”

Ryleigh stood and walked to the sliding doors. His words rose between them, an invisible barrier, a wary shadow. He had secrets. Most people do, carrying the baggage through life. God knows she had her own baggage, but his—his was an inconceivable burden. She contemplated the silent landscape before her and felt the echoes of her past rebound.

An oppressive silence swallowed her, the quiet of the world beyond the glass cold and stark, but the woman she knew herself to be fought the cold fingers of disappointment clawing their way into her heart. The burn of tears threatened, but she kept her emotions in check.

He came into her life unexpectedly, a sudden mutual attraction, but his was marked by respect and not the usual intents of a man. Content to simply stand beside her, he’d let her set the pace. She’d been the one to make the move. The one who shattered his convictions. Overwhelmed and sickened with grief and heartache had been a constant in her life, and she felt its ugly head rearing again. She shuddered—as if the river had swallowed her again.

Logan came to stand next to her. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for what we shared. I’m not sorry.” She turned to face him. “But I am scared.” She swallowed a growing lump in her throat. “Scared to let go. Terrified to stay.”

Stars winked acutely against a black velvet sky and the snow glistened in the amber wake of the moon. Logan wrapped her in his arms, and she leaned her head against his chest. It seemed a magical shift of time and space, and she groped for words to tell him how he felt against her, afraid if she said it out loud the spell would shatter into a million pieces. A discreet tear stained his shirt.

Logan lifted her face, the implication of unspoken words as clear as the night sky. She resigned herself to the inevitable and tried to pull away. “I’ll get my things.”

“Please.” He tightened his embrace. “Stay with me tonight.”

She pushed him away, shaking her head. “One minute you want me to leave, the next you want me to stay.”

“I never wanted you to leave.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Don’t leave. Not tonight.”

“You’re confusing me.”

“I want to be with you.”

“It doesn’t seem that way.”

“I betrayed a promise.” Ryleigh felt the pause as much as heard it. “And I’m caught in the middle of a battle I don’t know how to fight.”

“Everyone struggles with their past,” she said, touched by the anguish in his voice. “You can’t undo what’s been done and you damn sure can’t outrun it. And why tell me to embrace my past and not let it steal the person I can become, when you don’t trust or even believe it yourself?” She threw his words back at him.