Housebound (14 page)

“I'm coming with you.” She started after him in the darkness, only to have her arms caught in a firm grip, her body turned around and pushed unceremoniously in the direction of the library.

“You most certainly are not. It could be dangerous out there.”

“For you as well as me,” she argued, but he was propelling her along the hallway with inexorable force. “I know the area better than you.”

“I don't give a damn. You stay put until I get back or I'll carry you upstairs and throw you off the roof where I found you.” Undoubtedly he was bigger and stronger than she was; undoubtedly he could have his own way if he was determined on it. Subterfuge was the only answer.

“All right,” she replied.

“Good.” He turned and was gone.

She waited until his footsteps died away, waited until the heavy sound of the door slamming on the windy night reached her ears. “All right, you can throw me off the roof,” she added aloud, a stickler for honesty. She stopped only long enough to grab a heavy waterproof poncho and followed him out into the stormy night.

The wind whipped the heavy rain into her face as she rounded the corner of the house. It was easy enough to be discreet—the noise of the wind and rain drowned out any possible sound her sneaker-clad feet could have made. Far ahead she saw the beam of the flashlight sweeping through the curtain of rain. Noah must have had one in his car—as far as Anne knew there wasn't a working flashlight to be found in the entire house. Quickly she ducked out of the way of that meager torch, heading out toward the driveway through the inky blackness.

The ground was wet and slippery beneath her feet; the driveway, when she reached it, was a sea of mud. Determinedly she slogged onward, head down, the thick, oozing mud covering her ankles and sucking at her sneakers with each step. The weakest tree was halfway down the driveway. They'd already lost several limbs this winter, and Anne had ignored the fact that most of the trunk was completely worm-ridden. Getting a tree that size cut down was a considerable expense, one that she simply couldn't afford. Not when the very roof over their heads was in danger of disintegrating.

Peering through the rain-swept darkness, she saw in the distance a massive shape lying across the driveway. It had
come down all right. She sighed, moving forward with fresh determination to survey the damage.

At least it was far enough away from the house that a few broken windows were likely to be the only damage. Anne had become more than expert at repairing broken windows over the past years.

The weak beam of Noah's flashlight swept past her to the giant corpse of the tree lying in her path, then moved back to her. Well and truly caught, she accepted it sheepishly, keeping her back turned to him as she plunged onward through the night. She could hear his voice calling her through the pouring rain, but the hood of her poncho effectively muffled his words. Words she doubted she wanted to hear, when she had no intention of going in just yet. Now that the tree was finally down she wanted a good look at the ancient oak, to see whether the tree was rotten through or whether there'd be salvageable firewood. Not to mention the huge sums of money decent oak could bring in, for furniture and the like. She knew from a wood encyclopedia she'd edited that some trees could be worth small fortunes. Maybe the god of old houses would smile on her at last, sending her a toppled tree worth enough to pay for the new roof.

She could hear Noah's voice behind her, much closer, but she ignored him. She was only within a few yards of the downed tree; she wasn't about to let him drag her inside without discovering what she desperately needed to know.

Suddenly the beam from the flashlight behind her began to swing crazily—as if its bearer were running, she realized, moving correspondingly faster. She was almost to the edge of the branches when the light disappeared altogether. A moment later a body hurtled into hers, tackling her and landing them
both in the cold, wet mud. Anne went down face first, spread-eagled, as his body landed on top of hers, and she felt a sharp stinging in her face before the cold mud covered her.

A moment later he had rolled her over. It was too dark to see his expression as he loomed over her, but the furious sound of his voice was bad enough. “You criminally stupid idiot!” he shouted at her. “Didn't you hear me calling you?” Cruelly strong hands dug into her shoulders, yanking her into a sitting position for the sole purpose of shaking her.

“I don't like being ordered!” she screamed back through rattling teeth and the strong night wind.

“Would you rather I let you run into the power line that's about two feet away?” he yelled back. “You may have a death wish today but I have no desire to be a witness.”

All the fight left her. “Power line?” she echoed.

“I dropped the flashlight trying to save your stupid neck or I'd show it to you.”

“Oh, God.”

“Oh, God, indeed.” He rose to his feet, hauling her shivering body along with him. “Come on.” His tone of voice had softened perceptibly, and she followed him blindly, her cold wet hand still clasped in his.

“Where are we going?” she murmured, completely cowed.

“Out of this damned rain. One thing's for certain—no one's either leaving or coming in here tonight. That tree has blocked the driveway, and there's another one down on the far side of it.”

“But what if Proffy decided to come home after all?” she fretted.

“He won't be able to get anywhere near the power line unless he's a lot more agile than he appears to be.”

“He's not. Proffy abhors physical exercise in all forms.”
Anne told herself that relief should be utmost in her mind, but as she glanced at the lean, rain-soaked figure beside her she found herself wishing that the fates hadn't chosen tonight of all nights to bless them with a power outage and a house cut off from the outside world.

The wet mud was caked to her legs, her arms, had even found its insidious way up inside the loose poncho when he tackled her. “Are you as muddy as I am?” she questioned in a husky voice as they reentered the darkened house.

In answer Noah reached into his pocket and withdrew a pack of matches. He lit one, the flickering light illuminating an expression on his face that was no long angry, just wryly amused, and Anne could imagine exactly what she looked like. “No one could be as muddy as you are,” he declared.

“Then I get dibs on the shower. We've lost our power before—I know from sad experience that there's only enough water pressure for one decent shower. You can make do in the kitchen sink.”

“I don't think I'll fit,” he drawled.

“There are candles in the drawer by the sink,” she continued, ignoring him.

“What about you?”

“I always keep them around in each bedroom, just in case this happens. I'll meet you back in the library when I've scraped off the first few layers of Jersey dirt. I…I'm afraid I dropped the dinner.”

“I remember.” He shook the match out just as it was about to burn him, and once more they were plunged into darkness. Anne could feel the warmth of his body heat so very near her, the heat of his breath on her upturned face, the very sexy smell of fresh rain and yes, mud, on his skin.

His voice dropped to a lower note in keeping with the intimacy of the darkened space. “I'm sure we can rustle up something from the refrigerator if we're hungry.”

She felt his hands on her shoulders, and she flinched nervously. Instead of pulling back he strengthened his grip, the long fingers digging gently into her shoulders, kneading away some of the tension. “I'm not going to hurt you, Annie, love,” he said gently.

Oh, yes, you are
, she responded silently, resigned as she stared at him through the pitch blackness. She could only make out his outline, but she knew exactly what his expression would be. That achingly sweet smile coupled with the blazing warmth of those magical eyes. It was a good thing she couldn't see his face, she realized belatedly. The darkness was her only defense against a man she wanted far too much.

“Go on up and take your shower,” he murmured when the silence between them had stretched almost to the breaking point. And without another word she turned and fled through the darkened house.

It was like a litany murmured under her breath as she quickly undressed in the candlelit bathroom. “Wilson,” she murmured. The name failed to conjure anything more than a disapproving glare from his blandly handsome face. Kicking the rain-and mud-soaked clothing into the corner, she ran some of her precious water supply into a washcloth.

“Nialla,” she tried, and the sudden vision of Noah's dark-haired wife swam into her mind. A beautiful, dark-haired witch, willful and pregnant with Noah's longed-for child. Dead, leaving him to mourn with only half a heart. The eyes that stared back at her from the mirror were filled with a sadness still touched with her unwilling longing.

She winced as the washcloth danced too roughly across her cheek. Peering through the candlelight, she gazed with awe on the rich purpling bruise on her right cheekbone. She must have hit her face on a rock when she went down, she mused, remembering with unwilling warmth the feel of his body on top of hers. Something she'd felt too many times, and not enough. Not completely.

The shower was gloriously hot and forceful as she stepped under the heavy stream. There was nothing she would have liked better than to have stood there beneath the pounding water until all those sweetly seductive fantasies left her. But the water supply was severely limited during a power outage, and she quickly scrubbed her tingling flesh with the lavender-scented soap that was her major luxury. Her thick black hair had escaped the brunt of the mud, and she contented herself with a quick rinse, letting the hot water stream over her face. She was so involved in the blissful sensation that she didn't hear the bathroom door open, didn't see the dark shadow silhouetted by the wavering candlelight.

The pounding of the water lessened, faded to a trickle, and then stopped altogether, but Anne was finally, blissfully clean. Pushing aside the shower curtain, she stepped onto the bathmat and looked up directly into Noah's eyes.

 

H
E SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER
, he thought, splashing the small amount of water from the sink over his chest and shoulders in the darkened kitchen. He should have known something would happen, known enough to avoid it. He should never have come to New Jersey, should never have detoured by way of Anne Kirkland.

But if he hadn't, would she have tumbled off that slippery
slate roof into the greenery below and lain there, a broken mass of bone and flesh in the pouring rain until that bumbling old fool of a father came home and found her?

And if he hadn't, and she'd managed to avoid that first pitfall, would she have run headlong into the live wire stretching across the rain-drenched, limb-strewn landscape? Maybe he was meant to be there.

The Chinese had a belief that once you saved a life, that life belonged to you. He'd saved Anne Kirkland twice in one day—surely he at least deserved the reward of a few hours of that warm, soft flesh. Just her body and only on loan. Not her heart and soul.

But he knew he was only fooling himself. Anne wasn't the sort to give just her body; it came equipped with all sorts of traps and restrictions and needs that he wasn't capable of dealing with. If he gave in to the temptation that had been haunting him for the last weeks he'd only end up hurting her. And she needed to be loved, not seduced and discarded.

It had been a peaceful afternoon, lying with her in front of the fire, listening to the rain pour down on the leaky sieve of a roof, and for a while he'd fallen under the spell of the tumbledown house. Or maybe it was just under the spell of its desperate mistress.

He should rummage around in the darkened kitchen and dig up a few more candles, then see if he could rustle up some sort of dinner. He should put his damp, muddy shirt back on, lean back, and wait down here for Anne to make a reappearance. Give her time to pull her defenses around her, let her keep her distance. He was helping to rip her house away from her; he at least owed her that much.

But he wasn't going to. He was going upstairs after her,
stalking her, ignoring any claims conscience or Nialla might have on him. And when he found her he had the dismal feeling that he would never want to let her go.

 

N
OAH WAS LEANING
against the sink, clad only in a pair of denim jeans, arms crossed over his bare chest when she saw him. His hair still glistened from the water, and a few droplets clung to his chest and the thin matting of hair dusted across the tanned expanse. At her outraged expression he straightened into an upright position, handing her the towel she'd left by the sink. She took it in numb hands, still speechless with surprise and anger.

Belatedly she pulled the towel around her wet body. “What are you doing here?” Instead of the strong, angry tone she wanted, her voice came out in a whisper, and her eyes as she looked up at his were both vulnerable and beseeching.

“Waiting for you,” he answered, his voice sending shivers of delight along her spine. He took a step toward her, that broad bare chest disintegrating all her determination. One strong hand reached up to gently touch her bruised cheek. “Did I do that to you?”

If the sight of him was demoralizing, the light touch of his fingertips was the finishing touch. “You didn't mean to,” she said, her voice no more than a wisp. “I hit a rock when you tackled me.”

His fingers passed the bruised cheek to curl behind her head, pulling her slowly, inexorably closer. The look in his eyes was intent, allowing no distraction or opposition. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers, lightly tantalizing.

Anne shut her eyes in sudden despair. “Don't do this,” she pleaded softly, her voice full of pain. “Please, Noah, leave me alone.”

He moved a fraction of an inch away, his breath still warm on her face, and his eyes were curiously sad. “I wish I could, Annie love,” he whispered. “But I can't.” And his mouth took hers again, his hands cradling her damp head and holding her still for his questing tongue.

She felt her head tip back beneath his onslaught, her mouth opening hungrily beneath his voracious one. Her hands let go of the scanty towel and pressed against him, her fingers splayed out across that broad expanse of heated flesh. The touch of his skin was fire, burning away her noble resolutions, her better judgment, her last ounce of sanity. With a little moan she let him pull her closer against the warm haven, the towel falling forgotten to the floor as his hands slid down her naked back to press her lightly against his overwhelming desire.