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“We may be the last two people left on earth. We may have to repopulate the planet. Oh damn.”

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Funny. Very funny. She twisted in his arms. Normally, he had a knack for putting her at ease. It simply wasn’t working this time.

He was kidding, trying to make her feel better. And failing miserably.

“You…you really think it’s just a weather alert, right?”

“Of course. You know, maybe you shouldn’t watch so many scary movies. Come on.” He pulled her out of her coat and gently led her back to the couch, wrapping himself around her as she molded against him. “Don’t worry, brat. I’ll look after you.” Handing her more champagne, he made sure she drank until the rigidity in her shoulder muscles softened, humming softly to her as they silently watched the fire.

When her eyelids began to droop wearily, he took the glass away from her, kissed her forehead, and rocked her until she fell asleep in his arms. “Rest easy, Iris. I promised your brother I’d take care of you.” He whispered gently into her hair. “I’ve always wanted to take care of you.”

*

*

*

He watched her as she slept, glad she couldn’t see the tumultuous emotions that raged in his heart, fierce as the storm. The
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face was that of a little girl in slumber, the girl he’d known so well for so long, and loved as his dearest friend.

It was the body that bothered him.

It was the body that plagued his dreams, that kept him from thinking of her as a ‘sister’ any longer, that had squelched his interest in Sheila or any other woman for the past six months.

It was her body, so intimately close to his now, that seemed to be making the room unbearably warm, and his nice, baggy jeans unusually tight.

He’d always loved her, he supposed, in different ways at different ages. Iris Foley was not a beautiful woman in the traditional sense of the word. At five-foot-ten, she’d never completely outgrown her gangly adolescence. Her arms and hands were long and slim, her behind tucked and tight. She had a bad habit of chopping her dark, curly hair off whenever the mood struck her, but she had, at least, progressed past the purple-with-mousse stage. The dance lessons she’d taken as a child had left her body limber and toned, with a bosom that was not large but round and firm, and a graceful way of moving that had, on occasion, nearly taken his breath away. And the legs…

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Oh, my, the legs, he thought grimly. Yes, the legs had started it all.

Pest that she was, she’d insisted on accompanying her older brother to a pool party when she was sixteen. Russ remembered it as a tiresome affair with mosquitoes and blaring music. But he was unemployed, doing freelance carpentry jobs at the time, and trying to keep the bank from foreclosing on the old family home. The party offered free liquor and food. That was reason enough to go.

He had hardly said hello, had barely noticed Iris as he dodged the advances of the other women there--until she removed her wrap, revealing her new bathing suit as she stood alone on the board, preparing to take a dive. And the awkward, coltish legs of the little girl he knew had developed into long, deadly weapons that rocked him back on his feet.

It was then that he began to really notice her. He thoroughly approved of the stubbornness which often made her refuse to wear a bra she didn’t need, emphasizing her very large, succulent nipples; the mouth she considered too wide, which he found to be full and lush, dusky-rose against mocha colored skin; and the behind,
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tightened by years of dancing, that swayed so enticingly when she walked, like an invitation to dance…

Russ had no doubt that Thomas, her brother and his friend, had noticed his reaction. He chose that time to secure The Promise from him—the vow that he’d always look after her, take care of her. In a brotherly sort of way, of course.

And how could he refuse to promise?

He’d managed to keep himself in check all these years, even when she bounced playfully upon his lap, even when she hugged him tightly in simple gestures of friendship—even when she’d finally taken her first lover. That had been the most difficult ordeal of all.

He still wanted to kill that man for having her.

It had been a bad idea, he supposed, to ask her to work with him. Too much closeness, too much time together, alone. But the business had taken off like a shot with the addition of her superbly delicate painting to his screens. And her aggressive, competitive nature made a perfect counterbalance to his laid-back laissez-faire.

And she’d been so upset about that ass-wipe Gary and the death of the damn dog…

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The legs, those luscious legs, were curled upon his outstretched ones now, relaxed and at rest. It was not what he wanted. He wanted her out of those crisply-creased black trousers, wanted those legs locked around his waist, straining to pull her body as close as humanly possible, attuned to his every movement…

Unable to resist, he grazed her lips with his, absurdly pleased when she smiled in her sleep. It was a mistake. She tasted of softness and champagne, of salty butter and sweet woman. And it was not enough. He was aching to touch her, to fondle the treasures beneath the snug red shirt, to slide his hands up and deep between her thighs…

Russ carefully adjusted her position, propping her against a stack of pillows without disturbing her slumber and, shrugging into a worn leather coat, headed for the door. He wanted to check out the weather conditions. And he desperately needed a slap of cold air in his face about now.

Despite his rubber-soled boots, his legs went flying from beneath him with his first step out the door. He landed on his rump with a loud grunt and a thud, and remained sprawled there for a
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moment, shaking his head. Nothing, absolutely nothing, had gone right today.

He had picked her up after work, as planned. Pausing to pick up the Chinese food before leaving town, he had brought her to the house. She was in a pleasant mood--an agreeable mood--and his hopes for the evening soared. They’d taken a long walk through the surrounding woods, talking and laughing arm-in-arm as they relished the tang of fall and swished their way through the ankle-deep crispness of gold and crimson leaves. He loved this land. Passed down from his great-great-grandfather, the son of a slave, it was important to him, a part of who he was. And she seemed to belong there, with him, as much a part of it as the old gray house perched upon the summit of the hill.

But the weather turned, becoming suddenly violent. They’d had to dash for the house when the threatening skies had hardened into ice and began to batter the earth with sleet. He’d burned their steaks and overcooked the baked potatoes. The frozen cheesecake he’d bought had never thawed completely. And the erotically suggestive movie he’d rented for the evening had jammed in his VCR.

And now she thought it was the end of the world…

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All of this on the evening he’d planned to tell her that he wanted to be her lover. That he was dying to get her into his bed. To show her how much he needed her.

And that was why there were three bottles of champagne, and why he hadn’t been able to stay with Sheila.

She’d put a smashing halt to all of his plans by announcing that she was looking for a lover—and naming every bozo she could think of except him. He wasn’t even in the running.

And now it would have to wait. The evening, the proposition—even the little gift he’d arranged for her would have to wait. If she decided she didn’t want him, it would all be pointless.

And wouldn’t it be his luck this day if something really had gone seriously wrong with the rest of the planet…

He duck-walked to the nearby car in a world that had become monochromatic gray, then had to do battle with the frozen locks.

After much frustration and several hard kicks, he managed to wrench the door of the battered vehicle open. It took several minutes to get the engine to turn over, and even then it grumbled uneasily, like the thunder that still filled the sky. Allowing it to run for a few minutes, he finally turned on the radio with half-frozen fingers.

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Static.

He punched up a number of different stations.

Amazing, he mused, how many different kinds and keys of static there were…

A strange uneasiness began to seep into his skin along with the biting cold. Switching the car off, he sat there for a few moments.

Listening. Despite the growling heavens and the sound of ice pelting metal, there was an uneasy silence about the countryside.

A major power outage. Probably all of the nearby transmitters were out, and power lines down everywhere. Yes. That must be it.

That must be it…

Russell literally crawled to the ridge on the edge of his property, glad that he’d refused to let her attempt the drive. She would’ve killed herself. He struggled, buffeted by the strong winds, his beard brittle against his cheek, his coat already gleaming with a pearly sheen of sleet. Layers, he thought vaguely, struggling to catch his breath.

Layers of ice over snow over ice, as if the land was attempting to bury itself.

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He cautiously pulled himself to a standing position, supported by the massive trunk of a tree whose branches creaked and groaned beneath the weight of the frozen glaze.

It had always been one of his favorite vantage points. He spent a lot of quiet time beneath this oak, older, probably, than the house itself. From here he could sit on top of the world.

He looked down upon Corinth, Ohio, holding onto the tree for dear life as the punishing wind whipped about him and the sky wept cold, cutting tears.

There were no lights to be seen in the small town below.

No movement in the night.

No sign of life.

Jesus Christ. What if…

He determinedly made his way back to the house, a fist of anxiety forming in his solar plexus. It was just a blackout. Nothing to be nervous about. Incredible how dependent everyone had become upon a little thing like electricity. But he suddenly felt the need to be with her, even more strongly than when the urge was simply hot blood surging to his groin. He ran, slipped, scraped his hands, got up and ran again. The cold air seemed to burn into his lungs as the
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thunder shook the sky apart. And still he ran, desperate to reach the house and the warm comfort of her arms.

His resolve, after all, had not changed. He was going to make love to Iris Foley if it was the last thing he ever did.

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C H A P T E R 3

Iris awoke to near-darkness and the acidic taste of champagne on her tongue.

And her hand firmly cupping the crotch of a man with a conspicuously large erection.

She blinked hard and peered up at him. He was watching her through half-closed lids, a wry smile on his lips. “Welcome back.”

His voice was deep and husky, and there was an indefinable suggestiveness about it. “Ain’t this one helluva way to wake up in the mornin’?”

Her mouth was dry, and she couldn’t seem to find a voice to answer. Or the right words. What did one say while holding onto her best friend’s crotch?

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She made a silly attempt to discreetly inch it away, only to have the bulge lunge at her. She stopped, color flooding her cheeks, and looked away from the challenge in his eyes. “I…um…I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Beats the hell out of caffeine.”

She quickly pulled her hand back. “I didn’t mean to…well, you know.”

“It happens. Especially in the mornings. Must be those cold sheets you were telling me about.”

Carefully straightening her legs, she looked around the room, memories of the previous night flooding back. The wind still tossed the curtains of the open window ruthlessly about, and the thunder still reverberated like an angry god through the sky. The fading embers of the fire were barely visible below a somber layer of ash, and the room had grown distinctly cold.

And yet, as nervous as she’d been, as crowded as the two of them were on the couch, she had slept like a baby upon the solid, comforting wall of his chest. Her shirt had inched upward during the night, and his arm was still wrapped securely around her bare midriff.

It felt for all the world like it belonged there. “I suppose the power’s still out?”

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“’Fraid so.”

She ran her hand absently through her short hair, trying to think. “The car radio—”

“Tried it. It’s not picking anything up. You’re gorgeous in the morning.”

“I look like hell, and feel even worse.” She climbed to a sitting position. “It feels colder now than it did last night. Isn’t that unusual?”

He was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. “Dunno.

I’m not a weatherman. But I can start another fire and get you a blanket.”

“No. I want to get up, move around. Do something. I need a nice, hot shower and a big breakfast; sausage and eggs and biscuits and…” Her voice died in her throat. “I keep forgetting. No power.”

“Baby girl, you just say the word, and I’ll run out with a kite and a key.” He gave her midriff a squeeze. “I’ve got a few basics in the kitchen. We won’t starve. And if you can wait a few minutes, we can heat up a little water over the fire—at least enough for a sponge bath.