Out Of Her League (20 page)

The pleasure on her face from such a simple gift made his heart do a funny little something in his chest. “And this one,” he said, withdrawing another bloom, “is the closest to the color of your eyes that I could find.” A perfect, long-stemmed iris.

Wistfulness filled her features. “Irises are my favorite. I don't think I ever told you that, did I?”

“Lucky guess. Here, let's check to make sure I was right.” He touched the edge of a petal against her cheek, as if by accident. “Yep. Almost exactly the right shade.” Her eyes darkened as he brushed the delicate flower over her lips.

She held her breath, then let it out in a rush. “They're beautiful,” she repeated. “I can't remember the last time anyone gave me flowers.”

“Glad you like them.”

She helped him put away the food and set about gathering ingredients for dinner. “By the way, Bryn called a few minutes ago to say she couldn't make it tonight.”

Oh, come on. Could Bryn and his mom be any more transparent? This was their idea of letting them have a “little time alone together” hoping a romance would spring to life, and then Bryn could report the juicy details back to Charleston, and Emily Hutchinson could fantasize that her son had at long last found the mother of her unborn grandchildren.

“So I thought I'd cook us dinner instead,” Christa was saying. “How does ham with pineapple and scalloped potatoes sound?”

“Delicious. Want some help? I'm not exactly a gourmet chef, but I'm young enough to learn.”

“That's okay. Why don't you go and relax for a while and I'll have dinner ready in an hour or so? Maybe take a walk on the beach and work up your appetite.”

He didn't need anything to work up the appetite bothering him most. She did that without even trying. “I don't know about the walk. I don't want to leave you— ”

“I'll be fine.”

“Besides, by the look of that sky there's a storm coming. I'd better get some firewood instead.”

“I love storms,” she breathed and headed for the window, gazing across the water. Already the wind was picking up, gusting against the old windowpanes. “There's nothing better than watching a storm from inside a nice cozy house, listening to the rain pelt the roof and the wind rattle the windows while the waves crash on the beach.”

Rayne could think of something much more wonderful than that. His hazel eyes scanned the horizon, wondering what she was seeing that could evoke such a nostalgic expression. “I'd say we've got another couple hours before it hits. We can curl up beside a nice warm fire.”

Her eyes clouded and her posture stiffened. He could have kicked himself. “Only if you want to,” he amended, trying to sound casual.

The smile she flashed him was so forced it made him feel like a sleaze ball. “Maybe.”

He gave her shoulder a squeeze, leaving her to do what she would in the kitchen. By the time he'd cut and stacked the logs, set the fire ablaze and completed a few other chores around the place, she had whipped up the potatoes and ham and a chocolate mousse for dessert.

They ate at the kitchen table, Rayne telling her stories of his past vacations at the cottage with Nate and his family. “I met Bryn my second time down here. She was with a group of hot girls Nate's sons and I were hitting on, and we found out her father's some high-ranking politician in Beirut. So we took her home with us, so she could talk politics with Nate, since he and my dad both did a tour there. Small world, huh?” He popped another forkful of ham into his mouth. “She goes there to visit her dad every summer.”

“What does she do for a living?”

“Social worker.” He helped himself to more potatoes. “Depressing as hell if you ask me, but she likes it. Anyway, every year we'd come down and terrorize her boyfriends. We'd follow them around on dates, scare the guys off. We had so much fun.”

In the firelight her eyes gleamed. “Poor Bryn.”

He gave her a warm smile and held up his glass for a toast. “But so far this is my most enjoyable vacation here yet.” Their glasses met with a muted clink.

She blushed and sipped her wine, then cleared the dishes into the sink. The wind was beating at the cottage now, the rain splashing against the windows in fat rivulets. She was staring past them, at the waves slamming into the sand, as though caught in a trance.

She came toward him, illuminated by the glow of the fire snapping in the hearth. God, how he itched to kiss her that instant. But she stopped and went back to face the window.

“I'm going for a walk.”

“Out there? You'll get soaked.”

“I know.”

Her first laugh, her first sign of enthusiasm in days... how could he stop her? But he wouldn't let her out of his sight.

She sailed past him and out the screen door, the blast of wind slamming it behind her. Rayne leaned against the jamb as she skipped down the stairs and into the storm. He stood there, spellbound, almost hypnotized by the sight of her there on the beach, the wind whipping through her unbound hair, her head tilted back, feeling the storm. At the smile lighting her face he felt a swell of pride, watching her lift her arms above her head and twirl like a little girl, the gale swirling around her, the cuffs of her jeans getting wet from the pounding waves. She was healing, the storm washing her soul clean.

Amidst the crashing surf, Christa breathed in the windswept air and laughed out loud, the sound swallowed by the elements. She had never felt so free, so exhilarated. The storm reinforced something wild within her spirit, something that could never be torn from her, something that had survived the threats, the fear and the attack. She felt so alive, the rhythm of the surf pulsing in her veins, the wind charging her soul. She let the rain drench her face, let it wash away the bruises and the scars like a warm, gentle hand. Tears mingled with the salty spray and the raindrops, a shiver coursing through her. He could never break her spirit, never take this part of her away.

A tentative, languorous peace stealing over her, she turned to face the cottage, the glow of the fire dousing the windows, beckoning to her. Rayne was waiting there for her. She was wet and cold, but somehow soothed by the violence of the storm.

She made her way back up the beach, the warm light spilling from the cottage seeping into her like mulled wine. Up the steps she climbed, her wet jeans cold and weighted around her legs, her hair heavy and soaking down her back, her bare feet chilled.

Rayne stood there, and her heart tripped all over itself.

“You look like you drowned out there,” he remarked, reaching down to pick up a towel he had gotten for her. Her blue eyes held a serenity that hadn't been there before. “Come here. You must be frozen.”

Her eyes drank him in. When he held out his arms to her, towel in hand, she moved toward him without hesitation and let him dry her hair in sure, relaxing motions.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” he murmured from behind her, hands working steadily. She seemed transfixed by his voice, eyes closed, unmoving. “Christa?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Mmm.”

He chuckled. “I brought you some warm clothes to change into. Go ahead and put them on.”

Without protest she began peeling away the wet layers, stopping to enjoy the heat of the fire on her bare skin. To give her more privacy he left the room and was rummaging in the fridge when the first piece of soaked clothing hit the floor. He stopped still, instantly forgetting what he was searching for, and closed his eyes. This was torture. Thwap. That sounded like a pair of wet jeans landing on the polished hardwood. He imagined her standing there with nothing on, bathed in firelight, the curve of her hips... he almost groaned.

“I'm ready,” she called.

Covered from neck to ankle in the sweats he had found for her, her sodden clothing drying near the grate, she was sitting on the couch toweling her hair.

His fantasy stalled. “I thought you might want some tea. Milk and sugar?”

“Great, thanks.”

His eyes were riveted to her the movement of her outstretched arms, her breasts.
Milk and sugar. Milk and sugar
. With a mental shake he urged himself toward the kitchen for the creamer and sugar bowl. When he came back her almost sated expression and languorous posture made her look like a woman who'd spent the past hour having really, really good sex. It drove him crazy.

She took a sip and closed her eyes. “Mmm, perfect.”

He wanted so badly to lean down and kiss those gently curving lips. He'd imagined that same sleepy, contented expression countless times, but always after he'd taken her to bed. Or in the shower. Or on the kitchen table. “Wow. That must have been some walk.”

“Yeah. I needed that.”

Apparently. He lifted her legs and sat beside her, laying her thighs over his lap and tucking the throw blanket around her.

She sighed and let her eyes close again. “I could stay like this forever.”

Her face angled toward the glow of the fire; her breathing deepened. It wasn't fair. He was rock hard and in bad shape, and she was falling asleep on him. The rain pattered against the windows as he gazed down at her longingly. She was fast asleep now, her breasts rising and falling in a deep, steady rhythm. What would she do if he leaned over and kissed her awake? He almost gave in to the need, only managed to resist her at the last second. Forcing the tension to leave his muscles, he rose and carried her to her bedroom. She was so exhausted she didn't even wake up when he laid her down, but rolled to her side and curled into a fetal position, trapping his hand between the supple weight of her breast and the mattress. He swallowed a moan.

Oh, sweetheart, don't do this to me. I'm only human
. Before he could stop himself his hand tightened around her, fingers stroking. She sighed and arched closer. It hurt to do it, but he eased his hand away, still feeling the warm softness of her on his palm. He stood there watching her for a moment until he could move and left her room, his whole body throbbing.

He was whispering, things he meant to do to her, terrible things. Laughing at her, an ugly laugh, icy. As glacial as the gray eyes boring into to her. His bald head lowered and his teeth sank into her shoulder... ?

Christa bolted upright in bed, checking her wrists and ankles for bonds.
Okay, okay, it's just a dream
.

She sagged against the pillows, trembling, wiping the sweat from her face. This was getting out of hand: she had to start getting over it somehow. She would feel so much safer if Rayne were in the room with her. He was only next door, for crying out loud. That warm, strong body was lying in bed right there on the other side of the wall. And here she was, alone and too afraid to go to him.

After debating the issue she got up, grabbed a blanket and closed the bedroom door behind her, wincing at the squeak it made before padding down the hallway toward the front room. Jake's toenails clicked on the hardwood and she hoped they wouldn't wake Rayne as she tiptoed past his door.

“Christa?” he called from inside.

Damn. So much for that idea. After a moment's hesitation, she opened his door. Forcing her eyes to his face, she swallowed, feeling like a lost little girl.

“Uh... hi.” Jake wagged his tail feebly in support. “We were heading to the front room. Did we wake you?” She felt badly for disturbing him again. He clicked on his bedside lamp, illuminating his bare chest and tousled hair.

“Another nightmare? You can always come sleep in here, darlin'.”

Her heart leapt and she hovered there. Did she dare go and join him in his bed? She'd fallen asleep on him so many times now, what was the difference?

There's a big difference, her conscience yelled. She edged into the room anyway and closed the door behind her, intending to make up a bed on the floor. It was enough to be in the same room as him: no need to put herself through the torture of crawling between the sheets with him.

She moved toward his bed, keeping an eye on him. God, he wasn't naked under that sheet, was he? Her heart picked up its rhythm. I won't look, she promised herself as she spread her blanket on the floor, Jake claiming his spot at her feet and curling up.

“That's not quite what I had in mind.”

The blanket jerked as her fingers clamped together.

“Look, the way I see it, if you can work up the courage to come into my room in the middle of the night, you must really have had a scare.” He held out a hand to her. “So, come here.” His voice was husky as he patted the mattress beside him.

No way
. “I'll be fine down here. Better for my back. My mattress must be too soft or something because it's been aching lately,” she babbled, “but thanks anyway.”

“C'mon. I promise to behave myself.”

Her stomach clenched. Among other things, she was terrified he would sense her attraction for him. So, she just wouldn't touch him, that's all. Steeling herself, she slid in beside him, her back to him. Jake was staring at her, his head cocked to one side. When Rayne's arm snaked around the curve of her waist to pull her against him she nearly jumped out of the bed, instantly went rigid, her heart pounding so madly she was sure he must have felt it. With every nerve ending sending off shockwaves she couldn't afford any more contact than was necessary. She clenched her eyes shut and willed herself to think of him as Michael, cuddling her when she was a little girl. That image didn't last for more than a tenth of a second, and her eyes sprang open.

She must have flinched because his arm tightened. “Relax, kiddo.”

Somehow she managed to withhold the bubble of laughter. With effort, she relaxed against him and he snuggled closer, tucking his thighs beneath her hips. She swallowed. How many times had she dreamt of this? Maybe enough to have finally plunged over the edge. Maybe she was hallucinating and Rayne was a manifestation of her dementia.

But oh, sweet God he felt good. Safe. Secure.

“Comfy?” came his dry voice. She nodded, her neck so stiff she practically heard the joints squeaking. His hand reached up to brush the hair away and he rested his forehead against her nape, inhaled deeply against her skin. “Night darlin',” he whispered, sending goose bumps the length of her spine.