The fact was, she’d never even had a man in her bedroom before, unless she counted Lester, the seventy-year-old carpenter who’d replaced the window opposite the bed with a gothic leaded glass window she’d found from a demolished Orthodox Russian church in Sitka. And Keegan Bodine. He’d delivered and set up the cherrywood headboard she’d bought from Auntie M’s Antiques and Ammunition on Third and Main. Keegan was an outback guide in Twin Pines, thirty-two, single, good-looking. But he was just a friend. A good friend but nothing more.
Alaska was full of men like Keegan. Rugged, healthy, robust men looking for a woman. One day Holly assumed she’d find the right one and settle down, but for now, she preferred to keep her relationships simple and she wasn’t looking for love. Not the one-night kind or the permanent kind. At this moment, she loved her life just as it was: busy and full and no complications.
“What about you?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him. Once again, the sight of his long body stretched out in her bed made her breath catch. She quickly looked away.
“I definitely don’t have a boyfriend,” he said with a yawn. “Or any other entanglements, either.”
She heard the heavy sound of his breathing and quietly crept toward the door. Entanglements. A strange, but appropriate word, she thought, and paused by the doorway to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest. Let herself wonder for just a moment what those honed muscles would feel like under her fingers, what that body would feel like—
“Hey, Holly?”
She jumped at the husky, sleep-heavy sound of his voice. Guilt warmed her cheeks.
“He warned me you were difficult.” His words were slurred, barely intelligible. “He didn’t warn me you were so damn sexy.”
He rolled away from her then and this time she was certain he was out.
He warned me you were difficult?
Who had warned him? Doc? Or maybe Quincy had said that to Guy when he’d called over to the garage and asked about his plane. But that didn’t really make sense, either, she thought, shaking her head. Maybe it was just the drugs and exhaustion talking and his comment was nothing more than gibberish.
That was probably it, she decided as she quietly closed the bedroom door behind her. Difficult, my foot. She frowned. She wasn’t difficult. At least, not unreasonably.
She paused, stared at the closed bedroom door.
He didn’t warn me you were so damn sexy.
Those words made her blood warm. More gibberish? she wondered. Or had he meant it?
More than likely, he said that to all the women. And no doubt, with this man, there was a long line of swooning females.
Sexy? Her?
She looked at her jeans and boots, the turtleneck she wore. He certainly hadn’t been referring to her clothes. Her hair was a mess from her dive in the lake, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. So what could he possibly think was sexy about her?
She laughed at her own foolishness. The man had a head injury, for heaven’s sake. He was delirious. For all he knew, she could be Olive Oyl. And what did it matter anyway? He’d be gone in a few days after he recuperated, and since he wasn’t a regular with the company who normally flew in shipments, she’d probably never see him again.
Shaking her head, she pushed all thoughts of Guy Blackwolf from her mind. She’d already lost nearly an entire day’s work. She was bone-tired, but she still had orders to fill and bills to pay. And if there was one thing she’d learned growing up, money sure as hell didn’t fall out of the sky.
Guy dreamed of double-double hamburgers, hot, greasy French fries and rich, thick chocolate shakes with whipped cream and a big, fat cherry on top. He had the burger in one hand, the shake in the other. On a sigh, he bit into the juicy meat, but suddenly it turned to shredded cardboard in his mouth. He took a gulp of the shake, but that also had the consistency of powdery sawdust.
He woke on a hoarse cough, felt a searing pain in his chest, then blinked hard and remembered where he was. In Holly Douglas’s bedroom.
In her bed.
When she found out who he really was and what he was doing here, no doubt he’d be sleeping on the street.
Rising on an elbow, he reached for the glass of water on the bedstand. For the past two days, every time he’d awakened, there’d been a full glass there. He downed the water, then sank back onto the pillows. His chest burned and his head throbbed, but for the first time in two days, his mind was beginning to clear.
He’d felt, more than actually seen her presence since he’d tumbled into her bed. A soft rustle, a quiet whisper. Once or twice, the cool touch of her fingers on his forehead. And even when she wasn’t in the room, he’d known that she’d been there by the faint smell of strawberries and wild mint, mixed with a scent that belonged to her alone.
He’d slipped in and out of sleep, managed to muster up just enough strength to stumble back and forth to the bathroom on his own, but that was it. He’d given his body the rest that it had needed. But now, ready or not, he was getting out of bed.
And, as the saying went, he was hungry enough to eat a bear.
Since he probably smelled like a bear, though, he thought it best to tackle a shower before food. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then dropped his bare feet onto the cool hardwood floor. When the room stopped moving, he rose, tugged on his jeans, grabbed the blue flannel shirt she’d given him to wear and made his way to the bathroom.
Her blue-tiled shower was small, the nozzle too low for a man his height, but the water was hot and the pressure strong. The familiar scent of strawberries filled the bathroom—her shampoo, he realized, and couldn’t help himself from taking a whiff of the bottle sitting on the shower shelf. As much as he enjoyed the smell, he appreciated the unscented shampoo and fresh bar of green deodorant soap she’d left out for him on the sink countertop. A guy couldn’t very well go around smelling like strawberries, after all.
He brushed his teeth, shaved, and except for the fact that every bone in his body ached, he nearly felt human again. Now the most pressing problem was the empty pit in his stomach.
On his way to the kitchen, though, he spotted the phone on the table beside her sofa. He needed to call Flynn and give the man an update on the situation here, but hadn’t had an opportunity since he’d dumped his plane into the lake. With Holly gone, there was no better time than now.
Guy glanced around the quiet apartment. His brain had been muddled when she’d brought him in here that first day, and he hadn’t gotten a good look at the place. The furnishings were simple, but comfortable, a blend of woodsy and feminine, old and new. There were several books on a shelf beside the fireplace. Mysteries, biographies and romance, plus a new Jonathan Kellerman he’d bought himself last week but hadn’t had time to read. There were also several children’s books, which he found curious. From what Flynn had told him, she’d never been married. Of course, that certainly didn’t preclude her from having a child, but it was obvious that none lived here.
He picked up the phone, used his calling card to dial the Texas number, then sat down on the sofa, ignoring the pain that shot through his right leg when he bent his knee.
A deep, familiar voice answered on the third ring.
“Hey, Dog-Man.” From the day Flynn Sinclair had brought Guy’s older sister, Susan, a black labrador, Guy had used the nickname. “What’s up?”
“Dammit, B.W., where the hell have you been?” Flynn growled, using his own nickname for Guy. “You were supposed to call me when you got to Twin Pines.”
“Small problem.” Guy glanced at a stack of opened mail on the table beside the sofa, let his gaze linger longer than anyone would consider polite. A late notice from an insurance company and a bill from a credit card company with overdue fees lay on top. “I’ve been laid up in bed for a couple of days.”
“Yeah?” Flynn snorted. “Knowing you, there’s a female involved. So what’s her name?”
“Holly Douglas.”
There was a pause, then a b
last. “What! Dammit, B.W., I sent you there to bring the woman back to Texas to meet her family, not jump into her bed.”
Guy settled back, decided to let Flynn stew for a bit. “I’m only human, pal. Before I could even think to say no, she had me out of my clothes and between the sheets.”
While Flynn went on to rant at him, Guy sort of peeked at the rest of Holly’s mail. An unopened letter with Ryan Fortune’s return address in one corner and another bill from the electric company, also late.
After a couple of minutes, the other end of the line went quiet. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?” Flynn said with a heavy sigh. “And I fell for it.”
“Hook, line and sinker.” Guy grinned, noticed a small, fat pillow on the sofa that said Home Sweet Home. “But I’m actually the one who fell. Out of the sky, into Twin Pines Lake. Miss Douglas graciously pulled me out of my plane before I became fish bait.”
He went on to give details as best he could, including the twist of fate that now had him sleeping in the bed of the woman who had brought him here. And though Flynn argued, Guy told him that he wasn’t leaving Twin Pines until Holly Douglas agreed to come back to Texas with him.
“You better tell her the truth soon,” Flynn said. “As it is, she might ship you back here in little pieces with a bow on top, just to emphasize the point that she wants nothing to do with the Fortune family.”
“I’ll tell her. I just think it’s something I should ease into, rather than jump with both feet.” Guy heard footsteps coming up the stairs. “Gotta, go, pal.”
He had the phone back on the hook and just managed to make it to the kitchen when she walked in the front door. She’d done something different with her thick chestnut hair, he noted, casually piled it on top of her head and secured it with a large tortoise-shell clip. She wore a light blue denim jacket over a snug white top, jeans that hugged her slender hips and black suede lace-up hiking boots.
There wasn’t one item of clothing that by itself would remotely be considered sexy, and still he felt his pulse jump. He couldn’t help but wonder what he might find under all that smooth denim and cotton. More cotton? Lace?
Silk, he decided, watching her close the door behind her. Something in the way she moved. Smooth as silk.
She caught sight of him in the kitchen and hesitated, then narrowed those golden lady-tiger eyes at him.
“You better talk fast, Blackwolf,” she said tightly and advanced on him.
Guy’s gaze dropped to the black leather sports bag she held in her left hand. His bag. He hadn’t needed it before, but she’d obviously retrieved it from the plane. He struggled to remember what he kept packed in there. A couple of T-shirts, fresh pair of jeans, some toiletries. A paperback, but he couldn’t recall which one. Nothing he could think of that would give him away.
She set the bag on the kitchen table and folded her arms. “You’ve got some explaining to do, mister, and it better be good.”
Three
“I should toss you out of here on your butt right now.” Holly pressed her lips into a stern line. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
“Uh…” He stared at his sports bag on the table, then remembered the letter he’d shoved in there before he’d left. It was from Flynn, on Fortune stationery. Guy knew that if Holly had seen it, he was a dead man. He hesitated, then looked back at her. “I’m sorry?”
She gave an unladylike snort. “Typical male response, spoken with typical lack of sincerity. I want to know what you were thinking?”
He paused, then said carefully, “I wasn’t?”
“You got that right.” Pulling a kitchen chair from the table, she thrust a finger at it. “Sit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sat.
“And don’t use that tone with me, either.”
“No, ma’am.”
“You got up and took a shower by yourself.”
So that’s what she was upset about, he thought with a mixture of relief and surprise. It wasn’t really anger he saw in her narrowed gaze. It was concern.
When was the last time a woman had fussed over him? he wondered. His mother had run off when he was eleven. Other than his sister, no one had really worried about him since he was a kid. And even she was gone now.
But this was hardly the time to think about Susan. Those thoughts he saved for late at night, when he was alone with a bottle of whiskey and the few photographs of his sister that he kept in the bottom drawer of his dresser.
He turned his attention back to Holly, felt a strange ripple of pleasure that the distress in her eyes was genuine. “Well, shoot, Miss Douglas.” He reached for her hand. “I would have waited for you if I’d known you wanted to join me. But I’m sure I missed a spot or two. I wouldn’t mind taking another one if it would make you happy.”
“The only dirty spot you missed was your mind.” She yanked her hand away. “For two days you’ve barely had the strength to get out of bed and make it ten feet to the bathroom. What would I have done if you’d passed out in the shower?”
“Holly, I’m fine.” He took her hand again, even though she resisted. “I appreciate your concern, but really, I’m okay. I’m not going to pass out.”
“See that you don’t,” she said firmly, but her words lacked heat. “I promised Doc I’d make sure you didn’t crack that head of yours open again.”
Her fingers were long and slender, her skin warm and smooth against his palm. “The last thing we want to do is upset Doc.”
“Absolutely,” she murmured. Her gaze dropped to their linked hands. “That’s the last thing we’d want to do.”
“Holly,” he said her name softly, tugged her down to sit on the chair beside him. “I do appreciate all you’ve done for me. Fishing me out of the lake and taking me to the doctor, bringing me home. Letting me sleep in your bed. For all you know, I’m a serial killer or an escapee from a mental ward.”
“How do you know you aren’t the one taking the chance?” she said, and he saw the smile in her eyes as she lifted her gaze to his. “Did you see the movie, Misery? For all you know, my back garden is filled with the bones of all the men I’ve brought home. The calcium is wonderful for roses, you know.”
“Your hands don’t feel like you’ve been digging in dirt.” He traced the ridge of her knuckles with his thumb. “They’re much too soft and delicate.”
She swayed slightly toward him. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”
He hesitated at her words, felt the first prick of guilt that he hadn’t been completely honest with her yet. But he hadn’t lied to her exactly, either. He’d simply withheld information.
“Holly,” he said softly. “I want you to know that you can trust me.”
She arched a brow at him, tilted her head. “Trust is something that has to be earned, Guy. I don’t know you that well.”
“Sure you do,” he said evenly. “Maybe not what kind of music I like or my favorite sport or even what model car I drive. But you know me, probably better than most people.”
It was the oddest thing for him to say, Holly thought, and yet she did feel as if she knew him. She didn’t know why she felt that way, but from the moment she’d dragged him out of that plane, there’d been something between them she couldn’t explain. Some strange connection. Two days of watching over him, worrying that he was all right had only intensified that connection.
But trust him? She’d learned at a young age how blind trust could destroy lives and break hearts. Trust was precious to her, sacred, and she wasn’t ready to give it to this man so quickly or so easily.
The texture of his hand was rough against her own, his skin deeply tanned. His wet, black hair was slicked back from his freshly shaved face, a face shaped from rugged angles and sharp lines, a nose bent across the bridge, brows dark and foreboding, a sensuous mouth and square jaw. Intense pale gray eyes, wolf eyes, that made her breath catch every time she looked into them. He smelled like soap and shampoo and man.
She wasn’t certain e
xactly how or when the air in her kitchen had grown so thick, or why she was having such difficulty remembering the reason she’d come up here in the first place—especially since she had so much work to do downstairs in her general store. And she wasn’t certain at all why she was standing here, letting this man hold her hand and draw her close as if they were lovers instead of just simple acquaintances.
She watched Guy’s thumb draw lazy circles over her knuckles, felt the heat curl up her arm, and knew there was nothing simple at all between them. It was as complex as it was dark and erotic. Seductive.
Confusing.
She didn’t want this. These feelings, this complication. There was chemistry between them, she’d be lying to herself if she denied that. It was stronger than anything she’d ever experienced before. But Guy Blackwolf was just passing through. It was fine to flirt a little, but that was all. At a very basic level, she knew that anything more would be very risky. And while she might take risks with her business, her money or even her life, she did not take risks with her heart. The price was too great.
“So.” She pulled her hand away and stood, was annoyed with the fact that her knees were weak. “You ready for some food?”
He grinned at her. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“I have to warn you, though—” she opened the pantry beside her refrigerator and busied herself by moving the six cans in there from one side to the other “—I don’t cook. Chicken Noodle or Beef with Stars?”
“You don’t cook? And here I thought I’d found the perfect woman.” He sighed mournfully. “Ah, well. Beef with Stars is fine.”
Rolling her eyes, she pulled a saucepan from a bottom cupboard, then reached for a can opener in the drawer. “Quincy brought over your bag from your plane. Now that you’re on your feet, I’m sure there are some things in there you can use.”
“Thanks.”
“He parked your plane in the lot behind his shop,” she said and hooked the opener onto the can. “In a day or two, when you’re steady on your feet, I can take you over so you can assess the damage. Quincy said the tail section was hit pretty bad, but you can—”
Fortune's Secret Daughter Page 3
