When he asked “Where’s your coat?” she didn’t answer, so he went on. “You’re gonna spend the night out here in nothing but that? No way. Hell no. It’s thirty degrees outside.”
“What do you care?”
“Can’t have you dyin’ on my land, now, can I?” The words were gruff, he knew that, but he loved her attitude. Loved the way she wouldn’t just give in.
“This is your land?”
He nodded, then turned to look out his window. “Can’t see for shit tonight. Bad night to spend out here.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t my choice.” She shivered visibly, despite the tepid air finally blowing through the vents.
“Here, give me your hands,” he said. She complied, and he gently closed his fingers over them. “Ah, hell, you’re freezin’. We gotta get you outta here.” Before she could react, he grabbed her keys from the ignition, hating himself for making her do things she didn’t want to do. But he couldn’t exactly let her freeze, could he? “Let’s go.”
He put on his big man’s voice—the firm one that brooked no argument but was gentle when focused on a skittish animal. She stiffened by his side, clearly infuriated, but he hadn’t left her with much of a choice.
Oops. Maybe not the best idea.
Fuck it. This was about her safety. He’d deal with the rest later.
That thought made him nervous. In a good way. Besides, he’d rather see her mad than scared.
By the time he walked around to the driver’s side door, she’d opened it and seemed to be having trouble getting out.
“How long you been out here?”
“Since I got back from self-defense class.”
“You jokin’?” He’d been kidding about her dying on his land, but a couple of degrees cooler, and a person could expire in less time than she’d sat out in this goddamn tin can. Ive went from worried to almost crazy, but he forced his movements to slow.
“Come on,” he said, his voice as calm as he could manage. “Let’s get you out.”
“I’m fine, Ivan. I’ll be—”
As she managed to stand, Uma started to collapse.
He caught her just in time and swung her up into his arms, frantic, but still careful. She was shivering hard.
He held her tight against him, wishing he could take on some of that cold, and made his way up the drive, back toward the forge, excited and anxious and completely uncertain about what the hell he thought he was doing.
8
Where the hell was he taking her? His feet crunched over gravel, going Lord only knew where. Images of hatchets and shallow graves flashed in Uma’s brain, only slightly counterbalancing the comfort of his arms. No way. Not this guy, said Uma’s heart. This is one of the good ones.
Right, the sarcastic voice in her head cut in, because you’re such a good judge of men.
“Your house is up there,” she muttered into his chest. “Where are we going?”
“Got to get you warm, okay?” His voice, so sure and solid, reminded her of his eyes earlier that evening. How patient he’d been with her in self-defense class. Surprisingly, the fear dissipated.
A few more steps, accompanied by the swish of grass and eventually the scrape of flagstone. The jingle of the dog’s collar shepherded them to wherever they were going. How could he see? Neither animal nor master seemed bothered by the dark.
Werewolves, thought Uma with an edge of hysteria.
Finally, the swaying of his steps stopped, and the creak of a door sounded. His foot bumped something metal on the threshold. A trickle of light from the doorway illuminated several food bowls on the stoop.
He stepped in, and Uma squinted her eyes against the glare.
“Sit here.”
He sat her in a chair in front of a merrily roaring fire. Merrily, she thought. Why would fires be merry? Happy fires?
“Stay.” Uma barely had time to settle in before rough hands plunked something heavy over her. A quilt. He went outside with a hefty cast-iron kettle, only to return and plop it atop the woodstove. The fire was beautiful, alive. It had every right to feel pleased with itself. She got lost in the flames, then in the steam curling from the kettle’s black spout.
Sometime later, his hand reentered her scope of vision, poured the water into a cup, and held it in front of her. It was thick, brown china, chipped. She liked cups like that—old-fashioned and durable. It suited the palm gripping it.
“Take this.”
Uma stared at the cup until he squatted and put it to her lips. “Drink.”
Oh. Of course. The first sip scorched her tongue. She didn’t mind. On the other hand, the burn as it made its way down her throat was not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. She sputtered, coughed, and pushed the mug back into his hands.
“What is that?”
“Hot moonshine. Heat you up.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“Well, I’m plumb out of champagne. This’s what we got.”
Uma reached up and wrapped her clammy hands around the too-hot mug.
The second sip wasn’t as bad, and it did help. She wasn’t quite normal yet, but she did feel…more. Her hands and feet prickled with the flow of returning blood.
Slowly, Uma emerged from her hypothermic stupor enough to allow curiosity to take over. She took in the space. It looked old. If Ms. Lloyd’s house was a three-decade rewind, this place kicked her back centuries.
She took another sip, testing the drink against her tongue. It still seared her insides but was no longer uncomfortable, just unfamiliar—and perfectly suited to the venue.
Ivan’s big hands scooted her chair back, scraping the wooden legs along the stone floor. He bent in front of the stove, opened the door—letting out a fresh wave of warmth—and fed a couple of logs into the fire.
“Figured you were a hunter out there at first. We get a lot up here. Drunk assholes shootin’ in my woods. I thought you—” He huffed out something that might have been a chuckle. “Ain’t never seen a hunter in a Honda Civic, though. Sorry I scared you.”
“’S okay.” Uma’s lips were coming back to life, but they were still like rubber.
“Ms. Lloyd kicked you out, huh?”
“Yeah. I got back too late. She wouldn’t let me in.”
“Yeah. She won’t open her door at night. Scares the shit outta her. She know where you’d be spendin’ the night?”
She shook her head. It was loose on her neck.
“Didn’t think of maybe gettin’ a hotel room or somethin’?”
Uma ignored him and looked around. The building was made of stone. It was a large workshop, one side taken up by wooden barn doors. They were closed right now, but her photographer’s mind could picture them thrown open during the day, no doubt a magnificent view of fields and forest and mountains beyond.
She turned in the chair to see that a massive worktable and anvil dominated the space. Large cast-iron gates leaned against a wall, and pieces of dark metal—rings, poles, curved shapes, and arrows—were strewn everywhere. There were railings, enormous gates, and what appeared to be brackets. Hanging along the walls and covering every possible surface were tools that looked old, polished by time and use. Leather, wood, and metal. She could smell it. She could taste it.
I’m in a daguerreotype, Uma thought. Sepia, cluttered with the paraphernalia of a bygone era, leached of color, soft around the edges. So much lovelier than reality.
“Here,” Ivan said, pulling the quilt off her. “This seat’s better.” He coaxed her out of the chair and nudged her toward the far end of the room, where he’d cleared off an enormous overstuffed armchair.
An unmade bed looked incongruous in the corner beyond that. It made her nervous enough to turn away as she sank deeply into the seat. Ivan placed the quilt back over her, and the dog curled onto her foot with a sigh, going to sleep instantl
y. Lucky bitch.
“You’re a…metalworker?”
“Blacksmith.”
“Oh.”
“Here.” He grabbed her mug and went to a shelf to refill it, adding a dash of hot water from the pot on the stove.
“Thanks.” Her voice came out a little slurred from the heat, the booze, the unexpected time travel.
She watched him surreptitiously as he turned over a big wooden crate and sat on it. The thing didn’t look like it could take his weight, but after an initial screech of protest, it held. He was close enough to feel intimate, but far enough so she wasn’t hemmed in.
He tapped a bottle of Coors Light against her cup in a toast. Their eyes met only to skitter away.
In between curious glances at him, Uma continued her perusal of the place. It was utterly manly, though not Joey’s sterile version of masculinity: stark, cold, and modern. No, this space was a hodgepodge of things, utilitarian but nonetheless decorative. The curved iron candleholder beside them held a quirky metal shade. The quilt wrapped around her was made up of bits and pieces that had undoubtedly been around the block a few times. No Pottery Barn faux-tiques here.
It was hard to keep her eyes off the man and his odd brand of magnetism. What was it about him? It was impossible to define. She would have called it charisma if he’d been more charming, had smiled or laughed. If he hadn’t had a wool blanket covering half his face.
“Where’s Jessie?” she asked instead of wasting time trying to understand his allure.
“Jessie?”
“She mind you being out here in the middle of the night?”
“Uh, I think she’s okay with it.”
“Wow. That’s nice of her.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?” He screwed up his face. It was the most expressive thing she’d seen him do.
“I wouldn’t want my husband out in a shack in the woods with some strange woman in the middle of the night.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“No. I’d want him right in bed next to me, where he belonged.”
“Hmm.” He nodded, his pursed lips barely peeking out from his beard. “Well, I got a bed right here. If a wife wanted to sleep with me, she’d know where to find me.”
“You stay here?” Uma couldn’t even look at the bed. The idea of it lurking so close behind them, messy and exposed without its quilt, made her flush.
“Yup.”
“What about the house?”
“What about it?”
“You rent it out or something?”
“Nobody stays in my house. I work late. This is easy.”
Uma hmphed and turned away from the bed they’d both ended up staring at before realizing what he’d said. “If no one stays in your house, then where’s Jessie?”
“At her house’d be my guess, although I can’t vouch for that. She’s a big girl.”
Oh. She cringed. “She’s not your wife, is she?”
“Nope. Sister.”
“What about the tricycle in the driveway?”
“Saved it from the landfill. Fixed it up for Jessie’s boy, Gabe. Rides a real bike now, so I’m savin’ it for…” He trailed off, then picked up a small, black metal ring from the table beside him, slowly spinning it in his hand. It gave Uma something to look at besides his face. “Nobody comes here. Ever. Besides Squeak and the girls outside, you’re the only one.”
“The girls outside?”
“Cats.”
“Ah. Are they all girls?”
“Nah. Couple of males. But the ladies cause all the trouble.” He suppressed a yawn, then threw her a look that on anyone else would have been pouty. “I gotta bone to pick with you.”
Uh-oh, here it was. “What?”
“You called my workplace a shack. I’ll have you know that this is a forge.”
“Oh, well, sorry.” Uma sounded snarky, but she couldn’t help it. Nor could she help the tiny smile that came with it.
“And don’t worry—wife position’s still open.”
“Oh. No, I mean… I’m not…” Uma sputtered, feeling like an idiot. He winked, and she had to glance away.
When she finally worked up the courage to look him in the face again, he was smiling. A real one. Wide mouth and big white teeth.
And just like that, it was back—that image of Ivan the warrior, fueled by bloodlust, his mouth open in a battle cry. Her pulse ratcheted up a notch.
“Where you from, Uma?” His words emerged slowly, rolling like so much lava down the rocky face of a volcano. Slow as they were, their heat snuck up on her, made her want to respond just to keep him talking.
She kept her answer vague. “Up north.”
He nodded. “Don’t want to talk about it,” he rumbled, more to himself than to her.
“Not really.”
He made a slightly impatient sound. It was an odd contrast: impatience from such a slow, careful man. He seemed to have a whole different concept of time. It reminded her of those big tree creatures in The Lord of the Rings. The Ents.
She took a swig of her drink, enjoying the burn from throat to belly.
Again, neither of them said a thing for a stretch, lost in a companionable quiet. He finally broke it. “What’s someone like you doin’ in Blackwood?”
“Someone like me?” The question jarred her out of her comfort, raised her hackles.
“Yeah, you know…” He hesitated, and color rose to his cheeks, two burning flags outlining the sharp bones below his eyes. “City girl like you.”
“Hey!” Uma wasn’t quite sure why it felt like an insult, but it did. “Why would you say that?”
“Don’t worry. Ain’t your fault where you’re from.” Another smile. It softened his words.
She couldn’t help but smile in return. “Yeah, right. What about you? Did you grow up around here?”
“Yep. Born and bred.”
“Nice place. Blackwood, I mean.”
“Has its moments, I guess. So, what brings you here, princess?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it, okay?”
“Sure. Got it.”
“And don’t…call me a princess.”
“’Course not. Didn’t mean a thing by it.” Ivan’s voice was gentle, and Uma had a realization. Despite the warrior image his size conjured, she suddenly saw him as he probably was: a big, shy man with confusing eyes, an unruly beard, and a ridiculously named leg warmer of a dog.
“I don’t really like to talk about myself.”
“Okay,” he said, nearly smiling again. “So, what do you want to talk about?”
She huffed out a tiny laugh. “Hell if I know.”
“Big conversationalist, huh?”
She shrugged and sipped at her drink, arms crossed protectively in front of her chest.
“Yeah, me too,” he said. “So, you want to start over again?”
She nodded, but still they sank back into silence. Ivan bent down and nudged at Squeak until she turned and gave him her belly. He tickled her, big fingers softly mussing her fur.
It occurred to Uma that she didn’t have a story ready. She’d never imagined herself having to explain why she’d come to Blackwood. She’d always assumed that she wouldn’t meet anyone, wouldn’t make friends.
With Joey, her friends had been picked off, one by one, deemed unfit for their company. By the end, she’d been entirely cut off from nearly everyone. He’d isolated her, left her with no one to turn to but him. His tactics seemed obvious in hindsight, but at the time…
“I’m sorry I was so short. I just… I recently got out of a really…a relationship.” There, she’d told him. Sort of.
“Nothin’ to be sorry about.”
“So, you have a big family around here?” she asked, the only thing she could think of to say.
&
nbsp; “Jessie, who you know. And her son, Gabe.”
“Right.”
“That’s it. You got family?”
“My mom’s in India. She lives on an ashram, does yoga and stuff.”
“Oh. Interesting. That it?”
“Pretty much. My, uh…my dad died when I was in high school.” Why was she telling him all this?
“Hmm.”
“You got parents?”
“Not really. Never knew my dad. And Mom…she’s gone too. Long time ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, then seemed to hesitate for a moment before leaning forward to say quietly, “Look, you need someone to talk to him for you?” His body tensed, oozing menace, and she wondered what kind of a talking-to he meant.
Uma shivered, a not unpleasant sensation. “Who?”
“Asshole you’re runnin’ from. One’s got you shittin’ your pants anytime a guy gets within spittin’ distance of you.”
“No,” she responded, although a small, craven part of her imagined him pummeling Joey’s face into the ground. His thick knuckles looked like they’d crunched their fair share of cartilage and bone. At the gym, she’d seen the potential damage he could do with that body. She had the feeling that if she said the word, he’d do it.
But no. Poor guy was probably some peaceful animal lover, minding his own business, and here she was, yet again, fantasizing him into the role of gladiator. “I don’t need help. I’m fine.” A statement so blatantly untrue, she could hardly expect him to believe it. “Besides, I’m learning self-defense.”
“That’s right. Good.” He nodded with a smile. “I could teach you more, if you want.”
“Oh, sure. Yeah. Thanks.” Uma pictured the two of them going over those same moves, but someplace private, like right here in his overcrowded forge. She couldn’t quite manage it, though, because every time she imagined their bodies coming together, it was on the bed, and the choreography much more illicit.
She snuck another look at him, his plaid shirt opened over a dark-colored T-shirt. His jeans looked filthy, but she figured that came with the territory. Blacksmithing didn’t seem like a neat occupation. The denim curved around his thighs like a glove, tighter than most guys around here seemed to wear. She wondered if he had a hard time finding pants that fit him. Slim waist paired with thick legs. Tall enough to make you do a double take. She’d be safe with a man like that standing guard. The memory of being carried by him, face pressed to his chest, was so visceral, so real, she could almost feel it still.
Under Her Skin Page 8
