by Susan Haught
Ryleigh straightened. “You sure this isn’t Italy?”
Logan set the brake and Ryleigh clambered from the car. He opened his door and leaned against it, the tap of the cooling engine a soothing rhythm to an eager heartbeat. Moist air, heavy with the balm of pitch and chatter of birds carried in the breeze, and Ryleigh spun in a lazy circle a few yards away absorbing every detail. With his eyes, he followed her legs, long and lean and draped in denim, and drifted down the line of buttons on her white cotton top and over soft, round shoulders, bringing to life the feminine curves of his memories. And whose voice was like an angel’s sigh. “Il mio angelo. My angel. My angel in blue jeans.” And he marveled at how she celebrated things most took for granted. He’d show her all of God’s majesty, if she would let him. But the light that shined within her he cherished above all.
“It’s gorgeous,” she said, settling into the crook of his arm.
He tucked her close. The sun, an exaggerated orange ball, hung near the horizon against the canvas of a sun-bleached blue sky, merging their shadows into one dark pool. “Welcome to Dolomite Falls Resort, Cabin Number Three. A touch of Italy tucked into the Ozarks.”
“Don’t tell me this is one of your resorts too?”
“Okay. I won’t.”
“Smart-ass,” she mumbled and jabbed him playfully in the ribs. “Do you own anything that isn’t knock-out gorgeous?”
He lifted her chin, his thumb gently stroking her ear. “I have discerning taste, so the answer is no. Sometimes it’s obvious. The breathtaking beauty…” he said, glancing around. “Sometimes it’s hidden beneath the surface. The first time I looked in your gentle eyes,” he said, “I saw both.” Logan brushed his lips against them, kissing them softly, one and then the other.
“Gentle?”
“Gentle heart. Gentle soul.” He smiled. “Mirrored in your eyes.”
“You haven’t seen me angry.”
“I’ve seen enough to want to know all that’s hidden there,” he whispered, smoothing her hair from her face. “The verdant green ones that smile, the storm clouds that brew in the angry ones, and the passion of the deepest ocean, the ones that say ‘yes.’”
“Yes.”
He touched her mouth with his fingers. “And I want to know your smile. The pouty one and the one that warns me to tread lightly. But mostly the happy one, the one that says ‘yes.’”
“Yes, yes, and yes.”
Her words formed around a brilliant smile, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat the melody to a song he prayed would not end until life no longer coursed through his body. “Then I’ll put them together—those everyone sees, the ones unseen, and those reserved only for me.”
He was met with puzzlement and he smiled down at her. “I see things most don’t, Cabin Number Three. It’s the reason I’m good at what I do, choosing locations with endless possibilities for our resorts, as I did this one. And as I see in you.”
“It’s truly beautiful here.”
“It’s not Italy, but it’ll do. For now. It’s more secluded than some of our other resorts, and I know how much you value solitude.”
“Emily Dickinson and I.”
“Both purveyors of words, lovers of solitude.”
She leaned against him. “Sometimes words get in the way.”
He felt the words as if she’d whispered them against his skin. “You say it best when you say nothing at all.” Ryleigh turned to him, her response clearly written in the quirk of her smile and reflection in her eyes. He took her hand and gestured toward the house. “This is the family villa, secluded from the resort.”
They walked arm in arm, but before they reached the entrance a young man emerged whistling to the melody of a jangle of keys. “Mr. Cavanaugh,” he choked, extending his hand.
Logan shook his hand. “Good to see you, Nathan.”
“I didn’t expect you and Ms. Collins this early.”
Logan nodded toward the Beemer. “Fully loaded street rocket,” he mused. “It’s not easy maintaining the speed limit.”
Nathan whistled.
Ryleigh nudged Logan in the ribs. “He thinks the speed limit’s a guideline, and certainly not for him.”
“Look who’s talking, leadfoot,” Logan said, and laughed. “Remember the snowmobiles?”
Ryleigh rolled her eyes.
Logan planted a hand on his hip and pulled Ryleigh close with the other. “Has everything been taken care of?”
“Yes, sir.”
Logan felt rather than heard the hesitation. “Is there something you’re hesitant to tell me?”
“The wine delivery was late and I had to put pressure on the vintner. But she came through and everything is as you requested.”
Logan smiled at the young man’s guile. “Nothing less than I would have done, Nathan.”
Nathan raised his chin and nodded. “Enjoy your stay, Ms. Collins. Mr. Cavanaugh.” He turned and walked away and then turned back, grinning widely. “Oh, and by the way, Mr. Cavanaugh, it’s good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back.”
Logan led Ryleigh inside.
“He’s a keeper. Knows the ins and outs of keeping the family residences stocked. And if I have anything to say about it, he’ll be as good as Rose someday.”
VINES CLUNG TO the exterior of the villa, its red tiled roof the instrument a hard rain would use to strum its melody, but the crumbled plaster inside revealed the brick bones of the wall beneath and massive rough-hewn beams stretched across the ceilings. Though designed with modern amenities, the stone building could have been tucked into the hills of Tuscany time had overlooked.
Ryleigh spun a pirouette around the room. Everywhere she looked was another testament to this man’s attention to detail and her eyes settled on a stone vase filled with five white roses. She touched each one reflectively, each one a gentle reminder of those she’d lost. A jardinière of green M&M’s sat next to the roses, a white “R” stamped on each one. For her? For her father? Without question, she knew it to be both.
Several bottles of Italian wine were nestled in a metal basket on the counter. Logan chose a bottle and twisted the opener until the cork popped free, the familiar aroma of red chilies, plums, and the subtle hint of chocolate rising in a wisp as he poured their glasses. He flipped a switch and music filled the villa.
He hadn’t forgotten anything, every detail a memory clothed in the compassion of the man who watched her with a quiet sense of pleasure.
She picked things up and put them down, the intrinsic ability and discernment of Logan’s talent—or Midas touch, perhaps—for transforming something from mediocre to exquisite seemed the trademark of the Cavanaugh name. The effects of his influence and charm grew unmistakably apparent as she dragged her fingers along the cracked, crumbling walls, a metaphor to her own recent past.
Ryleigh stepped through the French doors to an arbor shading a full-length patio. The canopy of vines had given way to a burst of new life and the arbor dripped with unopened purple wisteria clusters. The air had that moist heaviness about it when spring opens its arms to summer and comes alive with the perfume of damp moss, fertile earth, and sun-warmed pine. She leaned against the railing, Logan’s footsteps light across the hardwood floors. He handed her a goblet. The wine slid down her throat and settled in her belly, a tiny fire of warmth. He set his down and cradled her, the power of his arms around her and his thighs against hers the security and solidity of purpose she knew him to be.
Whether the influence of the wine, the music or simply his presence next to her, the feeling of belonging grew and settled over her and around her and in all the empty spaces within.
A light breeze lifted her hair, the subtle movement adrift with his musky scent. “I need you, Logan Cavanaugh,” she said, reflections of afternoon light playing on the soft curls that caressed the tops of his ears. She touched the curls, wanting—needing—to know the stories behind the silver, ghostly reminders hidden in the same way the past had take
n the color. “You became my strength when I needed it most.”
A quiet moment passed. “And you, my weakness. You held my heart in your hands and I fell apart only to see the one who could hold me together slip away.”
His hands moved over her like the gentle roll of waves on a summer lake. She closed her eyes, his touch slowly shifting, rearranging her inner core, and with a contented sigh, gave herself wholly—her dreams and her fears—for him to safeguard in his heart. “Breathe” played quietly in the background. “It’s peaceful here, Logan.”
Brushing her hair aside, he leaned in and kissed her neck, his tongue light on her skin. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Cabin Number Three.”
She turned her face to meet his. Raw emotion emanated from his gaze, a message conveyed without words.
Logan took her face in his hands and kissed her with unresolved passion, a kiss profoundly physical and meant to recapture the weeks lost, one she hungered to deepen and surrender completely to its power.
Her hands loosened his shirt from his jeans, but Logan took them and gripped them tightly to his chest. His gaze drifted over her, awakening her body as if he’d touched her with his hands.
An artful smile lifted one side of his mouth. “I can take it from here.”
And he claimed her, his kiss soft and moist and laden with the sweet ruffle of wine. “Ti amo così tanto, Ryleigh Collins. I do so love you.” The words drifted over her, spoken as if in prayer.
“Logan—”
Logan pressed his fingers to her mouth and then swept an arm under her knees and lifted her against him. “Sometimes words get in the way,” he said, and carried her inside.
Sunlight filtered through the bedroom windows, bathing him in a pool of amber light. He set her down, the air alive with promise. His fingers brushed the hollow of her neck with such seasoned tenderness, she felt only the whisper of cloth as he lifted her top over her head. He unfastened her bra and it fell unhindered, exposing her breasts, heavy with the unspoken invitation. And he took them, the desire in his eyes naked, yet reposeful, his breath a sigh on her bare skin. Blood pulsed through her, rousing her in places hungry for his touch. Everything she offered, he claimed with no hesitation in his need, and the whole of her went liquid as he nourished her with the touch of his hands.
In answer, she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and when the last gave way, the tangle of chest hair flowed dark and soft between her fingers, and then she gave the ripple of muscle a gentle squeeze. A hard nub rose beneath her palm and desire rose in her own nipples as if he’d stroked them. A moan rumbled in his throat, his male spice rich and heady. Her memories shifted and became real—constant and solid and unquestionable.
With discreet abandon, she unfastened his jeans and traced the dark line from navel to groin. She met his eyes and tucked her arms around him and urged him closer, the need to be one with him absolute, a bond she had refused to relinquish in his absence, nor would she today or any day after.
“Is this okay?” Her eyes sought the confirmation of her thoughts. “What we’re doing, I mean?”
He took her head in his hands, “Your body is a treasure, your pleasure my gift,” he whispered, his thumb stroking her chin, “and I do not intend for either one to be taken lightly. I say ‘I love you’ and my words come not from my mouth, but from the blood and bones and heart that sustain me, the soul and spirit that are me. You are not the first I have spoken these words to.” And then he moved his thumb to her lips, each stroke a caress of words softly spoken. “And though a first love cannot truly be forgotten, love is a priceless treasure to be guarded. And I shall do so, with my heart and mind, and with my life. And you shall be my last love. I’m just a man, amore mio,” he said, his smile linked to hers, “a man who’s wanted you from the first time I saw you, whose heart has been scribed with your name before the beginning of time, and who will spend the rest of his days pleasing you, and worshiping your body the way a man should, if you’ll allow me the honor.”
His words tugged at something so deep inside her, the tiny cracks in her heart came together as if he’d used the fiber of his words to mend it. Ryleigh tucked her lips between her teeth and bit down to keep a rein on the emotion stirred by his words and penetrating gaze. “Yes,” was all she managed to say through a blur of unspilled tears. Logan took her hands, guiding her until his jeans slipped past his hips and fell in a heap. He did the same with hers until nothing remained between them but the bond of skin against skin, his heartbeat matching hers as if their hearts beat as one.
With one hand cradled on her bottom, he reached into the drawer and removed a foil package. “I made sure the villa came well-stocked.”
“Smart-ass,” she said, took the package and peeked at him through lowered lashes. “I can take it from here.” She tore the package and slid the condom over his length. A breath hissed through his teeth and he pulled her tight against him, the urgency of his need hard and restless against her belly.
Logan laid her down, the featherbed an airy cushion beneath her, his body a cradling shield of strength and power, of compassion and tenderness above her. And she welcomed the whole of him as she molded her body to his. With a kiss that left no doubt he’d claimed the whole of her, he eased himself inside her, the pleasure deep with promise. They joined as one, the intimacy as slow and easy as fine wine: ripe with passion, yet mellow in the arms of empathy, the bond complete.
Like a feather caught in the current of a stream, the haunting memories drifted away in silence—a language with no need of words. In the subtle glow of the waning afternoon, they returned to the place where two lost souls had collided into one under the cover of a Rocky Mountain snowstorm.
The clock ticked and blood pulsed in his veins, but time seemed irrelevant. Propped on one elbow, Logan watched her doze—every breath, every rise and fall of her chest an unspoken answer to a prayer. Emotion crashed through him, something so deep, so compelling, there wasn’t enough of her to fill the void each time he took a breath. And when he’d taken her mouth, her answer had been so deeply rooted the sheer depth unhinged the last of his resolve, and left no doubt her dreams were his to bring to life and her fears were his to heal—now and every day after.
Bubbles of moisture still clung to her lashes and he smiled at the hint of freckles sprinkled just below her eyes, an unconsumed keepsake to the little girl. In the stillness of the moment he traced the outline of her face, the touch so light she didn’t wake, memorizing her sleepy smile and the feel of her flesh beneath his fingers. And he’d use the rest of his lifetime to please her and keep her safe. In the moments before she stirred, he breathed the faint notes of her perfume and tucked them away to recall at will, and bathed in the languor of their lovemaking.
“Hey,” she said with a sigh and then reached to meet his leisurely kiss.
“Tell me your eyes will be the last I see when I close mine and the first I wake up to.”
“Always,” she said with a sheepish smile, “unless you surprise me with a puppy.”
“Sei mia, mia cucciola.”
RYLEIGH LAY BESIDE him, secure in his arms and the rumble of his laugh a soothing melody to the intensity of his words. A day’s stubble rasped against her cheek, a contradiction to the man beneath and his breaths a reminder of the life beside her. And if she stopped breathing—this day, this moment would be enough. “I love you, and I want to know the stories behind every silver hair,” she said and wrapped a curl around her finger.
His voice shook with impish pleasure. “The title would be, ‘Two Daughters and Forty-Six Years Under My Belt.’”
“Okay, smart-ass, I’m trying to be seriously charming and you’re making jokes.”
“You’re already seriously charming.”
“And I happen to enjoy what’s under your belt.” She tucked her lip between her teeth and studied him—the bold chin and eyes that spoke without words—and her belly fluttered at how deeply she had fallen under his spell. Logan brushed her nos
e with his finger and winked, and the tug of these simple acts curled her toes. With her arm around his waist, she snuggled closer, a finger tracing the smooth indentation of the scar below his ribs.
He flinched and pushed her hand away.
“I’m sorry,” she said, frowning, “does it still hurt?”
“It tickles.”
“I’m sure it didn’t tickle at the time.”
“No, it didn’t. In fact,” he said with a deep noise in his throat that might have passed for a chuckle, “that day’s a little hazy, but I was told I was rather vocal.” He did chuckle this time. “Guess I was somewhat insolent while they tried to dig a cannonball out of my side.”
“Cannonball?”
“Felt like one. Before the magic of drugs took hold.” Logan rolled on his back and she curled beside him, her head nestled against his shoulder. One hand stroked his chest. He drew a deep breath. “Pink Lady .38 Special. We were serving dinner at a local soup kitchen on Christmas Eve. I watched her pull the gun—”
Ryleigh raised up on an elbow. “A woman?”
“She aimed, fired five rounds, and all I could think of was why’d she need a pink gun to tell us she wasn’t fond of turkey?”
“A woman? With a pink gun?”
“And lousy aim.” He raked a hand over his chin. “It was a long time ago. No one was seriously hurt.”
“Besides you?”
“And the pot of gravy,” he said, making a rather dubious imitation of an explosion.
“And you?”
“A bit messy, but it wasn’t serious. Gravy pot bled more than I did.”
“Smart-ass.” She took his hands in hers and pressed them to her cheek, humor relaxing from her face. The weight of him next to her satisfied the doubt of his physical presence, but what she needed now was to know all the pieces that made him one. Besides what she did know—the consummate partner, sensual lover, compassionate minister and devoted father she knew him to be, she sensed the other, more discreet layers of this fascinating man. And she hungered to peel those layers away, to uncover the whole of the man within, to hold his hand through the dark places he wanted to forget, and to know his thoughts through the weeks that had separated them. “I wish I could take your memories—the painful ones—and erase them.”
