A Kindled Winter

by Rachel L. Demeter

  And quickly.

  Breaking the awkward quiet, she surrendered to a smile and pushed away from the mattress. Then she reached forward and patted Brody on top of his head, as if greeting a dear old friend. “Why hello again, handsome.” She tossed David a quick, sly smile and gestured toward his boon companion. “We met earlier, see. He’s an English Sheepdog?”

  David responded with a sharp nod.

  “Ah, thought so. He’s a real beauty. Quite a character, too.” She eased closer. Her nose scrunched and her green eyes narrowed in contemplation.

  Suddenly David was struck with a ridiculous thought. He yearned to wrench away those hideous glasses, press his lips against the smooth patch of skin between her brows, and inhale her lemony scent …

  I’ve been alone far too long.

  “When you woke up this morning … I bet you didn’t expect to find a frozen, half-drowned redhead on your doorstep, eh?”

  David exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His strained expression loosened several notches and some of the tension dissolved from the atmosphere. Then he cleared his throat while unexpected laughter rustled inside his belly. The sensation felt foreign, unnerving, and just a bit intriguing.

  And it scared the hell out of him.

  “Well. No. Not exactly.” She shuffled toward him with baby steps and crossed both arms over her chest. She was rocky on her feet—likely still feeling the effects of her blackout. David fought the instinct to reach out and stabilize her body.

  Her eyes roamed the overflowing shelves, taking everything in.

  Alarms blared inside his mind. His internal barriers shot into place, and icy coldness leaked through his veins. Once again, he felt violated, exposed—thrown entirely out of his element. Only minutes before, she’d witnessed him in his most vulnerable state—and now here she stood, invading his son’s room, apparently not a care in the world …

  “What’s your name?” he cautiously asked, his voice harsher than intended. He fought to keep the poison from his tone without luck. Biting back a curse, he pushed on, “And how did you end up on my doorstep, anyway?”

  If she sensed the venom in his words, she didn’t show it. Instead, she surrendered to a sharp bark of laughter and shook her head. The sound was rich and robust, suggesting that she enjoyed life to the fullest and held nothing back—something that was entirely at odds with his own world view. Curls flurried around her cheeks with each movement, waving like iridescent flames. He stiffened, feeling their penetrating heat.

  Fire. Burning. Melting flush and muffled screams—

  “Oh, it’s quite the tale. I was driving up to my mom’s for Christmas, got caught in the flash flood, and struck a tree like some idiot.” She paused for a moment—and David swore a haunted look surfaced in those eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it’d come. Then a small grin creased her lips while she shrugged her lean shoulders. Each motion sent wafts of perfume sailing toward him. She smelled so light and sweet—and David couldn’t help but admire the way it complimented her features. “So that’s the story of me fainting on your doorstep. It’s a good one, right? I’m thinking of optioning the film rights.”

  “Sounds worthy of the Academy,” he said. Then David surprised himself and flashed her a genuine smile. It was the first smile he’d gifted anyone since the accident, and he momentarily felt his heart open to this strange woman.

  Returning the gesture, she closed the space between them and outstretched her hand. “Jeseca Reed.”

  He hesitated—then united their hands, watching as his much larger (and uglier) one swallowed her fingers whole. If she was repulsed by his gnarled skin, she did an excellent job concealing it. David’s heart briefly tossed and turned—and he combated the emotional response.

  It was unexpected. Unwanted. Dangerous.

  The silence grew indefinitely. Studying his expression, she arched a fine brow while her lips spread into a full-blown smile. Seduced by the movement, a charming pair of dimples embedded her cheeks and set her green eyes ablaze.

  “And you are …?”

  “Oh. Right. My apologies. David Drake,” he muttered, allowing the warmth of her hand to slip from his own.

  For several weightless seconds, he searched her gaze for any traces of pity. But none was to be found. Only an acute curiosity and a tinge of apprehension.

  Okay, perhaps more than a tinge.

  She glanced over her shoulder and gestured toward the medical supplies. “Dr. David Drake?”

  Pain speared through David’s heart. He unhooked his eyes from her own and peered down at his clenched, burned hands. “Yes. I was a surgeon. Though I stopped practicing several years ago …” Tension hung in the air. He hastily cleared his throat and struggled to change the subject. “Your vitals are stable and you don’t appear to have a concussion. It’s too dangerous to drive to the hospital right now … but you should be fine here for a couple of days.”

  Her brows perked. “A couple of days? Here?”

  “Well, yes. I would say so. Between the storm and the trauma to your head, at the very least. I believe it’s supposed to start snowing soon, too.” He moved forward until he stood square in front of her body. She was certainly no taller than five feet two inches. Her petite height barely reached his chest. An unexpected and protective need overcame David—his doctor’s instincts, his mind reassured him.

  “Let me examine the cut,” he whispered. Without conscious thought, he cradled each of her cheeks and tilted her head backward a few inches. Her eyes widened at the sudden contact, and a wisp of air escaped from her parted lips. It fanned against his face in hot, succulent waves. An impossible image zoomed through his mind—and he visualized those lush lips wrapped around his nether regions. His manhood stirred to life at the very thought and jerked against his zipper; David cursed himself and fought to drive the fantasy far, far away.

  Then she locked onto his eyes, unblinking and unmoving, and David had to remind himself why he’d touched her in the first place. Clearing his throat (and mind), he lifted two fingertips against her hairline and brushed away the errant curls. They were lush, thick, softer than silk.

  Just as he’d imagined they’d be.

  How would they feel slathered across his scarred chest, damp from their lovemaking? A blush brightened her cheekbones and traveled down her neck, as if she could read his wayward thoughts. He bowed his head until his lips were dangerously close to brushing against her skin. And how damn easy it would be to kiss her … to lean forward a few meager inches, inhale her feminine essence, and press his lips along her brow—

  Every fiber of his being caught fire. How delicate she felt against his disfigured skin … and she didn’t so much as flinch. The faintest ray of hope sparked inside his chest.

  A dangerous thing, hope.

  Don’t. Stop. Just don’t touch me. It’s too soon … Lizzy’s voice invaded his mind, echoing from far beyond the grave.

  David shook away the laments and focused on the woman standing before him. He fought to perceive her as an unremarkable patient, an unremarkable specimen—but it’d been so long since he’d felt such softness and warmth. And she was indeed quite remarkable.

  Steeling his senses, he continued to examine the gash, one hand cradling her chin, the other keeping her hair pushed aside. “Looks to be healing up well,” he said at length, dropping his hands away. Then he stepped backward and erected several feet of air between them. Suddenly he felt cold. Cold and empty.

  She smiled, tucked a curl behind each ear, then nodded. “Thanks. For everything. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

  You have no idea, David thought. Instead, he attempted to return her smile and shrugged both shoulders. “Not at all. In fact, I appreciate the company. It can get very lonely up here.”

  She nodded again. “Lonely, yes. But very beautiful,” she said, stepping toward the window and sweeping the curtain aside. Beyond the glass, sheets of rain thundered down, harsh and unyielding. “So do you live here
year-around?” She made an enticing image, David admitted while he drank in the sight of her endless legs peeking out from his T-shirt. Lush, red curls cascaded to the small of her waist and grazed the pert arc of her backside. And what a delectable backside it was.

  He moved forward, drawn to the strange woman in spite of himself, his thoughts flying every which way. “No. I have a house in Portland. I come up here during winter. For Christmas and New Year’s.”

  She nodded while the drape slid through her long fingers. Then she sighed and fondled the material, apparently lost to deep thought.

  For a brief instant, David wondered how those fingers would feel upon his flesh. Would she shove his hands away, just as Lizzy had done for so many years?

  Hell. Of course she would.

  “How about you? You live around here?”

  “Oh, no. Far from it. In Los Angeles, actually, right in the heart of it all.” Eyes sparkling, she laughed to herself and shoved away a loose curl. “God. I hadn’t realized how much I missed clean air. Anyway, I’m just visiting my mom for the holidays. I lived up here when I was a child, see. Speaking of which … I know my mom’s worried sick. I have no reception on my cell, and I really need to reach her. She’ll have half the country out lookin’ for me by dawn.”

  “You can use my landline once it’s back up. Whatever else you’ll be needing, too. It’s no problem.” Signaling toward the repetitive booming, he added, “I threw your clothes in the washer—though my T-shirt and boxers are probably more comfortable for sleeping in.”

  She blushed, met his eyes, then wearily smiled. David rocked on his heels as his insides unraveled.

  Damn. I’m in serious trouble.

  “Great. You’re a real lifesaver. Actually I’ve got a suitcase full of stuff in the car—so I’m not at a total loss.”

  Tripping over his thoughts, David nodded once and clenched his fists. Breathe, you damn fool, breathe. “I’ll fetch it as soon as the rain lets up. I’ll contact the Auto Club, too.”

  “Sounds like a solid plan. Thank you, David.” His name slid from her tongue, sweeter than nectar. Eyes beaming, she sauntered past him and eased toward the towering shelves. At her close proximity, that lemony scent filled his nostrils and assaulted his senses. A small grin stretched her lips while she studied a framed photograph of Charlie, him, and Lizzy.

  The icy barriers around his heart hardened, and the alarms blared inside his mind again.

  “What a beautiful family,” came her slow, careful whisper. “Really adorable kid. His name’s Charlie, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Smiling to herself, she echoed the name beneath a faint breath. Then she reached forward and tracked a fingertip over the picture’s wooden frame.

  David’s insides contracted and a wave of nausea reared within. She locked onto his eyes before surveying his left hand—searching for any trace of a wedding ring, he assumed. Despite her easy humor and laid back mannerisms, he encountered a transient sorrow in her eyes and voice … one she couldn’t fully conceal. It called out to him, resolute and adamant, echoing his own despair with a startling force.

  “So … is he with his mom for Christmas?” Her voice was wary and faint, almost lost beneath the sound of the rain.

  A dark storm cloud gathered overhead and eclipsed David’s heart. He swallowed and paced backward several feet. Repetitively he dragged a hand through his hairline as the walls seemed to close in. He needed out. He needed escape. Suddenly he felt as if he were suffocating.

  Exhaling a strained breath, Jeseca tensed and dropped her fingers from the picture. “God. I’m so sorry. I … I really didn’t mean to—”

  “Yes,” he answered at length, his voice torn and ragged. “He’s with his mother.”

  The words hung in the air and settled between them like ashes. Then he swiftly turned away and fled his son’s bedroom.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Midnight descended upon the cottage, blanketing everything beneath a silent calm. Jeseca sat cross-legged on the bed, Jane Eyre sprawled open in her lap. The rain imbued the room with a peaceful ambiance and infused the words with life.

  I have for the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you. You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel—I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my center and spring of life, wrap my existence about you—and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.

  Chills crawled up and down Jeseca’s spine as Rochester’s declaration oozed inside her soul. She’d read the words a half dozen times before—yet they always managed to steal her breath and leave her aching. She wasn’t a full-blown romantic by any stretch of the imagination. She didn’t long to find her other half; Jeseca fully believed she was complete in herself. Instead, she yearned to discover her heart’s counterpoint. To find someone who strengthened her, who complimented her very essence, who shared in both her triumphs and sorrows …

  Once upon a time, Aubrey had been that person. But her death had left a distinct void inside Jeseca—one that grew more profound and dark with each passing day.

  Her thoughts turned to David’s icy words from hours before: He’s with his mother. God, the despair in his eyes had stolen her breath away. She’d tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

  What was wrong with her? She should have never pressed the subject. She should’ve known better. The date on the Christmas poem had been a dead giveaway. Guilt constricted around her heart; Jeseca battled to shove it away and focus on the endearing Mr. Rochester—

  A sharp knock fractured her thoughts. Her pulse jolted as her eyes jackknifed to the doorway. David stood in awkward silence, a steaming bowl of soup cradled in his palms. Brody clung to his heels, as usual, his entire butt wagging in place of the absent tail. The long-sleeved T-shirt hugged David’s muscles to perfection. Her gaze roamed across those sculpted biceps and long arms, drinking him in. Then her eyes settled on the scarred flesh of his hands and her heart gave a painful twang. She flipped the book shut and managed a weak, unconvincing smile.

  “I know it’s really late … but I, uh … I thought you might be hungry,” he stammered. Such an attractive voice. Husky and slow-simmered.

  Jeseca’s tummy rumbled in response as she laid the book aside. She felt a steady blush creep across her cheekbones. Clutching at her noisy belly, she leapt from the mattress and walked toward him with uneasy steps. “God, yes. I’m starving. Thanks, David.”

  His strained expression relaxed, and a sensual, slow smile crawled across his mouth. His lips were beautifully carved … a true piece of art. When he permitted a smile, tiny laugh lines embedded the corners of his mouth, as if it’d once been made for happiness.

  She felt thoroughly intrigued and more than a bit apprehensive. Her curious nature delighted in the mystery that appeared to be Dr. David Drake. He was an enigma … and one she wanted nothing more than to disentangle.

  But she was neither naive nor stupid. The man was a complete stranger and a recluse—she had no idea what he was capable of. And he was massive; he could easily overpower her with little to no struggle. Yet, in contrast to his formidable size, he seemed rather shy, introspective, and withdrawn. He was also painfully gentle; the memory of his fingertips grazing her brow tore through her mind and body, filling her with an unexpected warmth.

  For a fleeting moment, Jeseca had believed he was going to kiss her. And she’d wanted him to with a scorching desire.

  As he’d examined her injury, his eyes had locked onto hers; that ice blue gaze was so arresting, so powerful … something that contradicted his shy demeanor. Oh, yes. Those eyes had told Jeseca everything. In spite of his docile nature, he was very much a man who seized control, who held a profound inner strength … and who knew precisely what he wanted and took it for himself without apologies.

  “So,” he began, his sexy voice clipping her thoughts into two. “Tell m
e. What are you reading?” He made a suave gesture toward the book.

  “Oh! Jane Eyre. One of my all-time favorites. I snagged it from the hall. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” he quickly said, while that smile made a powerful reappearance. “I’m sure it appreciates the companionship. It hasn’t been picked up for years.”

  The ropes of muscle beneath his T-shirt bunched and tightened. Splattered burn marks were visible along the collar’s V-line. Jeseca felt her heart grow heavy. Was his entire body burned? How had he gotten those terrible scars? Why were his eyes so full of sadness?

  And exactly what traumas had he endured?

  He fidgeted beneath her stare—and Jeseca inwardly cursed her rudeness. “It’s from a can, I’m sorry to confess,” he muttered, gesturing to the bowl with an apologetic wince. “Hope you don’t mind. See, I’m not much of a homemaker.” Steam rose from the bowl of soup and dampened the thick strands of his hair. They curled against the strong column of his neck and beckoned Jeseca’s hungry gaze.

  After a moment of admiration, she jerked her eyes away and held out both palms. “Count me in. I was born and raised on the stuff.”

  David exhaled a breath, indicating his relief, and passed the bowl into her hands. Their fingers briefly touched—and an electrifying fission of awareness blasted down her spine. The sensation came without warning and spirited her breath away. Nearly spilling the soup, her bare toes curled against the floorboards as she struggled to anchor herself in place.

  Showing no reaction to the contact, David lowered his face and headed straight for the door. Once again, she was struck dumb by the man’s unusual grace and sleekness. Panther-like. Smooth. Formidable. It was something you hardly encountered in a person his size.

  “Please let me know if I can get you anything to make your stay more comfortable,” he said over his shoulder. “There’s a computer in the other room. Feel free to use it. The shower and kitchen are all yours, too.”