Remember Summer

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Working quietly, Cord sifted through intelligence reports graded according to their reliability. He read them, then made assessments and reports of his own.

  Every half hour he checked on Raine. Each time he did, she reached for him as she came out of sleep, holding his hand against her and curling around it like a lover. Each time, it was harder for him to pull away.

  He wanted to lie down beside her, let her burrow against him and sigh with contentment while he held her. He would settle for that. Just holding her. He was lucky to get even that much.

  She could have died this morning, and she had a dented riding helmet to prove it.

  For a time he sat on his bed next to her, watching her. Her color was normal now, not even a hint of paleness beneath her smooth, translucent skin. She was neither hot nor cold, and still vaguely dusty from her fall in the ring. Her breathing and pulse were normal.

  Slowly he caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Wake up, honey. It’s Cord.”

  She awakened as before, her hand reaching up to curl around his. When her lips touched his palm, he felt a wave of heat all the way to his knees.

  “Open your eyes,” he murmured. Carefully, thoroughly, he rubbed his fingers over her scalp. There were no lumps, no swellings, barely even a tender spot to make her flinch. “That was one hell of a good riding helmet, lady.”

  Her eyes flew open, wide awake and startled. Both pupils were evenly dilated. Both responded with equal quickness to the light level in the room.

  The tension in him eased a few more percentage points.

  “Cord?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep. She looked past him, seeing the room for the first time. “Where am I?”

  “In the motor home.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost five. Hungry?”

  “Starved. Whatever happened to lunch?”

  “You turned it down in favor of sleep.”

  “Do I get a second chance?”

  “Anytime,” he said, caressing her cheek with his captive fingers.

  Abruptly Raine realized that she was holding Cord’s hand against her cheek. Color bloomed beneath her skin. She let go of his fingers as though she had been burned and sat up hurriedly.

  “Dizzy?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Headache?”

  “A little,” she admitted.

  “How does your stomach feel now?”

  “Predatory.”

  Smiling, he stood up. “If you can still tell me that when you’re on your feet, I’ll fix an omelet for you.”

  Immediately she stood up. His ice-blue eyes noted every hesitation, every wince.

  “Nauseated?” he asked after a minute.

  “No. Just hungry. And—does this place come equipped with a bathroom?”

  “First door on the left.”

  He unlocked the door and walked out of the room. Though he seemed not to notice whether she followed, he was listening very carefully, ready to turn around and grab her if he heard her stumble or hesitate at all. She didn’t. Like her stallion, she was very steady on her feet. Utterly normal.

  “Holler if you need me,” he said. “I’ll be in the galley.”

  Raine took one look at herself in the bathroom mirror and shuddered. “Put a hold on that omelet,” she called out. “I’m taking a shower first.”

  Very quickly Cord appeared in the doorway. “Sure you’re up to it?”

  “Positive.”

  He hesitated. The shower had a bench and a long-necked flexible wand so that she didn’t have to stand up. But he didn’t like the thought of her falling when he wasn’t around to catch her.

  “Don’t wash your hair,” he said finally.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It will crawl right off my head if I don’t.”

  He smiled. “Then I’ll wash it.” He waited long enough for her expression to get indignant, before he added, “In the sink.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll wash your hair in the sink. That way, if you get dizzy, I’ll be right there to catch you.”

  “It’s not necessary. I’m fine. Hardly even a headache.”

  “That’s nice. In the sink or not at all.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he spoke first. “Want me to sweep you off your feet again?”

  Muttering beneath her breath, she walked two steps to the sink. His razor, toothbrush, and aftershave were laid out on the narrow counter. Next to his things, lined up in a neat row, were a squeeze bottle of her shampoo, her toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, and the colorful packet of birth control pills that made certain her period wouldn’t come in the middle of a world-class competition.

  “What’s going on?” she asked tightly. It was an effort to keep her voice level.

  “You refused to stay in the hospital.”

  “Of course I—”

  “You have to have someone wake you every hour or so during the night,” he continued ruthlessly. “Otherwise you could slip into a coma with nobody the wiser. You didn’t have a roommate who could check on you, so you’ll stay here, where I can keep an eye on you.”

  Her mouth flattened. “Like bloody hell I will.”

  Chapter 12

  Cord watched with lazy interest while color and anger changed Raine’s face. “There’s more than one bed in this place,” he said calmly. “Just one bathroom, though. Don’t worry about it. I may wear a gun, but I’m quite civilized about closed doors.”

  She felt like a fool. Again. An ungrateful fool at that.

  “Do you want your blouse on or off while I wash your hair?” he asked as he walked to the sink.

  Her eyes widened. Silvery heat prickled over her breasts and shot straight down to her thighs at the thought of Cord undressing her. She swallowed quickly. “On.”

  “Okay,” he said, reaching for her blouse.

  Before she could protest, he had the first two buttons undone and was folding her collar underneath. She jerked back, entirely too conscious of his fingers brushing over her neck and the hollow of her throat.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, startled.

  “Getting your collar out of the way. Or did you want the blouse washed, too? If so, it would be easier if you took it off. Not nearly as interesting, though. All in all, I like your idea better. Wash the blouse with you still in it.”

  His voice was so bland, the implication of his words so outrageous, that he had her head in the sink and was running warm water over her hair before she realized precisely what he had said.

  “Cord Elliot,” she told the bottom of the sink, “whoever taught you how to talk should have been shot!”

  His only answer was a chuckle that could have been the sound of water flowing.

  She muttered some words she usually reserved for Dev at his worst, then gave in to the luxury of having her hair washed by strong, gentle fingers. The only problem was that water—and soap—kept trying to run into her eyes and nose.

  The third time she had to come up for air, Cord reached for a towel. He mopped off her face.

  “You’re right,” he said. “This isn’t working. Let’s try your idea.”

  “Mffph?” was all she could get past the towel drying her chin.

  “Washing everything at once.” He smiled slowly, wickedly, knowing she couldn’t see. Then he kicked off his shoes and pulled her into the shower.

  “Sit.” Gently he pushed her down onto the bench and pulled the towel away from her face. “Tip your head back so soap won’t run in your eyes.”

  Raine sat, head tilted slightly back, off-balance again. Ruefully she admitted that he had a definite talent for keeping people that way, teetering on the edge, unsure, a step behind and not very damn likely to catch up.

  At least, he had that effect on her. The smooth, bland voice coupled with outrageous words. The gentleness and humor that made her forget the lethal knowledge implicit in the gun he wore. The heat and hunger of his hands contrasting with the icy assessment she ha
d seen in his eyes.

  Cord stepped out of the shower. With easy, familiar motions he unfastened his holster, ammunition clip, and beeper, and set them aside. He came back to the shower and stood in front of her, legs braced.

  “I should object,” she said.

  “Why? I won’t drown you.”

  She gave him a bittersweet smile. She was already drowning, and he didn’t even know it.

  Wrong man, wrong time, wrong place.

  Wrong.

  Yet her body was humming and she ached for his kiss, a kiss that was both claim and plea, victory and submission, blissful heaven shot through with a bright, sweet streak of hell that brought every nerve alive.

  Cord picked up the shower wand, turned on the water, and waited until it was just the right temperature. He certainly was. Or wasn’t. Something about having his hands deep in Raine’s wet, slippery hair was viciously arousing. He told himself that he was grateful she still had her blouse on.

  He lied.

  He wanted to peel her blouse off, unhook her bra, slide his fingers under the silky weight of her breasts. He knew just how her nipples would feel, velvet and hard at once, pouting for his mouth, demanding the caresses that were their due. He could see them, feel them, taste them . . . and they were just the beginning of her female riches. There was a heat in her that made his whole body heavy with desire.

  Maybe I should turn the water on cold and stuff the wand in my jeans, he told himself sardonically. Better yet, I should let her wash her own hair and watch from a safe distance.

  A mile might be about enough.

  But he doubted it.

  “Cord?” she asked, looking at his grim face. “Is something wrong?”

  “Just adjusting the temperature. The water heater is sulky.”

  Smiling, she waited while he fiddled with the wand. He had rolled up his sleeves before he tried to wash her hair in the sink, but he should have taken off his shirt, too. Water had splashed over him, turning the light blue cloth into a rich autumn sky color that clung to the lines of his chest and arms. Black hair curled over his tanned skin like a satin shadow. When he adjusted the faucets, muscles slid and coiled with casual strength.

  She watched with admiring eyes, fascinated by his masculine grace, remembering the moments when she had kissed him and her fingertips had traced the full, thick veins just beneath his skin.

  With a muttered word, Cord nudged the faucets again. They didn’t need fussing, but he did. He wasn’t going to turn back toward her until his arousal was under control. Or semi-control. That seemed to be as good as it got when he was close to her.

  “Tilt your head back and close your eyes,” he said, turning around finally.

  Even as he spoke, he tilted her head back for her. The thought of having her mouth level with the bottom button on his jeans was making him get hard all over again.

  She stared at the wet shirt that concealed nothing of Cord’s strength, at the very male lines of his chest and shoulders, sinew and muscle; and the pale, wild blaze of his eyes in a face that belonged to a dark angel.

  Heat and dizziness swept over her, a reaction that had nothing to do with her fall. She closed her eyes, but still she saw him standing only inches away, another memory to haunt her nights. When his fingers eased into her hair, she couldn’t entirely conceal the delicious shiver of response that raced through her body.

  “Cold?” he asked, concern clear in his voice.

  Numbly she shook her head, not trusting her own voice. Another picture had flashed behind her eyes: a headlong fall beneath a berserk horse, steel-shod hooves flailing near her face, just missing her eyes, then the dark dirt of the ring exploding around her.

  She had always known that there was a possibility of serious injury, even death, in the strenuous demands of the three-day event. She thought she had accepted the danger as simply part of the life she had chosen. But twice within a few days her world had been stood on end and shaken until she fell out, slamming face first into a new reality.

  Tomorrow was a matter of faith, not a guarantee. The only guarantee was here and now.

  Understanding that all the way to her soul was subtly rearranging her thoughts, her expectations, her self-assurance. Questions she had never asked before were turning in the depths of her mind, demanding answers that were neither easy nor comfortable.

  Who am I to smile and blithely plan for life-ever-after with some imaginary man I can’t even see in my dreams?

  Who am I to play cold, uncaring queen to the battle-worn soldier who defends my life with his own?

  Who am I to disdain competition madness when it’s an ache and a burning in my own body?

  There was no answer but the one that stood before her. She shivered again, accepting it. Accepting herself.

  Accepting him.

  Warm water poured through her hair. His strong, lean fingers worked gently over her head. With each stroke of his hands, scented liquid soap became mounds of slippery lather. He massaged her scalp with slow, powerful strokes while lather slipped and ran through his fingers.

  Head tilted back, eyes closed, Raine lived only in the moment. With every cell of her body she absorbed the sensations of water and warmth, of Cord standing so close that she could feel the occasional brush of his shirt against her face and breathe in his oddly familiar scent. The smell of him haunted her like a half-remembered song. When she realized why his scent was so familiar, she laughed softly.

  “Ticklish?” His voice was very deep, almost raspy.

  “No.” She opened her eyes and looked into his, smiling. “You smell like Dev.”

  His lips shifted into an off-center smile. “Is that a polite way of saying I need a shower?”

  Her long eyelashes swept down, concealing the laughter and light in her eyes. “Not at all. On you, essence of Devlin’s Waterloo smells . . . sexy.”

  His hands paused, then resumed their slow, deep massage. His heart was beating too hard and deep. The purring sound of relaxation and pleasure she made didn’t help cool the heat in his blood. Her head tilted forward, all but brushing his jeans.

  He was glad her eyes were closed. If she opened them, she would have plenty to look at. He wondered if she would be shocked or . . . interested.

  You’re a damned fool, Cord told himself bitterly. Even if she wanted me, I’m not the kind of predator who would take her the way she is now, off-balance, still in shock from nearly dying.

  He shouldn’t even be this close to her, enjoying her, letting the heat and scent of her sink into him like sunlight after endless winter. He shouldn’t be, but he was. Her hair was a thousand silken strands holding him. So was the knowledge that he was giving her pleasure. The certainty of it had no weight, no substance, and was stronger than any chains ever forged.

  With another shiver, Raine sighed and rested her head against the hard muscles of Cord’s torso.

  He moved quickly, surely, keeping lather from sliding into her eyes. Without shifting her away, he tilted her head back again, keeping her close, not caring that his jeans were getting soaked. Warm water slid over her again, rinsing white ribbons of lather from her hair. Warm water ran over her shoulders, between her breasts, over her stomach and thighs.

  She let out a long breath and smiled dreamily. The sensation of being bathed in liquid warmth while fully clothed was both odd and exquisite.

  “Once more,” he said. His voice was deep, husky in its intimacy. He didn’t care. It was all he could do to stand up against the waves of heat and heaviness beating between his legs.

  Soap came out of the squeeze bottle in fragrant pulses that sank into her dark hair. His hands moved in slow motion, creating pleasure and iridescent bubbles. The changing pressure of his fingers encouraged her to put her cheek against his waist.

  She didn’t resist. She didn’t even hesitate. She simply leaned into his tough warmth and smiled.

  The motion of his hands shifted subtly, caressing her scalp as much as washing her hair. Eyes closed, savo
ring the moment, he stood and rocked her very slowly against his body.

  For a long time there was no sound but warm water flowing from the wand Cord had braced between his knee and the shower bench. Finally, reluctantly, he picked up the wand again.

  “Not yet,” Raine said, putting her arms around his hips as unselfconsciously as she had rested against him. “It’s so good just to be held by you.”

  He whispered her name as he cradled her again. Tenderness and restraint coursed through him as much as passion. She was so vulnerable now. Too vulnerable. He knew enough about the physical and mental aftereffects of trauma to understand that she wasn’t completely responsible for her actions right now. She was at the mercy of instincts she didn’t understand.

  But he understood. When confronted by death, life reverted to a basic biological strategy: reproduction.

  He had seen it happen too many times, to too many people, choices made in heat and regretted in confusion and pain, just one more danger in an already dangerous profession.

  He would no more take advantage of her vulnerability at this moment than he would deliberately get her drunk and then haul her into his bed and overwhelm whatever reservations alcohol hadn’t already drowned.

  She pressed her cheek closer to him, savoring the warmth radiating through his soaked clothing. “You’re all wet,”

  He laughed oddly, wondering if she had been reading his mind. Without being conscious of it, he let his hands slide down to her neck, her shoulders. The pink of her shirt was dark with water, almost cherry colored. Streamers of lather wound over and between her breasts. Her nipples stood out clearly, defined by water and clinging cloth.

  Unable to stop himself, he looked, memorizing and remembering at the same time. She had felt so good in his mouth, hard and soft, salty and sweet, giving and demanding, utterly feminine. The soft cries he had dragged from deep in her throat had echoed through his sleepless nights.

  With a soundless curse and a stifled groan, he bent and picked up the shower wand. He rinsed her hair carefully, ignoring the siren call of her cheek pressed against his abdomen, the warm water flowing over her, sliding over him, warm water joining them in an intimacy that was fast eroding his control.