A minute passed. What was he doing in there? He wasn’t having a shower. No water came on. She sat up, twitching her ears. Not a sound came from the other room. She swung her legs off the bed. She shouldn’t be doing this, the angel on her shoulder said, but he left the door open, the devil on the other side said. Her curiosity won out. Getting up quietly, she made her way to the door and peered around the frame.
Wayne stood over the basin, stark naked. His forehead was pressed against the wall and his arm rested above his head. In his other hand, he held his large erection. The sight was so erotic she stood rooted to the spot, knowing it was wrong but unable to move. He stroked his cock, his face pulled tight. His chest moved rapidly, and the muscles in his shoulders bunched as he chased his release. From the way he clenched his jaw, she guessed he was trying to be quiet, but a stifled grunt escaped as his expression contorted with a grimace of something intense that could be either pain or pleasure. He pumped twice more, and then his knees bent and his ass clenched. His cock jerked. His release erupted into the basin. Her eyes were glued to the broad head of his penis and his large, veined hands as he squeezed the jets of semen from the thick shaft, a tremor wracking his body with each drop that wasted down the drain.
Breathing hard, he let go of the root of his cock and braced his hands on the wall next to his face, his expression twisted. Her breath was gone, sucked out of her body by the intensity of the arousing sight she’d witnessed. All of that passion wasted. So much to give, and he chose to empty himself in a cold basin instead of her body. She didn’t get it. When he straightened, she jerked back to life, hurried to the bed and slipped under the covers. The water came on next door. A short while later the light went out, and the door opened wider with a soft creak. Taking courage with a deep breath, she waited, eyes closed, but instead of returning to the bed, he went to the lounge.
The air left her lungs. Was he going to stoke the fire? When several minutes had passed, she realized he wasn’t coming back. This was the biggest rejection of her life, ever. Not that it was his fault if she wasn’t his type. She found the clothes he’d taken off her body at the foot of the bed and put them back on. With a sigh, she pulled the covers up to her chin. The linen smelled of him–of cedar and pine, and loneliness.
* * * *
Being an early riser, Sara woke before the first sun. She listened for sounds, but the cabin was quiet. She remained still for a moment to reflect on everything that had happened the day before. For the first time since the incident in the forest, she felt like herself again. The effect of the drugs had finally worn off. At the memory of what she and Wayne had done in his bed, her face heated. It had been so close. She’d almost had her very first one-night stand. Instead, she’d ended up with a one-night orgasm, a very explosive one at that. Now that it was day, life continued. She’d have to get her Jeep and go home.
Wayne would still be upset about the reclaim. After rescuing her yesterday and letting her stay the night, she felt like she should do something to express her gratitude. Anyone else would’ve left her to fend for herself. Someone else wouldn’t have gone after her, and God only knew what would’ve happened in that forest.
She tiptoed to the door. Wayne was passed out on the sofa, his arm draped over his face and the blanket on the floor. The fire had long since burned out. Only the smoldering ashes and the faint smell of smoke were left.
Rubbing her arms, she moved quietly to the kitchen and closed the door so she wouldn’t wake Wayne. The morning was fresh. The sun wasn’t up yet, but she could find her way around in the light of the dawn that broke over the horizon. The stars were still visible in the purple hue that blended the end of the night with the break of day.
She peered inside the fridge. There was bacon, sausage, eggs, and cheese. Eggs and toast would do. She’d surprise him with breakfast to thank him for taking care of her. She supposed she also had to thank him for not taking advantage. Now that it was day, she wasn’t sure she’d have come onto him so strongly if not affected by that damn drug.
Making as little noise as possible, she retrieved a pan, poured in oil, and lit the gas. There was no toaster, but there was an old Snackwich machine. Shrugging, she plugged it in, buttered the bread, and popped two slices inside. Next, she broke four eggs into the pan, getting the yellows mixed up with the whites. Ah, darn. It would have to be scrambled. The pan wobbled on the stove, the weight of the handle pulling it down. She readjusted the pan and ran for the milk in the fridge before the eggs could set. The milk looked like it was fresh from the farm with a layer of cream drifting on top of the jug. Eggs were burning.
Darn, darn.
She set the milk aside and searched for a spatula in the drawer. Of course it was hanging on a hook fixed to the wall, right in front of her eyes. Smoke wafted from the pan. In her haste to turn down the gas, she almost knocked the milk over. Fortunately, only a few drops spilled over the side of the jug. She grabbed the dishcloth and dabbed up the spillage. The egg yellows were hard, already. They wouldn’t go through as an omelet. Her only hope was to cut away the charcoal parts and mash them up for egg mayo on toast.
She’d forgotten to start the bread. Abandoning the eggs for a second, she switched the Snackwich machine on. A loud bam sounded and sparks flew everywhere. She shrieked, bumping into the stove, which tipped the pan. Oil dribbled onto the fire. A long, yellow flame shot straight up into the air. In a flash, the whole pan was covered in flames. She had to put out the fire. Without thinking, she grabbed the handle of the pan but threw it down with a gasp when the hot metal burned her fingers. The pan landed upside down on the counter, the flame jumping to the dishcloth and setting it alight. She ran for the tap, searching frantically for a container, and found only her rinsed bowl in the drip rack.
“Wayne!” she called as she filled the bowl with water.
By the time she turned to drench the flame, it had already climbed up the kitchen curtain. She watched in horror as the fabric shrunk and the flame grew bigger, feeding on the wood before jumping to the other curtain.
Chapter Four
“Wayne!”
Wayne woke with a start. It took him a second to find his bearings. He was on the sofa because the female was in his bed, or supposed to be, but she wasn’t. Her panicked voice had pulled him from his sleep, and it came from the kitchen.
In a few strides he was at the door, yanking it open. Sara stood in front of the sink, a bowl in her hand, while flames leapt up the curtains.
The gas! The cylinder was under the sink.
“Out,” he yelled as he rushed toward her, but she stood rooted to the spot, her eyes trained on the fire.
Gripping her shoulders, he pushed her roughly to the backdoor. The gas bottle was big enough to blow the whole cabin to hell.
“Sara, get out!” He opened the door and all but shoved her through it.
There was no time to see her make it to safety. He grabbed the extinguisher from the pantry and aimed it at the sink and stove. When the whole corner of his kitchen was covered in white foam, he reached under the sink and turned off the gas. With that done, he went to switch off the electricity, but the mains had tripped.
Dragging his hands through his hair, he turned in a slow circle and regarded the damage. What the fuck had happened? He gripped the edge of the table and dropped his head, taking deep breaths to get his shaking under control.
She spoke from the door, her voice small. “Wayne?”
He twirled to look at her, needing the visual affirmation that she was unharmed. Her hair was uncombed, a tangled mess around her face, and her thin arms were covered in scratches. With his clothes ridiculously big on her slight body, she looked like a runaway orphan, and the most precious thing he’d ever seen. Relief mixed with the adrenalin in his veins.
“Are you all right?” he said, walking to her.
She only stared at the ruined kitchen.
“Hey.” He smoothed a hand over her hair. “Are you hurt?”
“Just m
y hand, but it’s nothing.”
“Show me.”
She lifted her hand and showed him her palm. He flinched. It wasn’t nothing. That was one nasty burn. He didn’t voice his concern as he pulled her to the bedroom by her wrist and pushed her down on the bed. Turning her palms up, he inspected both hands.
“It’s just a small burn.”
He shook his head. “This needs medical attention.” He rested his hands on his hips. “Sara…” He looked away, not finishing his sentence.
What was he going to say? That he was terrified because he thought she was going to blow up with his house, that he was angry because her perfect hand would be scarred, that he blamed himself for sleeping too deeply? Normally, his gut would’ve woken him. He had a sixth sense for trouble, even before it started. If he hadn’t spent a sleepless night on his lumpy sofa with images of her naked body tormenting him, only to fall asleep an hour ago, he could’ve prevented the accident from happening.
“I’m sorry.” Her lips trembled. “I wanted to surprise you with breakfast to say thank you.”
He didn’t reply. It was better not to say something he’d regret later, something like how shaken up he was at the thought of her getting hurt. After putting her hand under the cold water in the bathroom, he fetched the first aid kit and pot of honey. He drizzled the honey over her palm and covered it loosely with a bandage. Not wanting to let her out of his sight, he made her sit on the bed while he pulled on his jeans, shirt, and boots.
He regarded her from under his lashes while he fastened his belt. She avoided eye contact, staring at her bare feet.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I switched on the Snackwich, and it exploded. I got a fright and turned over the pan. I think the oil caught fire.”
“Come here.” He pulled her up by her arms and hugged her briefly. Cupping her face, he searched her eyes. “You could’ve been hurt.” She was hurt. What he meant to say was that she could’ve been dead, but he wasn’t going to tempt fate by voicing it.
“I’m okay, really.”
“I’ll drive you to the clinic.”
“Wayne, I’m fine. I can drive myself.”
“Not with that hand. Besides, it happened on my property. I’ll take care of it.”
In the lounge, he gathered her battered clothes while she pulled on her clean socks and wet boots.
“I just need a minute to use the bathroom,” she said, disappearing from the room.
He walked back to the kitchen to inspect the damage. What had caused the explosion? Faulty wiring? Frowning, he unplugged the Snackwich machine and turned it from side to side. The wire entered on the one side and exited on the other. What the hell? He opened the lid, and there was the reason. The wire had been toasted with the bread.
A sound behind him made him turn. Sara was gathering the ruined pan and burnt dishcloth.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She looked at him with big eyes. “I want to help tidy up.”
“Just…” He threw the Snackwich down on the counter. “Don’t touch anything.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“You could’ve killed yourself.”
“I didn’t start the fire on purpose.”
“You toasted the fucking wire.”
“What?” Her face turned white. She pushed past him. “Let me see.” She stared at the open Snackwich and became even paler. “I don’t know how that happened.”
“Forget it.” He could give her a lecture on kitchen safety but it wouldn’t change anything. “Get in the truck.”
Dumping her garments on the seat, he held the door for her. Before starting the engine, he called Clive.
“Good thing you called, West,” Clive said without a greeting. “My boys said something about a SAN woman flaunting herself at the bar.”
He glanced in Sara’s direction. “I can’t come in, today. I have an emergency.”
“You know the rules. No work, no pay.”
Wayne wiped his brow. It wasn’t like he could afford to lose a day’s wage. “Yeah.” He started the engine. “I hear you.”
“Come see me in the office first thing tomorrow. I want to know everything about the woman.”
Clive cut the call.
“Was that your boss?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you in trouble? I mean, for not going to work?”
He glared at her. She didn’t want to know about the kind of trouble Clive Theron could be.
As the silence stretched, she said, “Where do you work?”
“Lumber factory.”
“Which one?”
“Clive Theron’s.”
“Theron like in the vicious cousins?”
“Clive is Thinus’s dad.”
“Oh.”
They drove along the river on the land that government wanted to reclaim and give away.
“We have to go to my place, first,” she said.
“Why?”
“I don’t have my medical fund details with me.”
“I said I’d take care of it.”
“You don’t have to. I have insurance.”
“I’m not spending two hours driving between Wilderness and back.”
She didn’t reply. After a while, she asked, “Do you have family here?”
“They’re all dead.”
“Oh.”
They bounced on in an uncomfortable silence until they hit the tar, and then she gave up on trying to make conversation and simply stared out the window.
* * * *
At the clinic in Knysna, Wayne took Sara’s elbow to steer her into the building. Her palm throbbed, but she tried not to think about it. They reported at the emergency desk and took a seat to wait their turn. She didn’t blame him for not speaking to her. She felt terrible for almost blowing up his house. Her good intention literally backfired. Cooking was not her strongest skill. For someone who lived on a diet of raw vegetables, fruit, nuts, and yogurt, it had never mattered that she didn’t know how to boil an egg. She’d never thought that having a man of her own one day would necessitate improving her culinary skills. It seemed like sex–at least the long-term kind she was after–came with certain drawbacks, unless she found a man who cooked. She gave Wayne a sidelong glance. His powerful legs were stretched out in front of him, his big hands resting on his thighs. The chili he’d cooked was pretty good.
The announcement of her name called her from her thoughts. Wayne led her down the hallway to the examination room. As they neared, a nurse with red, curly hair and a clipboard in her hand exited. From the way Wayne’s step slowed a fraction and the expression on her face, it was clear they weren’t friends. Wayne’s back turned rigid as they approached the slender woman with the long legs.
“West,” she said, inclining her head with a slight nod.
“Maggie.” There was contempt in his tone, and his lips twitched with that humorless smile of his.
Maggie turned her attention to Sara, her gaze running over her with the practiced glance of a medical professional and lingering on Wayne’s oversized clothes and the bruises on her arms. Her voice was much warmer when she said, “What is the problem…” she glanced at the form on her clipboard, “…Sahara?”
“Burn wound,” Wayne said.
Maggie gave him a fleeting glance, but addressed Sara. “Follow me, love.”
She led the way to an examination room. When Wayne made to enter, Maggie blocked the door. “You can wait outside.”
His jaw set in a hard line. “I’m coming with her.”
“Is she your wife?” Maggie asked with a raised brow.
“No,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Family?”
“No.”
“Then wait outside.”
She ushered Sara inside and closed the door. She made her sit on the bed and examined her hand.
“First degree burn,” Maggie said. “I can give you an ointment and bandag
e it for you. You shouldn’t have a problem as long as it doesn’t become infected, but if you prefer to see the doctor you’ll have to come back tomorrow.” She gave an apologetic smile. “We’re short-staffed.”
“It’s not my first injury,” Sara said. “Wayne was overreacting, bringing me here.”
“He did right.” Maggie straightened. She touched the cut on Sara’s arm. “How did this happen?”
“Accident. I went for a hike in the forest yesterday and fell.” She would deal with the Theron brothers in her own way. She couldn’t afford to make trouble after being in town for only one day. Her boss would pull her out and send her straight back to head office. Already, he hadn’t been keen on sending her on this mission.
Maggie frowned. She touched the T-shirt. “Wayne’s clothes?”
“Yes.”
The nurse regarded her with her hands on her hips and her lip between her teeth. “Sahara—”
“Call me Sara.”
“Sara, this is none of my business, but I have to ask. Did you spend the night at Wayne’s?”
Why was there a strange light in Maggie’s eyes?
“Yes.” Sara added quickly, “But not like that. Not like…”
Not like what? Not like they’d had sex? He’d fucked her with his tongue. It was as good as a one-night stand, wasn’t it? Her cheeks heated.
Maggie went down on her haunches in front of her, a somber expression on her face. “Sara, did he hurt you?” Her eyes moved from the burn mark on her palm to the red welts on her arms. “Did he do this to you?”
“What?” She stared at Maggie in shock. “No! Wayne wouldn’t hurt me.”
“You don’t have to protect him. If you’re frightened he’d hurt you if you talk—”
“Why are you saying this?”
Maggie straightened and covered her mouth with a hand. She stared down at Sara for a moment, seeming to weigh her words, and then said, “You don’t know his history, do you?”
“What history?”
She only met him yesterday, but the man who took her home, gave her an orgasm, and didn’t take advantage when she’d been drugged couldn’t be capable of hurting a defenseless woman.
Scapulimancist (Seven Forbidden Arts Book 7) Page 5
