Longest Night

by Kara Braden

  “Do you need help standing?”

  The denial was on her lips, but that, too, was pointless. She nodded and held out a hand, not meeting his eyes. “Please.”

  He took her hand and steadied himself, offering her balance without trying to guide her or cling to her. Embarrassed, hating that this kept happening to her, she murmured apologies which he ignored in favor of keeping her upright. When she was standing, he tugged the thick terry cloth closed, holding it at the waist with his free hand.

  “Did it burn your legs?”

  “No. Maybe. Shit, I don’t know,” she admitted. She thought about the effort it would take to get through her belt and jeans, and she was still wearing her boots. She gave up on the idea. Instead, she buried her face against his chest, breathing in the smoky wool of his soft sweater.

  He let go of the robe and gently took her by the arms, making no move to hold her, to trap her, until she pressed closer, as if she could burrow into his warmth. Then his arms closed around her, and he pressed a kiss to her hair, offering a silent, comforting presence and demanding nothing in return.

  ***

  Inside, Ian berated himself. He should have been more careful. He kept any hint of his thoughts out of his body language, knowing her senses were heightened on a subconscious level. She’d be looking for any hint that he was disappointed in her lack of self-control, and he was determined that she wouldn’t see anything she could possibly misinterpret that way.

  It had to be ten minutes before Cecily tensed, lifting her head fractionally. “This isn’t going to work,” she said, striving to control her voice. She was good enough to fool anyone who wasn’t Ian. “I can’t—I wouldn’t make it even a day in Manhattan.”

  “Not like this, no,” he agreed. He felt her surprise in the way she drew back just slightly, a shift of weight onto her heels. “I’m not asking you to leave now, though. I’m asking you to trust me—to let me help you. That’s all.”

  “What’s the point?” she sighed, breath warm through the layers of shirts he wore. She leaned into his arms again, resignation heavy in the slump of her shoulders and the way her head bowed.

  “Must there be a point? I want to do this.”

  “I’m not one of your clients, for you to figure out if I’m guilty or innocent.”

  “No, you’re not.” His arms tightened protectively, possessively—two new feelings that he was discovering he liked. “It is a scientific process, though. I’m not some”—he cast his mind about, trying to find just the right words to express his feelings about the doctors back at rehab—“some witch doctor stumbling about in your mind. I’m trained in logic. That’s what you need, not voodoo.”

  Her tension disappeared in a snorted, choked burst of laughter. “Voodoo?” She leaned back enough to look up at him, grinning a bit desperately. “Voodoo?”

  He shrugged dismissively. “I understand you. The more I get to know you, the more I can see what should have been so obvious to whoever failed to help you before. Let me help you.”

  “Why?” She reached up to touch his face. “Why is this so important? Three weeks ago, you didn’t know I existed.”

  “Three weeks ago, neither of us had a future worth living for,” he answered, feeling a little shiver crawl up his spine. A month ago, he would have killed someone to escape rehab and go back to Manhattan, even though he knew that Preston was right. The pressure of a career he loved would have driven him to take “just one more” painkiller.

  He tightened his arms around her, ducking his head down to kiss her. “Tell me this isn’t better,” he said, drawing back only enough to speak, lips brushing against Cecily’s with each syllable. “Tell me you couldn’t be content like this. Even happy.”

  She shook her head, sliding a hand around the back of his neck to hold him close. “You’d just know I was lying, if I tried,” she whispered. “Trust you. That’s all?”

  He laughed quietly. “That’s all.”

  “You know that’s not… Trust doesn’t come easily for me.” Her expression went distant as she looked down so she could tie her robe closed, though she didn’t step away from him. “I can say ‘I trust you’ all day, but…”

  “I know. But that’s only here,” he said, touching her forehead. “Inside, you already do trust me.”

  With a faint smile, she challenged, “Cocky, aren’t you?”

  “I’m right.” Then, in a rare fit of modesty, he corrected himself. “I’m almost always right.”

  That got a laugh. “Humble, too.”

  He grinned and touched her chin to lift her face, meeting her eyes. “Look at the evidence. You fell asleep beside me. I woke you from your nightmares, and you barely moved. You didn’t try to attack me or defend yourself. You already trust me.”

  She took a deep breath and tipped her head back, eyes falling closed. “Okay. Okay, I can see that,” she said slowly, opening her eyes again. “But look at this. I mean, it was a fucking cup of tea, not—”

  “Sensory association.” Ian stepped back, sliding his hand down her arm so he could lace their fingers together. He lifted his other hand to touch her chest, just above the collar of her bathrobe. “Heat. Burns. I should have been more careful.”

  The tension returned to her body, though she didn’t pull away. “How could you possibly have known how I’d react? Even I wouldn’t have guessed I’d—”

  “I don’t guess,” Ian corrected, flattening his hand to feel her heartbeat. “It’s an obvious mental connection. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

  “I don’t want you treating me like I’m made of glass.”

  “I wouldn’t want you if you were.” He looked into her eyes, searching for that strength, and quietly asked, “You don’t see it, do you? You don’t know how strong you actually are.”

  This time, she did pull away. She turned and walked for the bedroom, head bowed as she unbuckled her belt. “Strong enough that I live here? I’m not exactly impressed.”

  “Strong enough that you’re alive at all.” He followed, resisting the urge to chase her down and pull her close. The sight of her wasn’t enough to soothe his irrational fear at the thought of losing her.

  With a bitter little laugh, she said, “Yes, well. They did a good enough job of drumming that into my head at the hospital, even if they didn’t accomplish much else.”

  “What?”

  “‘Suicide isn’t an answer,’” she quoted.

  Ian had known that she must have considered suicide, though only in a distant, rational way. Actually hearing her say the word was enough to break his resolve, like a knife in his heart. He crossed to where she stood by the fire in four quick strides. Startled, Cecily looked up, meeting his eyes for an instant before he pulled her into his arms. He told himself he shouldn’t be holding her like this—that it would be too much, especially with the heavy emotional darkness pressing in on them from both sides—but he needed to feel her breath and heartbeat and warmth, to reassure some primitive corner of his mind that she was safe and alive. His breath came in strained gasps, and something in his chest shattered into spikes of hot pain.

  Then her arms circled him, holding him just as tightly. “It’s all right,” she said softly, pressing a kiss to his throat. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

  Of course she was. He wanted to snap at her for being so transparent, but he couldn’t breathe enough to speak. He couldn’t let go because he needed her in his arms, though all he could do was cling to her in silence as her hand pressed gentle circles against his back, as though he were the one in need of comforting.

  Chapter 20

  November 20

  “You can’t keep secrets from me,” Ian said as soon as he circled the tail of the aircraft to Cecily’s side. Cold wind swept across the airstrip behind the cabin and tugged at the hood of his parka. A painful chill settled into every inch of exposed skin. He
sniffled and cupped his hands in front of his face, blowing on them to try and trap warm air.

  “Oh, I’d say I can,” she teased as she twisted around in the pilot’s seat. She maneuvered a large canvas bundle to the passenger seat, and then lifted the cardboard box tucked into a corner of the cargo space. The mysterious packages had been the sole purpose of their trip to Pinelake. He didn’t even know where she’d gotten them. She’d left him at the airport trailer while she went to do her shopping. Borrowing Mark’s landline to call Preston didn’t make up for not knowing where she’d gone.

  To his infinite irritation, the box had been covered with butcher paper and securely closed with twine. Carefully, she handed it out to him. He gave it an experimental shake, but it was too well-padded to have any characteristic rattle or shifting weight. The bundle would have been much easier to identify, if he could just touch it. It was almost three feet across, with irregular lumps formed by layers of canvas and more twine.

  “Get that inside before you freeze,” she told him. “And if you open it, no sex for a week.”

  “Cecily—”

  “No, make that two weeks,” she threatened, waving him clear of the plane. She slammed her door and taxied the plane across the yard, toward the hangar.

  Muttering under his breath, Ian carried the carton into the house and set it on the kitchen table. The package was small enough that it could have been delivered by regular post, though there were no shipping labels. There was no way he could get the twine unknotted, unfold the butcher paper, peek inside, and then put everything back before she was finished stowing the plane in the hangar.

  Knowing her, she’d follow through with her threat, too. She wasn’t the type to back down, once her mind was set on a course of action.

  “Damn,” he muttered, abandoning the box. He tossed his gloves on the table and went to the stove, building up the fire. They both needed something hot to drink.

  By the time he had coffee brewed, Cecily was back inside. She put the canvas-wrapped bundle on the table beside the box and grinned at him. Then she pulled off her parka and draped it over the back of a chair. “Thanks,” she said gratefully as she took the mug he offered.

  “Now will you tell me what’s in there?” he demanded, circling around behind her. He pressed an encouraging kiss to the back of her neck, brushing aside the strands of hair that were starting to grow in.

  “Why should—” The word I trailed off into a moan as he closed his teeth on a lock of her hair and pulled sharply. “Fuck,” she whispered, shivering back against him.

  “Box first,” he insisted, trying not to sound too smug.

  She decided to cheat in retaliation, pushing back against him. She rose up on her toes, grinding her ass against him as if to suggest Ian forget all about the damned secret packages, because nothing in there could be better than the woman standing between him and it. He put his coffee safely on the table to free his hands so he could tug at the bottom of her old USMC sweatshirt. Happy to go along with the change of plans, she lifted her arms and turned as he got rid of the offending layer of heavy fabric.

  “Box first, huh? Sure about that?” she asked, lowering her arms to circle his neck.

  The sound he made as he ducked to kiss her was both a purr of satisfaction and a frustrated growl. He licked and nibbled at her lips until she was panting against him, fingers clenched in the back of his shirt, tugging the fabric out of his jeans.

  “Show me,” he whispered in the low, seductive tones he knew she couldn’t refuse.

  “No.” She took a nip of her own, teeth closing on his bottom lip hard enough to make his whole body tingle.

  “Stubborn,” he complained, backing reluctantly away.

  She grinned and said, “I have to be, to put up with you.” Deliberately, she turned back and picked up her coffee again.

  His huff of irritation wasn’t very convincing. He wrapped his arms around her body and rested his head on her shoulder. “Then will you tell me what’s in there?” he asked, flicking one finger in the direction of the canvas bundle.

  “Nope.” She tipped her head back and kissed his jaw. “We’d be warmer if you went and built up the other fires. And if we were warmer, I could take off more than just my sweatshirt.”

  Smugly, he leaned forward against her and pressed kisses to the back of her neck. “Or I could do this,” he murmured, licking the curve of her ear.

  She shivered. This time, she put the coffee down hard enough to splash some out. “You’re cheating.”

  “I am,” he agreed, nipping at her earlobe. “You could show me what’s in the box, or you could distract me. Your choice.”

  Shaking droplets of coffee off her fingers, she turned back to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Distraction it is,” she said, and lifted up onto her toes to kiss him.

  ***

  Surprising Ian was nearly impossible, but Cecily wasn’t one to let “impossible” stop her from trying. She’d used the radio in the tiny attic to contact Mark and Marguerite, enlisting both in her plan. They’d cooperated enthusiastically, handling the purchasing and packaging, and Mark had kept Ian distracted at the airfield while Cecily picked up the surprises. Now, she just had to distract Ian until tomorrow.

  Most nights, while dinner fried or simmered (or in one memorable case caught fire), Cecily sat down at the typewriter and wrote, keys out of sync with the rhythm of his guitar. She was finally back on schedule and had sent the first few chapters of her new novel to her editor. Tonight, though, she was too twisted up with anxiety to concentrate despite the soothing music.

  Had this all been a mistake? Ian could be sensual and caring and sweet—and abrasive as hell, impatient, and childish. But he wasn’t romantic, not by any stretch. She could barely imagine him signing an office birthday card much less thinking in terms of anniversaries. Certainly not anything as trivial as one month.

  God, it was like Cecily was back in eighth grade, trying to work up the nerve to get Steve Matheson behind his dad’s boathouse so she could try and kiss him.

  She finally surrendered and turned away from the typewriter to watch him play. The light of the oil lamp was too harsh on his pale skin, so she turned the flame down until the only illumination was the warmer glow of the fireplace. Without pausing his playing, he opened his eyes and looked at her through his lashes.

  Absolutely captivated, she met his gaze, making no attempt at all to conceal her thoughts or feelings. The words—those three little words—had yet to make their appearance, but she’d given up trying to control or hide how she felt. “Trust me,” he had said, and she’d given him that trust, with equal parts excitement and terror.

  She could believe, almost completely, that they would find a way to do this…this. Whether they spent next winter here at the cabin or made it to Manhattan by spring, they would be together, and her whole body ached with the intensity of her emotions.

  His hands stilled on the strings, and he frowned at her. “What’s wrong?”

  Panic spiked through her, nothing to do with the war and everything to do with the unexpected, possibly irrational fear that he knew exactly what she was thinking and wanted nothing more to do with her. Sex was one thing; love was entirely different. And Ian had never said that word to her. Cecily thought they’d both been circling that declaration, awkward and tentative, but what if it had been her imagination? What if those three words never even entered his mind? There was a hell of a difference between “I’ll never be bored of you” and “I love you,” after all.

  “Cecily,” he snapped, his tone more worried than harsh. He set the guitar on the sofa and rose, eyes fixed not on her face but on the right side of her chest. “Are you in pain?”

  She looked down, realized that she was rubbing the gunshot scar, and quickly curled her hand into a fist and dropped it to her side. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re
a terrible liar,” he scoffed, not for the first time. He knelt down in front of her, touching the exact spot where she’d been rubbing. “Tell me.”

  She avoided his too-sharp eyes and looked at the fire instead. “I’m fine. Really.”

  He made an unsatisfied sort of sound. “Please?” he asked, and it was his turn to look away, eyes fixed to her shirt. “It’s important, whatever it is. I was trying to help you write, and it didn’t work. Why not?”

  Confused, she turned back and lifted a hand to brush her fingers through his long, soft hair. “You were?”

  “I don’t just play random music like an iPod on shuffle.” He pressed into her touch and smiled. “There are certain songs that help you focus when you’re writing.”

  She smiled, some of her fears receding. Maybe he hadn’t said it, but he behaved as if he cared for her, and that was what counted. Wasn’t it?

  She tugged on his hair, encouraging him to kneel up for a kiss, soft and sweet. “You really are wonderful. I hadn’t noticed—the thing with the music, I mean.”

  “You weren’t meant to notice. It’s a technique I use when interviewing clients and witnesses.” He grinned and said, “Now you’ll be conscious of it, and you’ll try to analyze your writing based on my playing. That might invalidate my efforts completely.”

  Laughing now, she kissed him again. “Thank you.”

  Catlike, he knelt back down and twisted sideways so he could lean his shoulder against the seat between her legs. He tipped his head, resting it on her thigh, and said, “You still haven’t told me why it wasn’t working tonight.”

  She didn’t answer right away. She combed her fingers through his hair and thought about the packages in the cellar and finally said, “Tomorrow it’ll be one month since we first met.”

  Ian turned just enough to look up at Cecily without interrupting the petting. “Is that all? It feels like forever.”

  “Sorry if I’m boring you,” she snapped, though she immediately regretted her tone.