“Thanks,” she said between chattering teeth. “I see the electricity went off because of the storm.”
He’d heard of electricity, but he wasn’t sure what it was doing out here and why it would go off, so he nodded. He could sense her presence only a few feet behind him while he set the logs and kindling. Within minutes the flames were beginning to lick around the wood. “Now we need to get you out of those wet clothes.” The thought of her naked made his gut tighten. If she insisted on maintaining their distance it was going to be a long night.
She rubbed her arms, shivering from the cold. “Do you have anything here I could put on? A robe or something?”
“I’ll go check the bedrooms.” He went down a hallway where he thought the bedrooms should be located and in the growing darkness searched each one until he found the one that was probably his. Hanging on a hook on the back of the closet door was a terry-cloth robe. He grabbed it and a towel he found in the bathroom and carried them back to the living room. “Here. This should work.” He handed her the towel.
He knew he should leave, but he stood fascinated as she dried her hair in front of the blaze in the fireplace. The urge to touch her blond strands as he had before was overwhelming, but he resisted the need by cramming his hands in the pockets of his pants. When she finished, she tossed her head back to fling the damp locks over her shoulder.
Her movements as she silently slipped off her shoes and hung her jacket on the back of a nearby chair were so sensual he almost moaned from the sheer frustration of being so close to her and not being able to take her in his arms as he had before. What he wouldn’t give for that anonymity again.
Her fingers paused at the buttons of her blouse. “Maybe I should go to the bathroom to slip out of these wet clothes.”
“I, uh, no. That’s not necessary. You need to stay in front of the fire.” He was kind of embarrassed that she’d caught him staring. “I’ll go see if I can make us some coffee.” At least that would give him something to do. He couldn’t shadow her all evening with his tongue hanging out like a little lapdog. He had more pride than that. But not much more, he thought, remembering how sweet she’d tasted when he’d kissed her.
Lauren toweled off her naked body and picked up the robe Jonathan had laid on the sofa. As she slipped it on, she noticed the faint smell of male musk and his cologne. Whether Jonathan remembered it or not, she knew he had worn the robe recently.
Trying to hitch the hem up so it wouldn’t drag on the floor, she tied the belt and then padded barefoot to the kitchen, all the time reminding herself to suppress any feelings Jonathan might ignite.
When she stopped in the doorway, she noticed he had found an old kerosene lantern, lit it and set it on the counter beside myriad pots and canisters. The golden glow danced around the room. When he heard her come in, he turned. Confusion and anger at his own inability were written all over his face.
Despite her earlier resolution, she ached to soothe his troubled soul, so she tried to pretend she didn’t notice anything wrong. “I guess since the electricity is off we can’t use the coffeemaker. Maybe we can find one of those old-fashioned pots that are set on the range.”
He held up a blue enamel coffee pot big enough for ten people. “I found this. Will that do?”
“Yes. Did you find the coffee?”
She took the coffee he offered and filled the pot to the midpoint with water and set it on the gas range. “Do you have another match so I can light this thing?”
He handed her a box. “These were in a drawer.”
“Apparently the electricity goes off here pretty often because you seem prepared—with the lantern and all.” She lit the range. “Now, let’s find something to eat. Aren’t you glad we got you a sack of groceries?”
“There’s some more stuff in here.” Jonathan opened a cabinet to reveal canned foods and an assortment of crackers.
Lauren watched him search for a saucepan to heat some soup. He really didn’t seem to know where things were kept. His “amnesia” wasn’t just an act. He honestly couldn’t remember.
Side by side they prepared dinner. Lauren could tell Jonathan was still upset, because he didn’t smile or tease her. She would have enjoyed the camaraderie that had developed while they were in the cave.
“Would you like to go back in the parlor to eat by the fire, where it will be warm?” he asked, pouring a couple of cups of coffee.
“Yes, that sounds good.” Though he appeared to be in a dark mood he was still considerate of her soaking and subsequent chill. Between them they managed to carry all of the things to the living room and put them on the coffee table.
Lauren sat cross-legged, the robe tucked between her thighs. Jonathan joined her on the floor. They ate in silence, which, she reminded herself, was best because when he was being charming, he was a hard man to disregard. In fact, he was a hard man to disregard even when he was feeding himself chicken noodle soup.
When they were finished, he stacked the dishes on a corner of the table, leaned back against the overstuffed sofa and stretched his long legs out in front him. His thigh was mere inches from her knee, Lauren noted, trying to quell her physical awareness.
He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “You said you believed me when I said I didn’t kill anyone. Why would you believe that when you believe I’m guilty of smuggling?”
When he looked at her, she could see the hurt lingering in his eyes. She thought for several seconds before she answered. “Jon, I try to deal in facts, though most of the time that’s impossible. I learned long ago there is no black and white, no right or wrong and no fairness where the law is concerned. Many times guilty people get off—and sometimes innocent people go to prison. I’ve even defended people I knew in my soul were guilty and gotten them off. But the victory was bittersweet.”
She hugged her legs to her chest and continued, “When I looked at the evidence and the sheriffs testimony, I figured this was going to be one of those cases. I never doubted Robert could get you out on bail. He’s the best in West Texas.
“But sitting in the courtroom listening to the charges after I knew who you were, I realized things didn’t add up. The sheriff says you were tracking him the day you and I were in the cave. But I know even if I hadn’t been with you, you were in no shape to be running through the desert that day. You’d been wounded. Yet in his report, the sheriff never mentioned shooting at you, and he claimed Saul didn’t have a gun on him, so where did you get your gunshot wound? It also bothered me that Saul was killed with a rifle, but you had a pistol.
“Last but not least, if you had murdered a man, you wouldn’t have been hiding from the sheriff. You would have been trying to kill him as he claimed. Instead you seemed to be avoiding a confrontation. The day we were together, you could have slipped up behind the man shooting at me when he started down the canyon.”
“We don’t know if that was the sheriff.”
“You think it was someone else?”
He shrugged and turned toward her, resting his elbow on the sofa and cradling his head in his hand. “I question everything right now.”
“Well, if the sheriff is to be believed, it was just you and him and the Chihuahuan desert. When I talked to him the afternoon I visited you in jail, he claimed where you’d chased him was at least eight or ten miles from Diablo Canyon, where I was.” Lauren was thinking aloud now. “There are lots of things that don’t add up. A lot of confused identities.”
“So you’re saying that the only reason you believe I didn’t kill this Saul is because things don’t add up?” His voice cracked.
“No. Because I was in the cave with you, and know the timing was off, and because of...other things. The state’s evidence may point to you right now, but...”
He leaned forward and stroked her hair. “We both know evidence is only as good as the person presenting it. It’s always colored by our own experiences, and since I don’t remember mine, it’s dangerous for me to accept things as they appea
r.”
“I don’t take it at face value, either. I—”
“Don’t kid yourself, Lauren. You saw that strip this afternoon and you decided I was guilty of smuggling... cocaine, was it? And you got out of here as fast as you could.”
Lauren knew there was some truth to his accusation. When she’d seen the car, the empty corrals and the airstrip, she’d assumed the worst. But that was all they were—as-sumptions. As foolish as it seemed, she still believed he was innocent. When she looked into his burning eyes, some of her faith in him must have been visible, because his fingers tightened in her hair and he expelled a deep breath.
“Didn’t you?” he demanded softly.
She nodded. “But I left for another reason.” She hadn’t left because she’d thought he might be guilty. She’d left because she had been scared. Scared she was falling for a criminal.
When she didn’t continue, he asked, “Do you want to enlighten me?”
“Not really. As you said earlier, it doesn’t make any sense even to me.” At the same time she feared his attraction and welcomed it. As all ability to reason fled from her, she allowed Jonathan to pull her closer.
“Would it have something to do with this?” He caressed the side of her cheek with his thumb until she felt it all the way down to her toes, which at that moment chose to wiggle of their own accord.
He smiled. “I see that it does.” He drew her closer until she was almost sitting on his lap. Her robe had worked itself loose enough that where it barely clung to one shoulder he easily brushed it down her arm. “Your skin is so soft, so beautiful. Since we met, every day we’ve been apart, I’ve dreamed of doing this.” He brushed her bare flesh with his lips.
Lauren moaned and leaned her head back, savoring the wonderful sensations he was arousing. Slowly, he worked his way up her neck to her waiting lips. When finally they claimed hers, she was lost. Reason, good intentions and common sense left her while his hands worshipped her face, her neck, her shoulders.
Perhaps it was the robe slipping still farther down, exposing the top of her breast, that brought her to her senses.
“I can’t!” she gasped. “I can’t get involved with a client.”
Jonathan’s voice was husky with passion. “We’re already involved.”
“No. Not this way. Please, please, Jon. I can’t.” She pulled away from him and went to stand in front of the fire.
He, too, stood. “Well, do you want the sofa or one of the beds?”
Chapter 8
Lauren twisted and turned on the sofa, trying to get comfortable. She’d been afraid to take Jonathan up on the offer of a bed, afraid of what it might lead to. A bed was too intimate. Too big. Too dangerous.
Her self-control went only so far, and already she had proven that where Jonathan McCain was concerned, she had very little. Thank God she’d had the sense to call a halt to their lovemaking before things had gotten totally out of hand.
Though he had presumably gone to his bedroom, his presence seemed to haunt the room where she lay. Sweet, peaceful sleep eluded her while a different image of Jonathan flittered through her mind every few seconds. She ran her fingers along the edge of the sofa where he had sat, where he had held her in his arms and kissed her with a passion she couldn’t have imagined a month ago. Maybe she should have taken one of the beds. There at least she wouldn’t see his face, smell his scent, hear his voice in the golden glow of the remaining flames.
Was he having as hard a time sleeping as she? Was he even now aware that only a few partitions separated them? She found comfort in the thought that he, too, yearned to fulfill what they’d started in the cave.
She hugged the Indian blanket to her breast and watched the fire die to red-hot cinders, taking with it the warmth that had flooded the room earlier. She still found it hard to believe that she was so tempted by a man she knew so little about. Maybe the elements of danger and mystery were what attracted her. Lauren drew a fingertip over her mouth, tracing Jonathan’s kisses, and knew she was just as susceptible now in the wee morning hours as she had been the first day she’d met him.
Sleepless hours later in the gray dawn, she shivered. The fire in the fireplace had died long ago and a chill had settled in the room. Seeing the faintest light entering the long windows, she sat up on the edge of the sofa and listened for movement from the bedroom. Not hearing any, she picked up her still-damp clothes and quietly crept to the bathroom to dress before Jonathan got up. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to get the tangles out, and then tried to smooth her suit into some kind of presentable appearance. Then she tiptoed back to the living room.
She’d just finished folding the blanket and hanging it over an afghan rack when Jonathan called out to her from the hallway. “You decent yet?”
“Yes, or at least as much as possible without a comb or toothbrush.”
“Then I’m coming in.”
Even though they hadn’t actually made love, Lauren still felt some of the same morning-after awkwardness seeing him step into the open doorway of the living room.
“Good morning,” she said.
Shirtless, his jeans hanging low on his hips, he watched her without saying a word. His shoulders were as wide and well muscled as she remembered, and a sprinkling of dark hair covered his torso. She swallowed. He could have put on a shirt, but somehow she knew he was aware of the effect he had on her and was reminding her of what she had turned down the night before.
“Good morning,” he said.
Silently, aware she was having the same effect on him, Lauren watched him swallow. She smiled before hastily latching on to a subject that was as far away from her thoughts as she could get. She walked over and flipped on a switch and the lights blazed overhead. “The electricity’s back on.”
Jonathan looked slowly from the switch to the lights. “So it is,” he observed noncommittally.
“How about some coffee? I need some caffeine to get started.” Trying not to bump against his body, she edged past him so she could go to the kitchen.
“I could do with a cup, too.” He followed her.
She added coffee to the automatic drip coffeemaker and poured water into the top. The white plastic-and-glass appliance seemed so sterile next to the old blue enamel pot with its charm and romance.
They stood in awkward silence until the coffee had finished brewing. Then, while he watched with a troubled expression on his face, she poured the steaming liquid into a couple of mugs, handed him one and leaned back against the counter. “I need to get to town before someone misses me and starts worrying.”
He nodded and took a sip while cupping the warm mug in his hands. “What do I do now? I’m not very good at just sittin’ around waiting.”
Somehow she knew that. “Since you don’t remember anything, I suggest you read everything you can get your hands on, listen to the radio and watch television.” She leaned over and turned on the small set hanging above the counter. “Maybe all the stimulation will help.” She straightened. “I would advise you that if you do remember anything, don’t tell anyone before you talk to Robert or to me.”
Jonathan stared at her and slowly tapped a finger against the cup before asking, “When are you coming back?” The momentary longing in his eyes was quickly veiled.
“I don’t know.” She set her mug on the counter and turned back to face him. She wanted to stay, but she knew that would be folly. Never had she had a man affect her so deeply that she was willing to put her career second. Her work had been the driving force in her life. Now she wanted to protect Jonathan and offer him what little comfort she could. And she suspected that he wanted the same. The need had been written in his eyes before he had caught himself. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be here. It’s hard to maintain a professional distance from you.”
“After last night you must know how I feel about you,” he said slowly, “but if you say the word, I won’t insist on a response. For now.”
She ached to have
him explain just how he did feel about her, but that would be tempting fate. Was he merely experiencing lust, or did he have the same overwhelming need to know her that she had to know him? She wanted to learn everything about him, from his favorite color to which side of the bed he slept on, to whether he sang in the shower. Yet she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of hearing him whisper words of love and desire into her ear, because she might not be strong enough to walk away.
“What’s your favorite color?” she blurted out. That was the least personal of all the things on the tip of her tongue.
Without hesitation he answered, “Blue. The exact color of your eyes.”
She was wrong about it not being a personal question, but she willed herself not to get sucked into the intimacy his words created. “You didn’t have to think about it, so you do remember some things.”
“Not necessarily. I could have just decided that in the past twenty-four hours.” He set his mug beside hers and stepped closer.
She wanted to touch the hair that grew on his chest, but instead clasped her hands together in front of her, creating a fragile barrier between them. “I thought you said you wouldn’t insist if I said the word.”
“But you haven’t said the word.”
“Jonathan, things haven’t changed since last night. I can’t do this. In a way, you’re my client as well as Robert’s and...”
“And you can’t get involved.” He finished the sentence for her as he backed away and ran his hands through his hair. “If I fired your partner as my counsel, then there wouldn’t be anything standing in the way. Is that right?”
She turned away from him and walked to the back door. Through the windowpane the airstrip stared at her. “That depends.”
“I see. I’m only fit to...” he hesitated, apparently searching for the right word “...to make love to if I’m not a drug smuggler.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I see where you’re looking. You’re afraid I’m a drug smuggler, not a rancher. I can’t give you any assurances because I can’t remember myself.”
McCain's Memories Page 10
