Chelsea had been so lost in thought as she worked that the increase in noise in the past half hour hadn’t sunk in until she tried to hear Kurt over the shrieks of the wind.
“Will the roof hold?” She looked up at the ceiling. If it fell in on them, she could stop troubling her conscience with wayward thoughts she couldn’t control. More important, if anything happened to her, cousin Arlon would come into everything now. There was no one else. She should have told someone at the bureau about Atlanta and Maggie and the letter before she set out on her harebrained scheme.
“Don’t worry about the roof until you see something flapping. Then it will be time to duck. Flying corrugated iron can do a lot of damage to the human body.”
Chelsea’s jaw dropped. They could die and he didn’t seem the least concerned.
Kurt worked as he talked. His anorak came off, followed by his ski cap and goggles. Then he looked at her face. “Hey, I was joking. This building has stood up to winds like these for a lot of years and still looks sturdy. We need to be aware of the dangers, but not blow them out of proportion.”
He wrapped an arm around her. “I’m sorry, real sorry if I frightened you. You act so tough most of the time, as if you could walk through flames and come out holding a toasted marshmallow, I forget to allow for a woman’s vulnerable side.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I guess Atlanta’s death has finally got through to me. I mean, how we can be here one minute and gone the next? Standing up on that ledge today really showed me how small I am.” And how careless she had been by keeping everything to herself. She would call Josh McBride—Mac—at the Paris bureau first chance she got.
Standing there enclosed in Kurt’s hug, she noticed that the front of his sweater was coated in a strip of dried juniper needles. At least this was something she could deal with now. “Keep your chin up, Kurt. I’ll get rid of these prickles before they present a bigger danger than flying corrugated iron.”
She had almost finished—only a few in the neck band of his sweater to go—when she remembered the food. “I’ll be done here in a second, just in time for dinner. I’m not dead certain of the contents of each sachet, but we can share if one is better than the other.”
“Sounds good to me.” He looked down.
She caught a sparkle in his dark eyes—eyes hidden from view most of the time by glasses or goggles, along with the many subtle nuances of conversation. Not to mention warnings.
“Keep your head back. Just a couple more,” she ordered.
“I think a few might have worked into my beard. Care to take a look?” Chelsea tossed the last of the needles into the cold fireplace, knowing he was teasing, wondering if she would take the bait.
His beard was softer than she’d imagined as she ruffled it with the tips of her fingers, smiling when her attentions drew a rumble from deep in his throat, like a tiger purring.
The tremors of her own reactions began way down past her larynx. The tips of her breasts peaked, drawn into tight beads that scraped the inside of her bra. If she’d been the type of woman who liked to ponder the whys and the wherefores, she’d have been out of luck. The moment Kurt’s palm slid under her hair and curved around the nape of her neck her breath snagged in her throat. His hand was so big it was no effort for his thumb to tilt her chin higher.
His eyes blazed so bright the juniper might already be alight, spilling its reflection into his irises. That bright ember made her rise to her toes. His other hand caught her to him by the waist until not even the wind could pass between them.
She gasped, sucked oxygen into her starved lungs. The wind had dried her lips, but she resisted the desire to lick them. If this kiss was going to happen it had to be at Kurt’s instigation and without her tempting him.
A hundred silly things teased her brain. Her hair needed to be washed, she smelled as sexy as a yak and hadn’t a lick of makeup on her face to hide its imperfections. Kurt, if he wanted her, would have to take her at her worst. And he did.
His thumb moved from her chin to her lips, brushed across them as if they were made of satin, not dry as parchment. The warmth of his breath on her face caused her eyelids to flutter, to slide down, so heavy she couldn’t hold them open.
A roaring noise that couldn’t be blamed on the wind echoed in her ears as he angled his head, bumping noses, adjusting to fit. At the last minute her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips and touched his.
Kurt’s arm tightened, gathered her closer than she’d thought possible. She stopped breathing. If he didn’t cover her mouth with his soon, she would swoon away like a Regency heroine.
And then it happened.
Gentle at first, then hard, this was the kiss she remembered, had craved without rhyme or reason in her heart of hearts. This was the need she had tried to deny.
Then it was over.
Finished as suddenly as it had begun.
Kurt freed her from his embrace and her head spun from loss of equilibrium. This had never happened to her before. She placed her palm against his chest as if he was the only one holding the world steady.
He plucked her hand off his sweater to lift it to his lips. The kiss he dropped in the center of her palm was short on length, but long on intensity and sweetness. And when it was done he placed her hand on his cheek and rubbed lightly.
“Thanks for that. I had an itch that was driving me crazy.”
He didn’t say which itch she had scratched, but she’d bet her last dollar that it wasn’t the one on his face.
He drew her with him until they were standing over the kerosene stove and a pan that had almost boiled dry. “Looks like dinner’s ready. You did well while I was acting the alpha male.”
Again there was more to his meaning than could be translated by ears alone, but his body language spoke volumes. He hunkered down and turned off the stove, then pierced the top of the foil on each packet with the knife he always carried on his belt. “Smells good. Guess this week’s proved you’re more than a pretty face.”
Chelsea had no mirror to gauge her appearance in, but she knew that under no circumstances could anyone in his right mind use the adjective pretty to describe her. Kurt had to be blind not to see her as a tall, practically lanky woman in need of a haircut and facial. Blind, but which of the L words had put out his eyes? Was it lust or…? And did she really want to know one way or the other? After all, what did she really know about him?
Circumstances had thrown them together, but for all that, Kurt was still a stranger.
Chapter 7
As the wind strengthened, it found gaps around the window frames invisible to the human eye. Drafts whistled through the cracks and teased the hair on the back of Kurt’s neck as he hunkered in front of the fireplace. Although the meal had warmed his insides, the air on his face and hands was decidedly chilly.
He’d waited as long as possible before lighting the fire. Their supply of wood was limited. But sleep would come more easily if they were already warm when they slipped inside their respective sleeping bags.
The needles took the flame first, cracking and hissing, licking the gnarled twists of wood with greedy ardor. As the first branches caught he tossed on two more.
Kurt heard the swish of nylon against nylon as Chelsea walked up behind him. A mug of tea appeared in his peripheral vision, so he held out a hand. “Thanks.”
Turning, he lifted his gaze higher. Chelsea had both hands cupped around a similar mug as she shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry I can’t offer you sugar or milk—not even powdered milk.”
“No problem. The tea is hot and it’s wet. That’s what counts.” He saw Chelsea shiver as she looked over his head at the flames. “It’s not throwing out much heat yet, but once the stones warm up it will get nice and warm in here,” he added.
“What I wouldn’t give for an armchair to draw up in front of the fire.” Chelsea sighed. “I have this sudden longing for creature comforts. I know it sounds ungrateful when I was the one who made all the demands to come
here, but my bones are aching for a cushioned place to sit.”
“Culture shock—coming from a five-star hotel to a shack in one easy leap.” With his mind’s eye he took stock of what was in the shack, wondering if he could do anything about it.
“Nowhere did I mention the word easy. Hard work yes, easy no. But it was worth it to hear I passed all your tests,” Chelsea said.
She had at that, but in the forefront of his mind was the kiss they’d shared after she’d tweezed the juniper needles off his sweater. The feel of her mouth had been better than he remembered, its textures softer, silkier than any woman had a right to be after a week on the ice.
He’d been wrong. A second kiss hadn’t been the answer.
“Tell you what. Why don’t you hop into your sleeping bag?” he suggested. “Take the tea with you. The beds are the most comfortable spot around and an early night won’t go amiss after a week testing whether or not you would make the cut.”
He gazed down at the flames—safer than watching Chelsea’s face, her lips, her lush mouth. He could still taste the idea of it. “I wouldn’t say no to an early night myself,” he went on. “And if the worst happens and we don’t get out of here tomorrow we’ll be conserving fuel.” Conserving his sanity.
“Good idea. I am rather tired, and you are one-hundred-percent correct about me being strung out all week.”
He heard Chelsea rustling around as she slid alone into her sleeping bag. Don’t even think about it, Jellic!
He stayed where he was looking at the fire. It wasn’t so much a case of out of sight, out of mind as out of temptation’s way.
It was going to be one hell of a long month.
Surprisingly, for all the noise, Chelsea slept the whole night through. However, she could tell from the moment she blinked out of sleep that they wouldn’t be going far today. Kurt was still asleep. No point in waking him, she thought. She hadn’t heard him go to bed, but it was probably later than the early night he had mentioned. The man got by on only a few hours a night.
The day stretched ahead endlessly. Just the two of them, all day and all night in this small box, with nowhere to go, nothing to do. She closed her eyes and tried to compose her thoughts so she could fall asleep again. It didn’t take.
She had no control over her mind or her body. It was if something had sent them a message that, tick, tick, tick, her biological alarm clock was about to go off.
Get a grip, Tedman. You should have more control.
But she didn’t. She did have this feeling, though, that if she didn’t commit murder first, she would very likely jump Kurt’s bones.
“Another cup of tea?”
Kurt turned swiftly and nearly bumped into Chelsea. Although this was a small place, she managed to creep up on him easily. “Not this time.” A beer sounded better, or even a shot of rotgut whiskey—anything that would take the edge off his nerves.
Chelsea had tidied everything in sight, swept up the ash in the fireplace and made cups of tea as if prohibition had been declared in Nepal. He raked in the pockets of his pack and found an old paperback mystery novel. The book curled at the edges from the way he’d shoved it into his pack.
He threw himself down on his bed, one arm behind his head, the paperback blocking his view of the rest of the shack. He’d read the book three times already, but so what? If he could lose himself in the story it might take his mind off losing himself in Chelsea.
Chelsea had found a small Swiss army knife with a manicure file in her toiletries bag. She sat on the edge of her bed, bent over her nails, filing them to within an inch of their life, continuously checking one hand against the other to see if they were even.
Neither of them had thought to bring a pack of cards, and they had run out of things to talk about two hours ago. She looked at her watch again. Too early yet to make the dinner—maybe a snack?
She threw down the file and shot to her feet.
Next moment Kurt followed her. “What?” His eyes darted, searching the shack. “What is it?”
She let out a little shriek. “Oh! You startled me.”
“No, you startled me.” His hands grasped her shoulders. “I thought there was something wrong. That you’d cut your hand with that nail file or something.”
His hands slid down her arms and he lifted her fingertips to examine them. “Pretty, but wasted here.”
She could feel the heat radiating off his chest. Smell him. His scent acted like an aphrodisiac. Her eyelids drooped till she had to tilt her head back to look at him. Heart pounding, she resisted the urge to reach out, to lay her hands on him. “I was going for a snack. Want one?”
His pupils almost blacked out his irises, proving he was just as aroused as she was. Chelsea felt his hands slip farther down until his fingers circled her wrists. Her pulse juddered, missed a beat, then raced ahead of thought or reason. She swallowed, stating the obvious. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
A pulse hammered in Kurt’s temple, tapping out all the reasons she was right. It didn’t mean he had to like them. He released her wrists as the fury of the wind gathered in a howl above the shack, echoing the feral baying in his mind, like a wolf deprived of its prey. It colored the tone of his voice, bleeding with sarcasm. “Babe, if we were doing anything, you wouldn’t get me walking away like I’m going to now.”
He turned his back on her and stepped away. Four paces and there was nowhere left to go but out into the storm. He thrust his hands into his pockets and reached for calm—a stupid thing to do, as it tightened his pants against an erection that was begging to be set free.
On the floor at his feet his big climbing boots sat with the satellite phone poking out the top of the left one. It gave him the excuse he needed to do something else with his hands and take the thunderclaps of tension roiling in the small room off his mind. “I think I’ll check the weather, see how much longer this is going to last.”
He didn’t put a name to what he was referring to. The weather would change—it always did—but the need to make love with Chelsea didn’t feel as if it was anything he could stick a use-by date on.
The twitchy feeling under Chelsea’s skin was getting so bad she was glad to have the domesticity of heating food for their evening meal to keep her busy.
Kurt had already lit the lamp. It hung on a string from a beam on the ceiling, swinging gently in a draft whistling through one of the chinks the windstorm had exposed in the walls.
Her resistance was weakening. She had begun wondering what they would be doing now if she hadn’t put the brakes on earlier. Would she be lying sated in his arms…?
Her brain did a double take as the word sated slipped into the silent conversation she was having with herself.
When had she ever experienced sated? Certainly not with Jacques. He would never occupy space on a list of legendary lovers. His talents were more cerebral than physical—but then he had been more interested in her money than her body. In fact, when the suave, handsome Frenchman with all his flattery had first invited her out, she’d had the uneasy suspicion that maybe he was looking to discover some of IBIS’s secrets during pillow talk.
But all Jacques really had wanted to talk about was Jacques.
More to the point, was she going to let Jacques affect every relationship she went into? That would be giving him more relevance than he deserved.
Now, if she could only resolve Kurt’s reservations so easily. To do that, she would have to know what these reservations were; so far he hadn’t actually come straight out and told her. He had been up front with her when he acknowledged attraction zinging between them as if they were hot-wired together. It was the assurance that he wouldn’t act on it that had begun to rub on her nerves.
She took a quick glance through the steam. Kurt was rebuilding the fire with the last of the juniper branches. The swinging lamp turned his crouched figure into a bright image one moment and a blurred one the next. Is that how she wanted to go through her time in this world, with only a blur
red memory of Kurt? Or did she prefer the full Technicolor one?
The prediction he had received from the weather bureau was turning out to be a good one, Kurt thought. The wind had begun to die down.
Though he always checked the forecast, he didn’t always trust them. Mainly because of what had happened to friends in New Zealand. They had set off to walk a ridge with an assurance of bright weather. But when the cold clear air flowing from the Antarctic crashed into warm moist winds from the Pacific Ocean, the unpredictable happened. Within fifteen minutes they were in the middle of a weather bomb. Less than an hour later they had almost died from hypothermia.
Thump. The toe of Chelsea’s boot kicked his. Kurt grabbed the plate balanced on his knee and looked up and lost his bet with himself that he could spend the rest of the evening thinking of anything but Chelsea. “What?”
“Something dreadful just occurred to me.”
“You came to Nepal and left the iron switched on?”
“No, silly. I don’t do things like that. I wanted to tell you I’ve actually enjoyed my dinner.”
Kurt looked at the few forkfuls left on his plate and at Chelsea’s empty one. “They do say hunger is the best seasoning you can get for a meal, and we haven’t exactly been digging in to the supplies,” he said, then quickly finished eating before the rest of his food got cold.
“We didn’t have a lot to begin with, but since it looks like we’re going to be out of here tomorrow, I’ve decided to allow myself a chocolate bar,” Chelsea announced.
“Women and chocolate. I never met one who didn’t love it.” He got to his feet and held out his hand for her plate. Cleaning up would give him something to do that would keep him out of mischief, out of Chelsea.
She tilted her head up and to one side, her eyes wide, bright and luminous in the gaslight. She licked her unpainted lips, which added a soft sleek glow to their fullness. Her eyelashes fluttered, shading her cheek. “Didn’t you know that some of us think it’s better than sex?”
Stranded with a Stranger Page 10
