They walked at a brisk pace. More of Carston’s he-man stuff? She didn’t think so. She couldn’t help noticing how often he looked up at the sky. He wanted to get to that farm fast; in that elegant tweed jacket, silk shirt, and fine shoes, he wasn’t more suitably dressed for bad weather than she. Besides, she wanted to show him she could handle any challenge nature threw at her…just so long as he didn’t get suspicious, ask her too many questions about Dog’s Pass, about the backwoods upbringing she’d always bragged about.
The sky above flared white with a sudden blaze of lightning.
“You all right?” Carston asked. Reaching for Sherry’s hand, he pulled her alongside him. “You’re probably not even afraid, are you?”
“Am I supposed to be?”
“You have a knack for making me feel silly,” he growled. “Of course you’re not supposed to be afraid. Just most people are. And if you’re not frightened, I still can’t use my he-man act.”
“Perhaps just being human is enough?”
“The thought did cross my mind. Where you’re concerned.” His eyes were warm, oh so warm.
“Good.” She grinned back. “You know what? I’m having fun.” She was. She hadn’t enjoyed herself this much in a long time. Carston’s long fingers were curled together with hers; his determined profile was wonderfully framed against the evening’s ominous light. And each time their eyes met, she saw a tenderness that had nothing to do with the fleeting sentiments of a light-hearted affair. Not that he’d admit such a thing to her—or even to himself.
“Tell me, what does scare you?” he asked.
“Starving crocodiles. I can pretty well talk my way out of any awful situation, but where do you begin with crocodiles?”
No cars passed, but the rain held off until dusk. As the first drops slapped the ground, Sherry could just make out a thicket of trees beyond the next turning. “I think that’s where the farm is.”
“You’re right. Let’s get there before the weather gets worse.” They jogged across a wooden bridge above a churning river. Straight ahead was the house, its outline blurred by dark and rain. Heads down, they raced toward the front porch and bounded up the steps. Stopped.
The house was a ruin. Its windows gaped blindly, the door hung crazily ajar, and the roof had long ago cascaded into the dark interior. The place had been abandoned for years.
This time Carston insisted she wait in the shelter of the sagging porch while he went in search of somewhere more comfortable. “Maybe there’s another building, a barn or a shack, someplace where we can keep out of the rain.” He followed a track through the long grass and found a large barn, its large door wide open. Aside from a few leaks, it seemed relatively dry; at least the roof was still in place. Then he went back to fetch Sherry.
“Our luck is still holding. Wait till you see this.” He slung his arm over her shoulders and, holding her close to his warmth, led the way.
“Hay,” Sherry said as soon as they were inside the barn. “I can smell hay.”
“Straw, not hay,” he corrected, but the mistake woke up his curiosity…again. “You’d think a country girl would know the difference.”
She turned to stare at him defiantly. “And since when is Mr. Ivy League an expert on animal fodder?”
“Ever since I fell passionately in love with Stagger.”
“Stagger?”
He grinned. “My beautiful gray mare. I was eight years old when she came into my life.”
“Oh.”
“So I can assure you that hay is the very nutritious mix of grasses that animals eat, and straw is dried cereal stalks. You use it for bedding animals down or, in my grandparent’s time, filling mattresses. There’s a pile of it over there, near the back wall. We can build a nest and keep warm if we’re stuck here for the night.”
Her eyes glittered. “A night spent in the straw?”
Didn’t sound at all bad, spending the night here with Sherry in his arms. It wasn’t a luxury hotel, but that didn’t seem to matter to her, strangely enough. In fact, he was feeling extraordinarily grateful to her. How many other women of his acquaintance would have accepted this situation? None. Sherry hadn’t ranted about the tree lying across the road; she hadn’t complained about the distance they’d walked. And she wasn’t fussing about wind-blown hair, running mascara, or being stranded.
Of course, he still had to offer to do the gentlemanly thing: “If you don’t mind staying here alone and waiting, I could try and reach Traverton. Find a car or a taxi, and come pick you up.”
“I don’t mind being here alone. But why would you want to walk all that way through the night in the pouring rain? It’ll take you hours to get to Traverton. Let’s just wait. The storm might be over in the morning, but even if it isn’t, there might be some traffic on the road.”
Oh yes, she was gutsy, all right. And he liked that. A lot. His respect for her grew even more although he wasn’t feeling so sure about the implications. When you liked and respected someone, how did you smile, wave, say, “Good-bye, it’s been fun”? This brief affair just might be more complicated than he’d thought. Or was willing to think.
They stood in the barn’s open door, watched the rain lashing the ground, listened to the roar of the nearby river. He felt her shiver and pulled her more tightly into the fold of his arms. He loved the way she covered his hands with her own, the way she curled against him. He loved breathing in the warm scent of her skin—a natural scent, far headier than any man-made perfume could ever be. It wouldn’t be bad if time stopped now, if this moment went on for eternity.
She turned her head slightly, looked up at him with warm eyes, a lazy smile floating over her lips. His fingers sought her face, pushed back the damp curls from her forehead and cheeks. This whole situation was too romantic. Too dramatic and too intense. He tried to lighten the atmosphere. “You don’t mind being stuck here all night?”
“What’s the choice? You ever slept in straw before?”
“Of course I have.”
“Come on. Carston Hewlett, famous playwright, sleeping in straw?”
“Okay, country girl, when was the last time you slept in straw?”
“It’ll kill me to admit this.” She laughed. “Never.”
“Then I’d better warn you: straw is highly overrated. It’s scratchy and nothing like a warm blanket.”
“I’ll probably survive that.” She snuggled closer to him.
She was driving him crazy. With each passing second, he melted a little more. And wondered what the hell was going on. This was lust? Again, he pushed down the strange emotions. “How about all the man-eating spiders living in straw?”
“Man-eating spiders? As long as they’ve got you, I’m fine,” Sherry said smugly. “I’ve always known that being female has some great advantages.”
“Aren’t you afraid of spiders either?”
She smirked. “I’m supposed to be afraid of something that’s smaller than my fingernail?”
Nice fingernails, he thought with satisfaction. Not painted, not long. Just oval-shaped and pretty.
The rain let up temporarily, but another bright flash of lightning streaked through the sky, was followed by a harsh clap of thunder and wild gust of wind. He felt Sherry tense against the chill. Cowboy spangles obviously weren’t much good as insulating material. He would make her as warm, as comfortable as possible. Even if the raw materials weren’t up to much. “Okay, shall we test tonight’s bed?”
“First, I’m going back out to that river we passed to wash up. I don’t mind sharing a straw bed with spiders, or many-footed insects, or mice, rats, raccoons, or even skunks. But what I would hate is spending the whole night with this goopy makeup on my face.”
Carston smiled to himself. He didn’t know many women who’d react like that either. He began inspecting the far reaches of the barn and scraped together enough clean straw to make a luxurious pile in the driest corner. By the time Sherry returned, their makeshift bed was ready.
&n
bsp; “What will we do in the morning?” she asked as she pulled off her boots.
“I’ll walk as far as I can and find help. Or at least I’ll walk until I pick up a signal on your phone. You can wait here.”
“There you go again. Just imagine if I’d stayed in the car this afternoon, waiting for you. By now I’d be thinking you’d been snacked on by bears. And you’d have had to walk through the rain all the way back to the car just to tell me this place was deserted.” She snuggled into their improvised bed. Carston covered her with a thick layer of straw and folded his arms around her once again.
“Beats a wet road any day,” she murmured.
“You’re really okay?”
“Perfectly.”
She’d say that anyway, he knew. Whether or not she was comfortable. That’s the sort of person she was: positive when all the odds were against her. He was grateful, and felt the urge to offer her even more. Funny how the human character worked: the less she demanded, the more he felt like giving. And her head with its damp curls felt just right nestled into the crook of his arm.
“Warm enough?”
“Now I am.”
“Definitely not the way I planned out the evening.”
“Just how did you plan it?” her voice teased.
“With you in my arms. After that candle-lit dinner and bottle of wine.”
“The dinner and candlelight are flops. But I’m in the right place.”
“You are.” His voice was husky. Yes, she was in the right place, all right. But they weren’t on a bed. With no clothes on. Making passionate love. Or not yet.
He took off his jacket, tucked it around them, then let his fingers trace her cheek, trail down to the long line of her neck. Her skin was cold. Still not complaining, though. And he remembered how, only a few hours ago, when they’d been walking in the woods, he’d more or less accused her of using Bobby Blake to get where she’d wanted in the world of music. What a fool he was. What a cad. As if someone as natural, as open as Sherry, would do something like that. He owed her an apology. And an explanation.
Because Sherry Valentine wasn’t anything like Cynthia, his ex. Cynthia, whose ambition and unfaithfulness had destroyed their marriage. Sherry wasn’t even an actress. She was a singer. What possible career benefit could she get from a connection with him? None. She just enjoyed being with him in the same way he enjoyed being with her. And they wanted each other.
What did it matter if this was no luxury hotel room, that there were no silky sheets? The tangy scent of damp earth outside the barn blended into the sweet smell of dry straw. Was she still reluctant to embark on a brief affair? Hadn’t the day’s events created a bond?
Then he stopped thinking. Bending his head, he caressed her lips with his, and her involuntary sigh of pleasure was all the encouragement he needed. Under the first gentle brush of his tongue, her lips parted and he plundered her mouth, pulled her against his hardness. He wanted her to feel what she did to him, how much he wanted her. Her fingers clutched his shirt, held tight as she arched her hips into his. His hands slid upwards to the fullness of her breasts, and her nipples budded under the caress of his thumbs.
“This has to come off,’ he murmured. Slowly he began undoing the pearly snaps of her shirt.
“It does,” she sighed. “And this too.” Her fingers tugged at his buttons.
Suddenly, she stopped moving. He felt her stiffen, then pull back. Propping herself up on one elbow, she stared in the direction of the open barn door. “Didn’t you hear that?”
“Hear what?” What was going on? Why was she stopping when everything felt so good? Fighting down frustration and annoyance, he came sliding back into the real world. And heard…What? A flock of strange wild birds? Animals? No…human screams that untangled themselves, became intelligible words.
“Come on. Straight ahead.”
And a soaked and very shrill troop of boy scouts came pounding in through the barn’s open door.
Chapter Six
Sherry opened her eyes. Blinked. Where was she? Half-buried in a pile of prickly straw. The evening’s events returned. The storm. The barn. Carston’s kisses. Desire. Then the noisy arrival of boy scouts and their troop leader. And what had promised to be a sensual evening had become something else altogether: a friendly evening spent around a campfire—which had been nice enough in quite another way. And when it was finally time to go to sleep, she’d curled into Carston’s arms again, as if that was exactly where she belonged.
How nice that had been. So very nice. Where was Carston now?
She raised herself onto one elbow. The lumpy sleeping bags of the scouts spread out across the barn floor resembled a cluster of beached whales. And beyond the barn door, in a blaze of golden sunshine, sat Carston, chatting with the troop leader beside another crackling fire.
She watched him, admired the tousle of his hair, his warm smile. He’d said he was a loner? How could he be? He was so charming, sociable. And tender. To her knowledge, that wasn’t how loners behaved. What if he was just trying to protect himself? From what? Feeling? Loving?
He must have felt her watching him. He looked up, their eyes locked, and her heart turned over. With tenderness…and something else. Something soft, delicate. Something very much like love.
Love? Impossible. Sherry Valentine didn’t fall in love—not at this point in her life anyway. She’d had her share of passionate attractions of course. Wasn’t that what this was? Well, call it what she liked, she had the feeling everything would be different now. She’d never forget Carston, never forget how good it felt being with him, laughing with him, rambling through a forest with him, sharing the same rather ironic humor…and desire.
If that isn’t the beginning of love, what is it?
Would this brief relationship make her happy? Perhaps it wouldn’t. But a brief affair with Carston Hewlett would be all she could have. He’d warned her, made it clear. No attachments. And she didn’t have time for attachments either. She had a career, a whole life. It had taken her years to build her independence, and she enjoyed every single moment of it. She didn’t need to plan for a future, and she was old enough, resourceful enough, to relish her own company.
Caught in the haze of emotion, she watched him turn, pick up a tin cup, dip it into a pot on the fire. Then, with that slow and easy grace that was his alone, he rose to his feet, strode over to where she sat and held out the cup. “Coffee. No sugar, no milk.” He grimaced. “Not much taste either.”
“Who cares? As long as it’s hot.” Gratefully she reached out, took the cup, and smiled brightly to hide her heart’s wild fluttering.
He sat down beside her, picked out pieces of straw from her hair. “You slept soundly.”
“Didn’t you?”
He smiled. “As soundly as you did, much to my surprise.”
“Surprise?”
Carston’s voice dropped. “I had my doubts last night. I thought that holding you in my arms would be more likely to keep me awake than put me to sleep. Despite the presence of fifteen scouts.”
“I guess that means I’m less desirable than you imagined,” she fished.
“Oh no.” His eyes blazed. “Not less.”
“Good news.” Her voice sounded husky to her own ears.
“That’s not the only good news. You see that blue sky and that sun?”
“I do.” She sipped the brew. Made a face. “Lovely hot dishwater, this.”
He smiled. “There are miles to walk before we find anything better. You feel up to that?”
“Of course I do. Just so long as there’s something resembling breakfast at the far end.” Or even a place where her cell phone could pick up a signal. Charlie Bacon was probably spitting bullets over their prolonged and unexplained absence. She hoped he hadn’t done something drastic like call the police.
“By the way, I tested that river of yours this morning.” He grinned ruefully. “It’s icy cold. I barely survived.”
She grinned back. “Of c
ourse it is. It was icy last night too, and I’m going to risk it again. For me, water is water, cold or hot. Back in the days when I was really poor, I saved all the money I could and bought a car. It was a battered old wreck, but I needed something that would get me to singing engagements. Some of the places I went to were so far off the beaten track, you needed bloodhounds to find them. Of course, paying for hotel rooms was out of the question, so I slept in the car. I was always on the look-out for a good river or stream to wash in.” She stopped, waited for his reaction—either shock, or disgust. Certainly his own well-off background wouldn’t have prepared him for the downside of poverty. Would it affect the way he saw her?
But he wasn’t shocked. “A tough lady.” His tone was admiring. He trailed his fingers along her jaw.
“Tough? Me?”
“You.”
“I wonder.” She shrugged. She’d never seen herself that way. As a rebel, yes. As a determined woman. But deep inside, she was far less confident than her public persona let on.
She finished the mug of horrible coffee. Now, where were those spangled boots of hers? She glared sourly at them: it was going to be torture walking anywhere. She sighed inwardly, then reached for them, pulled them on. Stood and took a few steps. Painful, yes, but she’d get used to it. She headed for the river: icy water was going to feel wonderful against her skin.
After washing, fluffing her curls into a semblance of order, she stood and took in her surroundings. Bird song filled the morning air, and from the deep valley below, a pale mist was rising slowly. It was a wonderful place, the country—she’d never appreciated it so much before. In fact, the whole world seemed to be a very wonderful place. And right now, the man who was making her heart sing waited for her beyond that dirt track. So what if they had only two or three days together? She’d live them to the full.
After saying goodbye to the scouts, they set out for Traverton, their heels tapping lightly on the road’s surface.
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