Darkness

by Karen Robards

  Well, she’d known he didn’t trust her.

  “Seriously?” She understood from the expression on his face that he was, indeed, dead serious. “If I was out to kill you, or in cahoots with someone who’s out to kill you, as you put it, why would I bother to pull you out of the sea in the first place? If I hadn’t, you’d already be dead.”

  “You tell me.”

  “This is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Probably. Come here.”

  “What?” She frowned at him warily. “Why?”

  “I’m going to search you.”

  She stiffened in outrage. “Oh, no you’re not.”

  “You hiding something?”

  “No!”

  “Then what are you worried about?”

  She glared at him. “To begin with, you have no damned right to even suggest searching me. I’ve been saving your ass ever since I first laid eyes on you. I’ve put my own safety at risk helping you. I’m all that’s stood between you and freezing to death, bleeding to death, and drowning. And you have the balls to say you want to search me? How to put this, popsicle boy: Hell no!”

  He met her furious gaze, and she read implacable determination in his dark eyes.

  “Come here, Gina,” he said softly.

  “No!”

  “Don’t make me make you.”

  She bethought herself of their isolation, the storm, and the whole nice bear thing. Lips compressing, she opted for a compromise, shrugging out of her parka and handing it to him. “There. Search it. Knock yourself out.”

  He did, turning out the contents of her pockets—gloves, binoculars, ChapStick, her small notebook and pen, a pocket comb—and running his hands over her coat while she fumed. He felt the hem, the sleeves, the fur lining, the hood. If anything had been concealed in it, she thought, he would have found it.

  Of course, nothing was, so he didn’t.

  “Happy?” she asked with bite when he was done.

  “Coat’s clean,” he said, laying it across his legs. His gaze slid over her body, lingering in a way that made her once again uncomfortably aware of the snugness of her thermal shirt. Glancing down at herself, she saw to her dismay that the shape of her nipples was visible, jutting through the layers of her bra and shirt. If their prominence was anything to judge by, the temperature in the tent was clearly much colder than she’d realized while she’d been wearing her heavy coat. Her body’s reaction did not, of course, have anything to do with him. “Come here.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Are you kidding me?” No, he was not. His intention to search more than just her coat was apparent in his expression. She folded her arms over her chest. “No!”

  “You satisfied that I’m not carrying a weapon?” he asked.

  Gina narrowed her eyes at him. Given that she’d pretty much seen him naked, yes, she was. Not that she meant to give him the satisfaction of telling him so.

  “I can see from your expression that the answer’s yes. I, however, am not satisfied that you’re not carrying a weapon.”

  “Too damned bad. You are not searching me.”

  He sighed. Levering himself up onto one elbow, he wedged the flashlight into a strap on the backpack so that it provided more or less general illumination. Then he looked at her. “We can do this one of two ways: you can take off your clothes and pass them to me piece by piece and let me check each one out and then look your naked body over with the flashlight, or you can scoot on over here and let me pat you down.”

  She quivered with indignation. “How about hell no to both?”

  The look he gave her was his answer: she had no choice. He might be in a weakened state, but even so he was far stronger than she was. Just as he had threatened, he could make her. If it came to a physical fight, he would win, no doubt about it. And flight was out. She couldn’t even scramble out of his reach. All he had to do was sit up, and with the furnace blocking the far end of the tent he’d be able to grab her without even crawling after her.

  Apparently reading in her face the conclusion she’d reached, he crooked a finger, beckoning. Her lips tightened rebelliously. He beckoned again, then pointed to a spot on the floor that would put her within easy reach of his hands.

  “Next time I’ll let you drown,” she said bitterly as, capitulating, she edged forward to the spot he indicated.

  “If there ever is a next time, I’ll deserve it.” He sat up with a grimace and a hand to his side and was immediately way too close. Close enough so that she could smell the salty, musky scent of him, close enough so that her hand that was lifting to push a wayward lock behind her ear brushed the nest of hair darkening the center of his wide chest instead before she jerked it back, close enough so that she was eyeballing the stubble on his strong jaw at what was essentially point-blank range. Her body, stupid thing, was suddenly hypernaturally aware of him. She could feel a prickle of heat moving over her skin just because he was looking at her. Jerking her eyes upward, she encountered the stern set of his mouth, the ruthless glint in his eyes, and experienced an inner shiver that had nothing to do with fear. She was reminded of his height as his head brushed the nylon arch of the ceiling before he ducked, which made it worse because she then felt like he was looming over her. Even with his sitting and her kneeling with her legs folded beneath her, he was inches taller than she was, and a whole lot broader. Being confronted by so much nearly naked masculinity was unsettling. And, as much as she hated to admit it, arousing. He was a stranger, she was leery of his intentions toward her, and there wasn’t anything she could do to stop what was going to happen: he was going to put his hands all over her and she was going to let him because she had no choice. Resisting would only make the situation more combustible.

  And to make matters just that much worse, he was turning her on.

  Nice bear, she thought grimly, and steeled herself. The width of his shoulders and the muscularity of his bare arms and chest would have been intimidating if she hadn’t been seething with temper—and if she hadn’t absolutely refused to let herself be intimidated. She thought of the bleeding she’d just stopped, wondered whether he’d made it start again by sitting up, and decided she hoped so.

  He said, “Lift up your arms.”

  Rigid with outrage, she did as she was told, then stared fixedly at him as he patted her down. Face expressionless, he ran both hands down her arms and over her armpits, her breasts, her back, her waist, her stomach and butt. Then he had her stretch out her legs so that he could feel her wool socks–clad feet and slide his hands up her legs and over her crotch. It was done quickly and with a professionalism that told her that he’d performed such searches before. His touch was light and impersonal even in the most personal places. No groping, no hint of trying to cop a feel.

  Didn’t matter. The feel of his hands moving over her breasts and butt and sliding between her legs made her body react in a way that reminded her, infuriatingly, that he was a man and she was a woman. Her breasts tightened under his hands; her nipples tingled. When he ran his palms over her butt, she was all too acutely aware. As his hands slid up the insides of her thighs to pass lightly between her legs, she wasn’t even surprised by the way her body quivered and clenched deep inside. Despite her body’s (unanticipated and unwelcome) response, the manner in which he touched her was way too invasive and intimate for it to be anything but offensive. By the time he finished, angry steam was practically coming out of her ears. Her fists were clenched, and she knew her face had to be flaming red.

  “You’re clean,” he said as his hands withdrew from where they’d just met at her nape after thoroughly combing through her hair.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “You look mad.”

  “Mad? Me?” As she shook her now straggling-all-over-the-place hair back from her face, her voice was silky sweet. She was, however, all but shooting poison darts at him from her eyes. She could still feel the imprint o
f his hands everywhere—and she didn’t like it. “You ever think that I might be a ninja assassin planning to kill you with my bare hands while you sleep?”

  Infuriatingly, that made him smile. A full-on crooked and charming smile that smacked her in the face with how really good-looking he was. That smile hit her the wrong way. It made her want to—

  Before she could finish the thought, he slid a hand along her jaw, bent his head, and kissed her.

  Chapter Twelve

  For a moment shock kept her frozen in place. The warm pressure of his mouth on hers was the last thing she had been expecting. His lips were firm and experienced and absolutely, unmistakably male. They moved persuasively against hers. Blisteringly hot, his tongue touched the crease between her lips. She felt a jolt of heat, a wave of longing. His tongue slid into her mouth, and she was suddenly on fire, burning up inside, kissing him back. Wanting more. In what amounted to a lightning bolt of sensation she felt a thousand things at once, most of which she was afraid to even try to put a name to. But she recognized the hot flare of desire an instant before it was swamped by fury, and fear.

  No, her mind screamed in rejection even as, on a whole different, more conscious level, warning sirens went off inside her head: He can do anything he wants to me. Here in this tent, in this storm, I’m at his mercy.

  Then her spine kicked in. Not.

  Tearing her mouth free, she slammed her fist toward the center of his chest in a hard punch guaranteed to make him think twice before he touched her like that again. He caught her fist before it could connect. Easily, his palm trapped her clenched fingers and stopped the blow in midair.

  It dismayed her to realize that, besides being the approximate size of a gorilla, the man had lightning-quick reflexes.

  She made an enraged sound.

  “That was meant as a thank-you,” he said before she could summon the words with which to annihilate him. “For saving my life. I owe you.”

  She jerked her hand out of his grasp. He didn’t try to keep it.

  “You don’t kiss me,” she said through her teeth. She could still feel the imprint of his lips. It was all she could do not to scrub the back of her hand over her mouth to try to wipe it away. “You don’t come on to me. Are we clear?”

  He held up both hands in surrender. “As glass. Gina. It was a thank-you, not a come-on. That’s all.”

  “Next time, I suggest you use your words.” Her voice was icy. It didn’t escape her notice that he had used her name, but it didn’t make her feel any more kindly disposed toward him. Snatching up her coat, she backed away from him on her knees, then pulled her coat on and zipped it up to the neck. Finally she gathered up her hair and knotted it at her nape again.

  Fixing him with a hostile stare all the while.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

  “You didn’t scare me. You crossed a line. I’m angry.”

  “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t quite put a name to the look in his eyes, but abject apology wasn’t it.

  He settled back down with his head on the backpack, pulling the sleeping bag up around his shoulders in a way that left most of his arms bare. Bulging biceps, powerful forearms dusted with dark hair, large, long-fingered, square-palmed hands—finding herself eyeballing so much brawny masculinity did nothing to lessen her antagonism. With his fingers laced together on his chest he even looked almost comfortable. Gina eyed him with annoyance coupled with mistrust. He added, “If it makes you feel any better, I now believe your story. You really are a college professor up here looking at birds.”

  “Wow, you’re making my day.” She turned away to adjust the Mylar blanket around the pan of rocks. It was a way of putting an end to their conversation—she really didn’t want to talk to him anymore—and, also, it was important that the heat be husbanded so that it lasted as long as possible. Even though the sounds were muffled now, the howling of the wind and the drumming of the sleet on the rocks were a constant reminder of just how terrible conditions were outside.

  He watched her in silence for a moment. Then he said, “This would probably be a bad time for me to tell you to come on over here and climb inside this sleeping bag with me so we can get some sleep.”

  Looking around, she bared her teeth at him in a savage nonsmile. “Never gonna happen.”

  “So, what, you’re planning to sit there thinking evil thoughts about me all night?”

  “What I’m planning to do is none of your business.”

  “I’m not going to attack you, if that’s what you’re worried about. We can sleep back to back. Head to foot. However you want to do it. The key word is, sleep.”

  She scooched around to face him. “Like I said, never gonna happen.”

  “You’re not going to share this sleeping bag with me?”

  “My, you are quick on the uptake.”

  They exchanged measuring looks.

  “Right.” He flung back the top of the sleeping bag and sat up again. Under the circumstances, seeing so much honed and chiseled male flesh coming at her made her nerves twitch with alarm. It was all she could do to stand—well, sit—her ground. In that she was aided by the fact that there wasn’t anyplace for her to go.

  Her voice bristled with suspicion. “What are you doing?”

  “You take it.” He rested a hand lightly over his wound as he pulled his legs out of the depths of the bag. She saw no blood on the bandage, but it was obvious the wound was hurting him. “The thing’s all yours.”

  He was referring to the sleeping bag, she knew.

  “I don’t want it.” Her sweatpants rendered him minimally decent, not adequately dressed. She watched his bare calves and big feet crammed into her socks swing toward her and was reminded of how nearly naked he was—and also of the ordeal he’d so recently gone through. He really needed to stay wrapped up and keep still—wait, stop, she didn’t care if he hurt himself, remember? Crossly she added, “Get back in there. It’s going to get cold in here later, when the heat from the rocks dies out. I’m dressed for it. You’re not.” When he made no move to obey, she snapped, “Get back in the damned bag.”

  He shook his head. “That would be ungentlemanly.”

  She made a scoffing sound. “Why mess up your track record?”

  That made him smile again. Which in turn made him way more handsome than she cared to think about. In response, the scowl she was directing at him turned ferocious. He was sitting up now with his knees bent and his arms resting on his knees. Strapping bare shoulders, arms, chest, abdomen, calves—his position equaled way too much raw masculinity on display for her comfort.

  He said, “Look, I’m going to unzip the sleeping bag and open it up, and we can both use it as a blanket. You stay on your side of the tent, I’ll stay on mine. How about that?”

  Gina considered. The pad beneath them would be enough to keep the ground’s cold from penetrating. Used as a blanket, the sleeping bag wouldn’t provide as much warmth, but it should provide enough.

  She would be relatively toasty. He would probably avoid freezing to death.

  Both were consequences she could live with.

  “Fine,” she said ungraciously. As he twisted around to start unzipping the bag, she winced before she could stop herself at the flexing going on with his abdominal muscles and the Band-Aids, gave up on the whole wishing-him-dead thing, and added, “Stop moving around. You’ll start bleeding again. I’ll do it.” Eyes narrowed, lips tight, she crawled toward him. “Stay out of my way,” she warned.

  He stopped, slanting an unreadable look at her. “Whatever you say.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  In just a few minutes Gina had the bag unzipped and spread out over the floor. Taking care to avoid the pan of rocks, she slipped beneath the sleeping bag and stretched out on her side with her back to him. Lying down felt surprisingly wonderful, even on so unforgiving a surface. She was so tired she was practically boneless. Every muscle in her body was sore.

  On the other side of the
tent, she could feel him stretching out, too.

  “Here,” he said.

  Gina rolled onto her other side and looked at him with mistrust. Even with both of them hugging opposite sides of the tent, there wasn’t more than a foot of space separating them. He lay on his side, facing her. The flashlight was on the ground now. Its beam cut through the space between them like a lightsaber. Above it, his face was deep in shadow. She could just make out the muscular shape of his bare shoulder and arm.

  He was in the act of shoving the backpack toward her. “Pillow,” he said.

  Having him lying so close was unsettling. Gina regarded him with open suspicion as she accepted the backpack.

  “Good night,” he said before she could say anything, and switched off the flashlight.

  The tent instantly went as dark as the inside of a sewer pipe. Gina turned her back to him again, tucked the backpack—most uncomfortable pillow ever, she could see why he’d given it up—beneath her head, wrapped her arms around herself, and closed her eyes. The memory of the way he had kissed her surged to the forefront of her mind, making her tense. Right on the heels of that came the memory of how his hands on her body had felt. Deep inside, she felt a curl of desire. Instantly, every cell in her body seized up in instinctive rejection.

  What kind of person gets a thrill from a guy she doesn’t know and doesn’t trust?

  “HOW DOES your group communicate with each other? Does everybody have a radio?”

  That deep, rasping voice so close at hand, coming abruptly out of the blackness, made her start guiltily, as if there were any way he could possibly be aware of what she had just thrust from her mind. Taking a quiet, steadying breath, she opened her eyes. The darkness was so complete that she might as well have kept them closed. The nylon wall flapped inches away as a gust of wind shook the tent, but she could only hear, not see it.