Wild Rain

by Donna Kauffman

  Her attempt at lightening the sudden tension had failed miserably if his expression was anything to judge by. But then she hadn’t had much luck reading him up till now, so who knew?

  “Don’t try so hard, mite.”

  With his accent she couldn’t tell if he’d said “mate” or “mite.” It didn’t matter, either way it wasn’t exactly flattering. No surprise there. The tension ebbed from her all at once as she realized how ridiculous this whole thing was. Her reaction to him, worrying about what he thought, when all she should be concerned with was surviving the storm so she could help Cleo.

  “Yeah well, trying too hard is what I do best.” She bent her knees, intending to duck under his arm.

  He stopped that by bracing his arm lower on the doorframe. “Self-pity doesn’t become you.”

  “As far as I can tell, nothing much becomes me, so tough darts. Please move.”

  “Are you afraid of the dark?”

  “What?” His question caught her so off guard, she stopped trying to move his arm and looked up at him. “No,” she answered, without knowing why.

  “Good.”

  She heard the click of the flashlight, then the small pantry went dark. What little light reached them from the kitchen was almost completely blocked out by his large body filling the doorway.

  “Come here.”

  She stood completely still, her brain racing so fast to make something out of the sudden change of events that she couldn’t think at all. “Where?”

  He sighed deeply. The next thing she knew she was pulled against his chest, her nose buried in the middle of the damp T-shirt stretched across the rock-hard wall of muscle.

  Startled, she stood stock-still. He leaned against the door and pulled her closer against him with a brawny arm around her waist. His other hand dropped to her hair, thick fingers weaving through it until they brushed against her nape. He expertly tucked her cheek into the crook under his arm.

  “Put your arms around me,” he whispered.

  Assailed with so many sensations she didn’t know where to start cataloging their effect on her, she automatically lifted her arms in compliance, looping them loosely around his lean waist.

  “Tighter.”

  She squeezed gently. And felt a distinct bulge under the back of his vest. His gun.

  It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder why he carried one.

  Until now.

  Like a life preserver in a storm-tossed sea, she grabbed ahold of that thought and hung on for dear life. “Reese?”

  “Hmmm?” His voice was a low rumble. It sounded so good, she almost forgot what she’d been about to ask.

  “Since when do evacuation team members carry guns?”

  He stiffened, then dropped his arms and shifted away from her. She froze for a moment, her mind still trying to get used to the feel of him in her arms, unable to assimilate why she was suddenly standing alone. Then she stepped back into the pantry, instinctively seeking more space as she sorted through what had just happened between them.

  One thing became clear right away. She was lucky she’d come to her senses before he had the chance to make a fool of her again. Or before she beat him to it. Funny how that revelation did next to nothing to make her feel better.

  Not only had he become weak, Reese decided as he hobbled over to the counter, he’d become soft as well. And stupid.

  What in the hell had he been thinking of back there?

  Certainly not his job. Certainly not gaining control of the situation.

  No. For one ludicrous moment, he’d wanted to find out just what it was about her that got to him. His eyes certainly weren’t telegraphing the information. So in a moment of weakness, he’d shut off the light and pulled her against him, hoping his other senses would alert him to the problem area.

  He’d had the ridiculous notion that once he’d figured out what it was about her that made his mind go blank and his pants grow tight, the problem would end. Knowledge was power. Power enabled control.

  He felt rather than heard Jillian behind him. Leaning heavily against the counter, he shifted slightly so he could see her. She was still standing in the pantry doorway. Her small shoulders were squared, her chin lifted, her expression making it clear she was waiting for a response.

  And the urge to pull her back into his arms, to feel her soften against him, to know he could throw her as off balance as she did him, was so strong, it took him a moment to remember what her question had been.

  Oh yeah. The gun. He shrugged when he’d rather have hit something. “It’s been with me a long time. Can’t seem to leave home without it.”

  As tension breakers went, his apparently left much to be desired. Too damn bad. It was the best he could manage.

  If she found it so easy to maintain her control, he was more than willing to let her call the shots for a while.

  Remaining silent, he watched Jillian clutch the rolls, chips, and the can of dip to her chest like protective armor, and walk over to the opposite end of the counter. She carefully laid everything out, got a knife from the drawer in front of her, then moved silently to the fridge, reaching into its darkened depths and retrieving several bundles wrapped in white deli paper.

  She’d made two sandwiches and was starting on the third when she finally broke the tense silence. “So, Mr. Braedon, just what is it you do?” She turned to look at him. “When you’re not battling gators and rescuing reluctant damsels in distress?”

  There was that pluck again.

  Funny, it didn’t bother him so much this time. So what if her tension breakers were better than his? He let his hands relax, unaware until that moment that he’d had them tightly clenched.

  “Private security. My partner and I own a business down in the Keys.”

  Her eyes widened. “They evacuated already down there, didn’t they?”

  “Yep.”

  She went back to making sandwiches. “I guess you must think I’m really ungrateful. I’m sure you must have better things to worry about right now than running around evacuating other people.”

  Before Reese could comment, she looked at him.

  “Just what brought you all the way up the Gulf Coast? Are you a volunteer with some organized national rescue effort?” She waved a mustard-covered knife in front of her. “I mean, did you have to come up here? You and your family must be worried about your property and all.” She laid the knife down, real concern on her face. “And now they have to worry about you too. I’m really sorry, Reese. I never intended to let my decision to stay affect others.”

  Reese wished she would shut up. “No worries.” His voice wasn’t as casual as he’d have liked. “There is no family. Just Cole, my partner. And he knows I understood the risks when I took the job.”

  She took several steps toward him. When she laid her small hand over his, he realized he’d just lied again.

  “Well, I still feel responsible. When this is over, if I can do anything to help …” Her words drifted away when he flipped his hand over and tucked his fingers between hers.

  “Let’s get through the next couple of hours first.” He gave her fingers a light squeeze, then drew his hand away. “You got paper plates?” He hoped like hell they were on the other side of the room.

  “Yes. In the pantry, second shelf on the right.” He hopped once, and she put out her hand. “What am I doing? You sit. I’ll get the plates.”

  He shrugged off her hand and hopped across the room. “Got a spare broom handle?” He braced one hand on the doorframe, but didn’t look back.

  “Behind the door on the rack.”

  The instructions were delivered in short, clipped words. He’d insulted her. Too damn bad. He yanked down a sponge mop and flipped it over. A little short but it would do. He lifted the flashlight from the shelf. She’d apparently forgotten it after …

  His body tightened. She’d barely known what to do during those all-too-brief moments they’d held each other. It hadn’t even been much of a hug. There
was next to nothing to hold. Yet she’d fitted against him perfectly.

  And damn if it hadn’t felt good. Like something he’d like to try again.

  He flicked the switch on, erasing the shadows from the small room. And his brain.

  Reese swallowed the last bite of his second sandwich, then drained the last of his soda. He tried not to shudder as the sweet lemon-lime drink slid down his throat.

  “Sorry about the beer being warm. I thought it was better to use the room in the fridge for water.”

  “And soda.”

  She smiled. It was sort of shy and sweet. He balled up his napkin.

  “I ranked space in order of priority. Soda ranks just under water and perishables.”

  He fought the urge to let the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “I’d put tinnies in the same place myself, so I guess I understand. I’ve gotten used to drinking them cold.”

  “Tinnies?”

  “Beer in Australian. Comes in tin cans. Tinnies.”

  “Of course,” she said dryly. “Silly me.”

  He lost the battle, but stopped his curving lips shy of a true smile. He figured he could relent a little without giving up any real measure of control.

  “How long have you been in the States?”

  It was a realistic question. To be expected, even. Reese just had to get used to talking to someone who asked questions like she really wanted to know the answers. For him, conversation with a woman was usually just meaningless chitchat, soon forgotten once he’d begun the sort of communication he really desired. The sort that consisted mostly of sighs and moans.

  He found himself staring at her mouth, wondering what she’d sound like during sex. Did she make noise? His gaze drifted down over the barely raised front of her shirt. Did she even have sex?

  What the hell did he care? He looked down at the table.

  “Never mind. I guess it’s none of my—”

  “I left Australia when I was seventeen.” Now why hadn’t he just let her let him off the hook? Probably to get his mind off of the strange track it had just wandered down. Jillian Bonner in the sack would probably be as exciting as fondling a store mannequin.

  So why did that feel like the biggest whopper he’d told himself yet?

  Jillian stood abruptly and gathered the remains of their meal. “Would you like another?” She nodded at the empty can she held in one hand. “Maybe some water?”

  “Pass. Got a radio?”

  She nodded again and turned away to dispose of the trash, then hurried into the office.

  Only after she’d disappeared from sight did Reese discover that his jaw was clenched shut so tightly, his teeth hurt. He was really slipping. The way she’d leapt from the table made him wonder what she’d seen in his eyes. No way could she have read his thoughts. Nothing of what he felt was reflected there. Not ever. He doubted he could reverse that trait if he tried.

  So what had sent her gladly running for the cover of her office?

  Disgusted with all this exhausting internal debate, he shoved away from the table and stood. Too late, he remembered his thigh. Several creative expletives escaped his lips before he pressed them together. He’d just grabbed the mop from its leaning place against the chair next to his when she came back into the room.

  “I already had it tuned to the local news station, but because of the wind, the reception with the batteries is pretty erratic.” She’d been fiddling with the knobs and only now looked at him. “What are you doing standing up?”

  “I was just asking myself the same thing.” He successfully hid the strain in his voice, but not the frustration.

  “Why don’t we go into the front room? There’s a couch there, you can elevate your leg.”

  Just then the constant noise of the storm exploded overhead with a loud boom, followed by a screeching sound that set his teeth on edge.

  “Holy—What was that?” Jillian was halfway to the back door before she remembered the steel bars and covered window. She spun around to face Reese. “What should we do now?”

  Reese swore under his breath. The short burst of adrenaline the sound had sent spurting through him would probably see him up the stairs to check out the top floor for roof damage. But the price he’d pay after wasn’t worth the risk of expending the energy on a probable nonemergency. “I don’t think it was major. If anything had been severely damaged, the sound inside would have increased.”

  She was already at the hallway door. “I’m going to take a look.”

  “No.”

  Her steps faltered, and she looked back at him. “Excuse me, but this is still my house.” The fierce set of his mouth combined with that empty, hard stare made her add somewhat defensively, “You said it was probably nothing serious.”

  “I said I thought the roof was still on, not that it wasn’t serious.” He grabbed the radio off the table. “You picked a safe spot to ride this thing out in?”

  It took a second for her to switch mental tracks. “The hall storage closet.”

  “How big?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a walk-in. I knocked out the wall between the old coat closet and had it enlarged. My office didn’t have a closet, so—”

  “Bigger than the pantry?”

  Not until he cut her off had she realized she was rambling. Get a grip, she commanded herself. You planned for this down to the last detail. It’ll be okay. Drawing in a breath, she squared her shoulders. “About twice the size. It’s partly filled with medical supplies from my clinic office in the other building. There’s also a few cartons of emergency rations and survival gear.”

  “Good.” Tucking the sponge end of the mop under his arm, he moved surprisingly swiftly to her side. “Does the couch have cushions that can be removed?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Good, I’ll get them.”

  He started to squeeze past her, then stopped partway through the door. He looked at her, and she stopped breathing.

  “You got a bedroom on this floor?”

  “Do I … what?” Her voice trailed off into an embarrassing squeak, prompting her to swallow. Hard. He was much too close, and too … everything … to mention bedrooms. She wasn’t proud to discover, at a time when she should be fearing for her very life, that he could inspire erotic thoughts with the mere mention of a stupid room.

  So what if her old four-poster bed was in that room? The one that wouldn’t fit up the stairs so she’d had to sacrifice it to the guest room.

  “A bedroom. Down here.” His voice was tight with impatience. He pronounced “here” like it had two syllables.

  “The door off the foyer, at the base of the stairs.” He paused for a moment, just staring at her. Her lips felt suddenly parched and dry. So she licked them.

  The most remarkable thing happened next. His eyes actually changed color. Or maybe it was the rapid expansion of his pupils. And why in the hell was she noticing such a thing now? “I’ll … uh, I’ll get the cushions.”

  A thick forearm halted her attempt at a hasty retreat.

  “I’ll get the cushions. You strip the bed down to the mattress. I’ll be in to help you move it.” He dropped his arm, but didn’t move out of her way, or stop staring at her.

  What was stopping her from just shoving past him she didn’t know or care to examine too closely. Possibly the knowledge that some part of her anatomy would have to come into contact with some part of his. And he had some parts.

  “Single or double?”

  “What?”

  He jerked his head down the hallway.

  “Oh, the bed. Queen.”

  “Good.” Without another word, he dropped his arm and shifted back so she could precede him down the hall. It took most of her will not to break into a run. She swore she could feel him behind her just as surely as if he were touching her. “Ridiculous,” she whispered under her breath, wondering wildly if there were any published reports about hurricanes and their effect on a person’s libido.

  FIVE
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br />   Reese watched her narrow hips and slight fanny swing down the hallway in front of him. Realizing he’d slowed down just so he could watch her go the entire length of the hall, he averted his gaze—and his thoughts—to set about making final preparations.

  Once he had tossed the cushions into the storage closet, he went back down the hall to the front bedroom. Using the tip of the mop handle, he tapped the door open. Then stopped dead on the threshold.

  Rationally, the sight of that same slight fanny stuck up in the air as she knelt on all fours while yanking at the far corner of the light blue linen shouldn’t have affected him in the least. God, he should have had the beer warm. Five or six of them, at least. It was obvious he was losing his edge anyway. What possible harm could alcohol do to his system if one glance at her scrawny little butt had him wondering just how soft that mattress was?

  “Come on, you tight little …”

  The rest of her entreaty degenerated into swearing mixed with heated grunting as she pulled on the recalcitrant sheet. Damn, but she made him want to smile.

  “Where’d you learn to swear like that, anyway?” he asked as he hopped into the room and grabbed the opposite corner.

  “Alaska.” She grunted and gave a mighty tug at the same moment Reese freed the other corner, sending her sprawling back into the center of the bed with the linens tangled between her legs.

  It was all Reese could do not to crawl right in on top of her.

  Well, hell, he thought, irritated with his body’s insistent response to her, maybe he should just do it. Do it and get past it. He was probably going to die in the storm anyway. Maybe that was the problem. His body sensed the end was near and was simply demanding one last go round.

  Jillian glanced up and caught his look, then hastily wadded up the sheet and tossed it to the floor. The speed with which she scrambled off the bed had him wondering if he’d spoken his thoughts out loud.

  It was just as well she put an end to his wild notion before he gave it any serious consideration. He stifled a sigh as he bent at the waist to heave the mattress to one side. If he was going to come and go in one day, he’d like to leave with a big satisfied grin on his face.