Strangers in the Night Read online

The first sheet of rain hit the house, drumming down on the tin roof. The late-afternoon sunlight was almost completely blotted out, darkening the rooms. She moved through the gloom to the oil lamps set on the mantel, her hand setting surely on the match box. The rasp of the match was unheard in the din of rain, but he turned at the sudden small bloom of light and watched as she lifted the globes of the lamps and touched the match to the wicks, then replaced the globes. She blew out the match and tossed it into the fireplace.

  Without a word she went into the kitchen and duplicated the chore, though there were four oil lamps there because she liked more light when she was working. The fire in the stove had been banked; she opened the door, stirred the hot coals, and added more wood.

  “What are you doing?” he asked from the doorway.

  Mentally she rolled her eyes. “Cooking.” Maybe he’d never seen the process before.

  “But we just ate.”

  “So we did, but those sandwiches won’t hold you for long, if I’m any judge.” She eyed him, measuring him against the doorframe. A little over six feet tall, she guessed, and at least two hundred pounds. He looked muscled, given the way his shoulders filled out his shirt, so he might weigh more. This man would eat a lot.

  He came on into the room and settled at the table, turning the chair around so he faced her, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. His fingers drummed on the table. “This irritates the hell out of me,” he confessed.

  Her tone was dry. “I noticed.” She dipped some water into the washbowl and washed her hands.

  “Usually I can do something. Usually, in bad weather, I have to do something, whether it’s working a wreck or dragging people off of flooded roads. I need to be out there now, because my deputies will have their hands full.”

  So that was the cause of his restlessness and irritability; he knew his help was needed, but he couldn’t leave here. She liked his sense of responsibility.

  He watched in silence then as she prepared her biscuit pan, spraying it with nonstick spray. She got her mixing bowl and scooped some flour into it, added shortening and buttermilk, and plunged her hands into the bowl.

  “I haven’t seen anyone do that in years.” He smiled as he kept his eyes on her hands, deftly mixing and kneading. “My grandmother used to, but I can’t remember ever seeing my mother make biscuits by hand.”

  “I don’t have a refrigerator,” she said practically. “Frozen biscuits are out.”

  “Don’t you want to have things like refrigerators and electric stoves? Doesn’t it bother you, not having electricity?”

  “Why should it? I don’t depend on a wire for heat and light. If I had electricity, the power might be off right now and I wouldn’t be able to cook.” He rubbed his jaw, brow furrowed as he thought. She liked the sight, she mused, eyeing him as she continued to knead. His brows were straight and dark, nicely shaped. Everything about him was nicely shaped. She bet that all the single women in town, and a few of the married ones, were hot for him. Short dark hair, bright blue eyes, strong jaw, soft lips—she didn’t know how she knew his lips were soft, but she did. Oh, yeah, they were hot for him. She was a bit warm herself.

  She thought of walking over to him and straddling his lap, and an instantaneous flush swept over her entire body. Warm, my foot; she thought she might break out in a sweat any minute now.

  “Running a gas line would be even harder than running power lines,” he mused, his mind still on the issue of modern conveniences. “I guess you could get a propane tank, but filling it would be a bitch, since there aren’t any roads out here.”

  “The wood stove suits me fine. It’s only a few years old, so it’s very efficient. It heats the whole house, and it’s easy to regulate.” She began pinching off balls of dough and rolling them between her hands, shaping them into biscuits and placing them in the pan. If she kept her eyes on the dough, instead of him, the hot feeling cooled down somewhat.

  “Where do you get your wood?”

  She couldn’t help it. She had to look at him, her expression incredulous. “I cut it myself.” Where did he think she got it? Maybe he thought the wood fairies chopped it and piled it up for her.

  To her surprise, he surged up out of the chair, looming over her with a scowl. “Chopping wood is too hard for you.”

  “Gee, I’m glad you told me, otherwise I’d have kept doing it and not known any better.” She edged away from him, turning to the sink to wash the dough from her hands.

  “I didn’t mean you couldn’t do it, I meant you shouldn’t have to,” he growled. His voice was right behind her. He was right behind her. Without warning, he reached around her and wrapped his fingers around her right wrist. His hand completely engulfed hers. “Look at that. My wrist is twice as thick as yours. You may be strong for your size, but you can’t tell me it isn’t a struggle for you to chop wood.”

  “I manage.” She wished he hadn’t touched her. She wished he wasn’t standing so close that she could feel the heat from his body, smell the hot man-smell of him.

  “And it’s dangerous. What if the ax slips, or the saw, or whatever you use? You’re out here alone, a long way from medical help.”

  “A lot of things are dangerous.” She struggled to keep her voice practical, and even. “But people do what they have to do, and I have to have wood.” Why hadn’t he released her hand? Why hadn’t she pulled it away herself? She could; he wasn’t holding her tightly. But she liked the feel of his hand wrapped around hers, liked the warmth and strength, the roughness of the calluses on his palm.

  “I’ll chop it for you,” he said abruptly.

  “What!” She almost turned around; common sense stopped her at the last minute. If she turned around, she would be face-to-face, belly to belly, with him. She didn’t dare. She swallowed. “You can’t chop my wood.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—” Because, why? “Because you won’t be here.”

  “I’m here now.” He paused, and his tone dropped lower. “I can be again.”

  She went still. The only sound was the storm, the boom of thunder and wind lashing through the trees, the rain pounding down on the roof. Or maybe it was her heart, pounding against her rib cage.

  “I have to be careful here,” he said quietly. “I’m acting as a man, not a sheriff. If you tell me no, I’ll go back to the table and sit down. I’ll keep my distance from you for the rest of the night, and I won’t bother you again. But if you don’t tell me no, I’m going to kiss you.”

  Lilah inhaled, fighting for oxygen. She couldn’t say a word, couldn’t think of anything to say even if she had the air. She was feeling hot again, and weak, as if she might collapse against him.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, and turned her into his arms.

  5

  His lips were soft, just the way she’d known they would be. And he was gentle, rather than bruising her lips by pressing too hard. He didn’t try to overwhelm her with a sudden display of passion. He simply kissed her, taking his time about it, tasting her and learning the shape and texture of her own lips. The leisurely pace was more seductive than anything else he could have done.

  She sighed, a low hum of pleasure, and let herself relax against him. He gathered her up, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her onto her toes so that they fit together more intimately. The full press of his body against her made her catch her breath, and that now-familiar wave of heat swept over her again. She looped her arms around his neck, pressing even closer, shivering a little as his tongue moved slowly into her mouth, giving her time to pull away if she didn’t want such a deep kiss. She did, more than she had ever thought she would want a man’s kiss.

  Her heart thudded wildly in her chest. Pleasure was a siren, luring her to experience more, to take everything he could give her. His erection was a hard ridge in his pants; she wanted to rub herself against it, open herself to it. Knowing herself to be on the verge of losing control, she forced herself to pull away from the s