Chapter 20
As she thought of shelter, her feet moved, and she stumbled toward it.
—Gertrude Chandler Warner, The Boxcar Children
Roth had lied to her, manipulated her, and used her skills to prepare himself for the part. He didn’t want her as his wife,
but he couldn’t give her up as his acting coach, and she’d wanted the Lucinda part so much that she’d fallen in with his scheme.
She knew exactly how self-centered he was, but she’d never expected this.
Rain pounded on the roof of Clint’s garage. Had she really thought reviving her career would be so easy? That Roth had magically
turned into some beneficent fairy godfather? Rain soaked her sundress as she stumbled out of the garage, Watch following.
The self-respect she’d been reclaiming vanished. Once again, she’d let herself be used.
Hunched against the rain, she was nearly at the caboose when lightning struck nearby, splitting the sky. With a terrified howl, Watch bolted into the trees.
“Watch!” The pouring rain pelting her bare arms, Dancy raced into the woods as another lightning bolt signaled exactly how
unsafe their surroundings were, but she didn’t care about her own well-being. Saving this dog was the one thing she’d done
right.
She heard a howl and veered off the path as the tree branches whipped above her like crazed, long-haired dancers. When her
foot tangled in a mass of Virginia creeper, she fell to her knees, then scrambled up and plunged deeper into the underbrush.
The skirt of her dress caught on a branch. She tugged it free. More lightning struck.
Dancy raced deeper into the woods until she reached the creek. The gentle babble of water had become a muddy, roiling surge.
She turned back, glancing desperately around and calling out, but she couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the creek.
Barely ten feet away, a tree branch as big around as her thigh crashed to the ground in front of her. Stumbling backward,
she barely caught herself before she fell again. She changed direction, pushing her wet hair away from her eyes. “Watch!”
Only the pounding of the rain answered.
The path curved to the right. He wasn’t ahead of her, and he wasn’t behind her. As she veered toward a stand of oaks, she
spotted a patch of white off to her left. She dashed toward it and there he was, huddled in a hollow. “Watch!”
He bounded toward her and slammed into her legs, nearly knocking her over.
She crouched on the path and tried to haul his wet, quaking body into her arms. Lightning fried the air with the scent of ozone, and a deafening crack signaled a direct hit not far away.
He trembled against her, his toenails scratching her arm.
She tried to lift him, but with each new boom of thunder, he grew rigid.
She struggled to her feet, the dog flailing in her arms, and somehow managed to haul him back toward the path.
He howled and thrashed. She was going to drop him.
Out of nowhere, Clint appeared, running toward her in shorts and a rain jacket. “Give him to me.” Rain highlighted the planes
of his face and dripped from the end of his nose as he gathered the dog to his chest.
She stumbled after him along the path. Watch, sensing safety in these stronger, steadier arms, began to quiet. They finally
reached the caboose, but instead of going inside he headed toward the house, yelling back at her. “The caboose isn’t safe.”
Dancy stopped at the edge of the driveway, her sundress plastered to her body, as Clint opened the front door. Watch barked
and strained to poke his head around Clint’s arm, looking for her as he was carried inside. The dog released another frightened
howl, and she knew what she had to do. Pity key or not, she needed to follow.
Clint set Watch down in the foyer. The dog rushed to her as she came in, shaking himself and spraying water everywhere. She
sank onto the burnished wood floor. Watch leaped into her lap. He tucked his muzzle against her neck, his muddy legs splaying
over her thighs.
Clint shut the door and disappeared. She slipped out of her wet sandals and soothed the dog as she’d once imagined herself
soothing a child. Watch made no move to leave her but gradually stopped shaking. Soft classical music began to play from hidden
speakers. One of Mozart’s violin sonatas.
Clint returned with beach towels, his rain jacket discarded. He passed two of the towels over to her. “I hear that classical music can soothe agitated animals.”
She dried Watch, and he began to calm. Another fork of lighting lit up the windows, but whether from the music, her presence,
or the way the house muted the noise of the storm, he didn’t grow agitated again. Finally, he wriggled from her lap and curled
up under the floating staircase, far from the rain-lashed windows.
Clint dried his legs and discarded his towel only to realize that Dancy was still sitting on the wet floor, shivering in the
thin fabric of her sundress, rainwater glistening on her bare, dog-dirty arms. He extended his hand to help her up, only to
see a world of hurt he didn’t understand in her face. Strands of blond hair dripped to her shoulders. Tendrils stuck to her
cheekbones. She was muddy, bedraggled, and staggeringly beautiful.
His heart tripped. He drew her to her feet, wiped off the mud, and wrapped her in the dry beach towel. He gently rubbed her
hair. Their eyes locked, hers sad and searching.
He wasn’t used to Dancy not talking. That was what they did. They talked. They bantered. They argued. What they didn’t do
was gaze at each other as if they were the only people left on earth.
Her body leaned into his. For warmth? Heat? He dipped his head—how could he not?—and kissed her.
Her lips were soft and as needy as his own.
Buzzed and breathless, their bodies melded.
Tilting her head, he curled his hand around the nape of her neck.
The strap of her dress slipped along her shoulder, and he kissed the place where it had been.
Her head tilted, exposing the swell of her breasts.
He kissed there, ruffling her skin with his breath.
Through the far windows, the storm grew in strength, the wind churning the lake into a menacing gray froth. Inside, their
private storm gained a power of its own.
She clung to him. He wanted to draw her onto the wet, muddy floor, but she deserved better, and without thinking, he did something
he could never have imagined himself doing, something that seemed exactly right for this woman. He swept her into his arms
and carried her up the stairs.
She buried her face in his shoulder with a strangled laugh or a sob—he wasn’t sure which—and whispered something that sounded
like telling him to be careful with his thoracic spine, whatever that meant.
Despite her height, she was light in his arms, and he had the crazy feeling that all his training had only ever had one purpose—not
to win games but to carry Dancy Flynn into his bedroom.
As he set her feet on the floor, she caught his head between her hands and kissed him as if she believed this was exactly
the right thing to do. Lightning flared outside the windows. Her gaze stayed riveted on him as she reached for the hem of
her dress and drew it over her head. She stood before him, her exquisite breasts bare, her skin pebbled with goose bumps,
wearing only a lacy white thong.
He wanted to strip off his own clothes and toss her on the bed, but something forlorn in her expression stopped him. “Are
you sure?”
In answer, she kissed him again, this time ferociously. He drew back to strip off his wet T-shirt, his briefs. They fell on
the bed together, two bodies gone crazy as rain lashed the glass.
She explored the ridges and muscles of his back, nibbled at his collarbone, his pecs, finding all the best places to drive him wild. Her hair brushed his chest. She went lower, reaching the plateau of his stomach. He let her play. Until he couldn’t.
With a strangled groan, he turned her to her back and launched his own erotic expedition. He took forever at her breasts as
she writhed beneath him. Finally he went lower, exploring the lacy edges of her thong before he pulled it off, leaving her
bare to his gaze. His touch. His mouth.
She thrashed, trying to pull him on top of her, trying to move on top of him. He gritted his teeth and held her back. Held
himself back. Played until he could no longer bear it. He moved on top of her, caught her legs behind her knees, and entered
her.
She threw back her head and cried out.
He waited for her spasms to fade. Her eyes opened. Closed again. He tunneled his fingers in her damp hair, rubbed her temples
with his thumbs, letting her adjust to him. Finally—when he could no longer tolerate it—he began to move.
Rain pounded the roof. Thunder and lightning shook the house. She moved beneath him. Dug her fingers into his back. His self-control
snapped. He drove deeper. She arched to meet him.
As the wild treetops thrashed the windows, they rode together into the very heart of the storm.
Hours later, Dancy lay in the rumpled sheets thinking about the way Clint had carried her up the stairs.
All five feet ten inches of her. Without any regard for his back.
Without bumping her head on the railing or banging her feet into the door.
He’d been magnificent, and they’d been insatiable.
Talking little. Dozing. Beginning all over again.
When the storm ended, she’d needed to take Watch out, and Clint insisted on coming along. She’d told him he could, but only
if he didn’t talk.
Their walk was short, heavy with unspoken words. Afterward, they’d showered together, and he’d taken her against the tiled
wall, his big hands under her knees, just as she’d fantasized.
Dawn was a few hours away. He’d fallen into a deep sleep next to her, and she wanted to touch him all over again. To trace
the outline of his jaw, kiss that tantalizing place right below his collarbone, lose herself in those ocean-blue eyes.
She rolled to her side and studied his strong features, his beautiful body. His beautiful mind. Of course, she’d fallen in
love with him. How could she not? And, of course, she had to leave.