Chapter 3 #2
“I forgot.” He didn’t want to admit he’d been afraid to try his skill at it. “It stopped raining.”
“I know. The sun’s supposed to come out this afternoon.” She set the platter down, then tried not to react when he leaned over her to sniff at the food.
“Did you really make that?”
“Breakfast is my best meal.” She sat down, breathing a little sigh of relief when he took the seat across from her.
“I could get used to this.”
“Eating?”
He took his first bite and let his eyes close with a sigh of pure pleasure. “Eating like this.”
She watched him plow through the first stack. “How did you eat before?”
“Packaged stuff, mostly.” He’d seen ads for complete meals in packages in the newspaper. At least there was some hope for civilization.
“I live like that myself most of the time. When I come here I get the urge to cook, stack wood, grow herbs. The kind of things we did when I was a kid.” And though she’d come here for solitude, she’d discovered she enjoyed his company.
He seemed safe this morning, despite her initial reaction to the way he looked in the black sweater and trim jeans.
She could almost believe she’d imagined the tense and unexpected little scene by the fire the night before.
“What do you do when you’re not crashing planes?”
“I fly.” He’d already thought his answer through and had decided it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible.
“Then you are in the service.”
“Not anymore.” He picked up his coffee and smoothly changed the subject. “I don’t know if I’ve really thanked you properly for everything you’ve done. I’d like to pay you back for all this, Libby. Do you need anything done around here?”
“I don’t think you’re up to manual labor at this point.”
“If I stay in bed all day again I’ll go crazy.”
She took a good look at his face, trying not to be distracted by the shape of his mouth. It was impossible to forget how close she’d come to feeling it on hers. “Your color’s good. No dizziness?”
“No.”
“You can help me wash the dishes.”
“Sure.” He took his first good look at the kitchen.
Like the bath, it distracted and fascinated him.
The west wall was stone, with a little hearth cut into it.
There was a hammered copper urn on the ledge stuffed with tall dried flowers and weeds.
The wide window over the sink opened onto a view of mountains and pine.
The sky was gray and clear of traffic. He identified the refrigerator and the stove, both a glossy white.
The wide planked-wood floor shone with a polished luster.
It felt cool and smooth under his bare feet.
“Looking for something?”
With a little shake of his head, he glanced back at her. “Sorry?”
“The way you were staring out the window, it seemed you were expecting to see something that wasn’t there.”
“Just, ah . . . taking in the view.”
Satisfied, she gestured toward his plate. “Are you finished?”
“Yeah. This is a great room.”
“I’ve always liked it. Of course, it’s a lot more convenient with the new range. You wouldn’t believe the old museum piece we used to cook on.”
He couldn’t keep from grinning. “I’m sure I wouldn’t.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s a joke and it’s two inches above my head?”
“I couldn’t say.” After picking up his plate, he moved to the sink and began to open cupboards.
“If you’re looking for a dishwasher, you’re out of luck.
” Libby stacked the rest of the breakfast dishes in the sink.
“My parents would never bend their sixties values that far. No dishwasher, no microwave, no satellite dish.” She plugged the sink, then reached in front of Caleb for the bottle of dish detergent. “You want to wash or dry?”
“I’ll dry.”
He watched, delighted, as she filled the sink with hot, soapy water and began to scrub. Even the smell was nice, he thought, resisting the urge to bend down and sniff at the lemony bubbles.
Libby rubbed an itch on her nose with her shoulder. “Come on, Hornblower, haven’t you ever seen a woman wash dishes before?”
He decided to test her reaction. “No. Actually, I think I did in a movie once.”
With a bubbling laugh, she handed him a plate. “Progress steals all these charming duties from us. In another hundred years we’ll probably have robots that will stack the dishes inside themselves and sterilize them.”
“More like a hundred and fifty. What do you want me to do with this?” He turned the plate in his hand.
“Dry it.”
“How?”
She lifted a brow and nodded toward a neatly folded cloth. “You might try that.”
“Right.” He dried the plate and picked up another. “I was hoping to go take a look of what’s left of my sh—my plane.”
“I can almost guarantee the logging trail’s washed out. The Land Rover might make it, but I’d really like to give it another day.”
He bit down on his impatience. “You’ll point me in the right direction?”
“No, but I’ll take you.”
“You’ve already done enough.”
“Maybe, but I’m not handing you the key to my car, and you can hardly walk that distance on those roads.
” She took the corner of his cloth and dried her hands while he tried to formulate a reasonable excuse.
“Why wouldn’t you want me to see your plane, Hornblower?
Even if you’d stolen it, I wouldn’t know. ”
“I didn’t steal it.”
His tone was just abrupt enough, just annoyed enough, to make her believe him. “Well, then, I’ll help you find the wreckage as soon as the trail’s safe. For now, have a seat and let me look at that cut.”
Automatically he lifted his fingers to the bandage. “It’s all right.”
“You’re having pain. I can see it in your eyes.”
He shifted his gaze to meet hers. There was sympathy there, a quiet, comforting sympathy that made him want to rest his cheek on her hair and tell her everything. “It comes and goes.”
“Then I’ll check it out, give you a couple of aspirin and see if we can make it go again. Come on, Cal.” She took the cloth from him and led him to a chair. “Be a good boy.”
He sat down, flicking her a glance of amused exasperation. “You sound like my mother.”
She patted his cheek in reply before taking fresh bandages and antiseptic from a cupboard.
“Just sit still.” She uncovered the wound, frowning over it in a way that made him shift uncomfortably in his chair.
“Sit still,” she murmured. It was a nasty cut, jagged and deep.
Bruises the color of storm clouds bloomed around it.
“It looks better. At least there doesn’t seem to be any infection. You’ll have a scar.”
Appalled, he lifted his fingers to the wound. “A scar?”
So he was vain, she thought, more than a little amused. “Don’t worry, it’ll look dashing. I’d be happier if you’d had a few stitches, but I think that’s more than my Sears and Roebuck degree can handle.”
“Your what?”
“Just a joke. This’ll sting some.”
He swore, loudly and richly, when she cleaned the wound. Before she was half finished, he grabbed her wrist. “Sting? Some?”
“Toughen up, Hornblower. Think about something else.”
He set his teeth and concentrated on her face. The burning pushed his breath out in a hiss. Her eyes reflected both determination and understanding as she went competently about cleaning, treating and bandaging the wound.
She really was beautiful, he realized as he studied her in the watery early sunlight.
It wasn’t cosmetics, and it was highly unlikely that there had been any restructuring.
This was the face she’d been born with. Strong, sharp, and with a natural elegance that made him long to stroke her cheek again.
Her skin had been soft, he remembered, baby-smooth.
And color had rushed in and out of it as her emotions had shifted.
Perhaps, just perhaps, she was an ordinary woman of her time. But to him she was unique and almost unbearably desirable.
That was why she made him ache, Cal told himself as he felt the muscles in his stomach knot and stretch.
That was why she made him want her more than he’d ever wanted anything before, more than it was possible for him to want now.
She was real, he reminded himself. But it was he who was the illusion.
A man who had never been born, yet one who felt as though he had never been more alive.
“Do you do this often?” he asked her.
She hated knowing she was causing him pain, and she answered absently, “Do what often?”
“Rescue men.”
He watched her lips curve and could almost taste them. “You’re my first.”
“Good.”
“There, that should do.”
“Aren’t you going to kiss it and make it better?” His mother had always done so, as he imagined mothers had done for all time. When she laughed, he felt his heart lurch in his chest.
“Since you were brave.” She leaned down and brushed her lips just above the bandage.
“It still hurts.” He took her hand before she could move away. “Why don’t you try again?”
“I’ll get the aspirin.” Her hand flexed in his. She would have backed away when he rose, but something in his eyes told her it would do no good. “Caleb . . .”
“I make you nervous.” His thumb caressed her knuckles. “It’s very stimulating.”
“I’m not trying to stimulate you.”
“Apparently you don’t have to try.” She was nervous, he thought again, but not frightened.
He would have stopped if he’d seen fear.
Instead, he brought her hand to his lips, then turned the palm upward.
“You have wonderful hands, Libby. Gentle hands.” He saw the emotions flickering in her eyes—confusion, unease, desire.
He concentrated on the desire and drew her closer.
“Stop.” She was appalled by the lack of conviction in her own voice. “I told you, I . . .” He brushed his lips against her temple, and her knees turned to water. “I’m not going to bed with you.”