Night Shift Page 11

  “I can take care of myself, Slick.”

  “Your taxes are being used to see that I take care of you.”

  “Have I mentioned lately how much I dislike cops?”

  “Not in the past twenty-four hours.”

  Apparently he wasn’t going to rise to any of the bait she dangled and allow her to purge her annoyance with a fight. Maybe it was for the best after all, she decided. She could use the time to catch up on her reading. The last two issues of Radio and Records were waiting for her attention. She also wanted to look through one of the garden magazines that had come in the mail. It would be nice to plant some summer flowers around the house, maybe some bushes. She hadn’t a clue what sort of thing suited Denver’s climate.

  The idea made her smile. She would buy a window box, and maybe one of those hanging baskets. Perhaps that was why she didn’t notice they were heading in the wrong direction until Boyd had been driving for twenty minutes.

  “Where are we?” She sat up quickly, blinking.

  “On 70, heading west.”

  “Highway 70? What the devil are we doing on 70?”

  “Driving to the mountains.”

  “The mountains.” Groggy, she pushed back her tumbled hair. “What mountains?”

  “I think they’re called the Rockies,” he said dryly. “You might have heard of them.”

  “Don’t get smart with me. You’re supposed to be driving me home.”

  “I am—in a manner of speaking. I’m driving you to my home.”

  “I’ve seen your home.” She jerked her thumb. “It’s back that way.”

  “That’s where I live in Denver. This is the place I have in the mountains. It’s a very comfortable little cabin. Nice view. We’re going for the weekend.”

  “We are not going anywhere for the weekend.” She shifted in her seat to glare at him. “I’m spending the weekend at home.”

  “We’ll do that next weekend,” he said, perfectly reasonable.

  “Look, Fletcher, as a cop you should know when you take somebody somewhere against their will it’s considered a crime.”

  “You can file charges when we get back.”

  “Okay, this has gone far enough.” It wouldn’t do any good to lose her temper, she reminded herself. He was immune. “You might think you’re doing this for my own good, but there are other people involved. There’s no way I’m going to leave Deborah in that house alone while this maniac is running loose looking for me.”

  “Good point.” He glided off at an exit and nearly had her relaxing. “That’s why she’s spending a couple of days with Althea.”

  “She told me to tell you to have a good time. Oh,” he continued while Cilla made incoherent noises, “she packed a bag for you. It’s in the trunk.”

  “Just when did you plan all this?” That fabulous voice of hers was quiet. Too quiet, Boyd decided, bracing for the storm.

  “I had some free time today. You’ll like the cabin. It’s peaceful, not too remote, and like I said, it has a nice view.”

  “As long as there’s a nice high cliff I can throw you off of.”

  He slowed to navigate the winding road. “There’s that, too.”

  “I knew you had nerve, Fletcher, but this goes beyond. What the hell made you think you could just put me in a car, arrange my sister’s life and drive me off to some cabin?”

  “Must’ve had a brainstorm.”

  “Brain damage is more like it. Get this straight. I don’t like the country, I don’t like rustic. I am not a happy camper, and I won’t go.”

  “You’re already going.”

  How could he stay so irritatingly calm? “If you don’t take me back, right now, I’m going to—”

  “What?”

  She ground her teeth. “You have to sleep sometime.” Her own words made her take a quantum leap. “You creep,” she began on a fresh wave of fury. “If this is your way of getting me into bed, you miscalculated. I’ll sit in the car and freeze first.”

  “There’s more than one bedroom in the cabin,” he said mildly. “You’re welcome to share mine, or take any of the others. It’s your choice.”

  She slumped back in her seat, finally speechless.

  Chapter 8

  She didn’t intend to romanticize it. Being swept away was fine in books about titled ladies and swaggering buccaneers. But it didn’t play well in twentieth-century Denver.

  She didn’t intend to change her attitude. If the only revenge available to her was keeping a frosty distance, she would keep it very well. He wouldn’t get one smile or one kind word until the entire ridiculous weekend was over.

  That was why it was a shame that her first glimpse of the house was in the moonlight.

  He called this a cabin? Cilla was grateful the music masked her surprised gasp. Her idea of a cabin was a squat little log structure in the middle of nowhere lacking all possible conveniences. The kind of place men went when they wanted to grow beards, drink beer and complain about women.

  It was built of wood—a soft, aged wood that glowed warm in the dappled moonlight. But it was far from little. Multileveled, with interesting juts of timber and windows, it rested majestically amid the snow-dusted pine. Decks, some covered, some open, promised a breathtaking view from any direction. The metal roof glinted, making her wonder how it would be to sit inside and listen to rain falling.

  But she stubbornly bit back all the words of praise and pushed out of the car. The snow came up to midcalf and clogged in her shoes.

  “Great,” she muttered. Leaving him to deal with whatever luggage they had, she trudged up to the porch.

  So it was beautiful, she thought. It didn’t make any difference. She still didn’t want to be there. But since she was, and hailing a cab wasn’t a possibility, she would keep her mouth shut, choose the bedroom farthest away from his and crawl into bed. Maybe she’d stay there for forty-eight hours.

  Cilla kept the first part of the vow when he joined her on the porch. The only sounds were the planks creaking under his weight and the calling of something wild in the woods. After setting their bags aside, he unlocked the door and gestured her inside.

  It was dark. And freezing. Somehow that made her feel better. The more uncomfortable it was, the more justified her foul temper. Then he switched on the lights. She could only gape.

  The main room at the cabin’s center was huge, an open gabled structure with rough-hewn beams and a charming granite fireplace. Thick, cushy furniture was arranged around it. Its freestanding chimney rose up through the high, lofted ceiling. Above, a balcony swept the width of the room, keeping with the theme of open space and wood. In contrast, the walls were a simple white, accented with glossy built-in shelves and many-paned doors and windows.

  This was nothing like the arches and curves of his house in Denver. The cabin was all straight lines and simplicity. The wide planked floors were bare. A set of gleaming steps marched straight to the next level. Beside the fireplace was an open woodbox stacked with split logs. A touch of whimsy was added by grinning brass dragons that served as andirons.

  “It warms up pretty quick,” Boyd said, figuring she would start talking to him again when she was ready. He flipped on the heat before he shucked off his coat and hung it on a mirrored rack just inside the door. Leaving her where she was, he crossed to the fireplace and proceeded to arrange kindling and logs.

  “The kitchen’s through there.” He gestured as he touched a match to some crumpled newspaper. “The pantry’s stocked, if you’re hungry.”

  She was, but she’d be damned if she’d admit it. She’d been getting a perverse pleasure in watching her breath puff out in front of her. Sulking, she watched the flames rise up to lick at the logs. He even did that well, she thought in disgust. He’d probably been an Eagle Scout.

  When she didn’t respond, he stood up, brushing off his hands. As stubborn as she was, he figured he could outlast her. “If you’d rather just go to bed, there are four bedrooms upstairs. Not counting the sl
eeping porch. But it’s a little cold yet to try that.”

  She knew when she was being laughed at. Setting her chin, she snatched up her bag and stalked up the stairs.

  It was hard to tell which room was his. They were all beautifully decorated and inviting. Cilla chose the smallest. Though she hated to admit it, it was charming, with its angled ceiling, its tiny paneled bath and its atrium doors. Dropping her bag on the narrow bed, she dug in to see just what her sister—a partner in this crime—had packed.

  The big, bulky sweater and thick cords met with approval, as did the sturdy boots and rag socks. The bag of toiletries and cosmetics was a plus, though she doubted she’d waste her time with mascara or perfume. Instead of her Broncos jersey and frayed chenille robe, there was a swatch of black silk with a matching—and very sheer—peignoir. Pinned to the bodice was a note.

  Happy birthday a few weeks early. See you Monday.

  Love, Deborah

  Cilla blew out a long breath. Her own sister, she thought. Her own baby sister. Gingerly she held up the transparent silk. Just what had Deborah had in mind when she’d packed an outfit like this? she wondered. Maybe that question was best left unanswered. So she’d sleep in the sweater, Cilla decided, but she couldn’t resist running her fingertips over the silk.

  It felt … well, glorious, she admitted. Rarely did she indulge herself with anything so impractical. A small section of her closet was devoted to outfits like the one she’d worn to the reunion. She thought of them more as costumes than as clothes. The rest were practical, comfortable.

  Deborah shouldn’t have been so extravagant, she thought. But it was so like her. With a sigh, Cilla let the silk slide through her hands.

  It probably wouldn’t hurt just to try it on. After all, it was a gift. And no one was going to see it.

  Heat was beginning to pour through the vents. Grateful, she slipped out of her coat and kicked off her shoes. She’d indulge herself with a hot bath in that cute claw-footed tub, and then she’d crawl under that very comfortable-looking quilt and go to sleep.

  She meant to. Really. But the hot water lulled her. The package of bubble bath Deborah had tucked in the case had been irresistible. Now the night-spice fragrance enveloped her. She nearly dozed off, dreaming, with the frothy, perfumed water lapping over her skin.

  Then there was the skylight over the tub, that small square of glass that let the stardust sprinkle through. Indulgent, Cilla thought with a sigh as she sank deeper in the tub. Romantic. Almost sinfully soothing.

  It had probably been silly to light the pair of candles that sat in the deep windowsill instead of using the overhead lamp. But it had been too tempting. And as she soaked and dreamed, their scent wafted around her.

  She was just making the best of a bad situation, she assured herself as she rose lazily from the tub. Unpinning her hair, she let it swing around her shoulders as she slipped into the teddy Deborah had given her.

  It had hardly any back at all, she noted, just a silly little flounce that barely covered the essentials. It laced up the front, thin, glossy ribbons that crisscrossed and ended in a small bow in the center, just below her breasts. Though it barely covered them, as well, some clever structural secret lifted them up, made them look fuller.

  Despite her best intentions, she traced a fingertip down the ribbons, wondering what it would be like to have Boyd unlace them. Imagining what it might be like to have his fingers brush over her just-pampered skin. Would he go slowly, one careful hook at a time, or would he simply tear at them until—

  Oh Lord.

  Cursing herself, she yanked open the door and dashed out of the steamy bath.

  It was ridiculous to daydream that way, she reminded herself. She had never been a daydreamer. Always, always, she had known where she was going and how to get there. Not since childhood had she wasted time with fantasies that had no connection with ambition or success.

  She certainly had no business fantasizing about a man, no matter how attracted she was to him, when she knew there was no possible way they could become a comfortable reality.

  She would go to bed. She would shut off her mind. And she would pray that she could shut off these needs that were eating away at her. Before she could shove her bag on the floor, she saw the glass beside the bed.

  It was a long-stemmed crystal glass, filled with some pale golden liquid. As she sampled it, she shut her eyes. Wine, she realized. Wonderfully smooth. Probably French. Turning, she saw herself reflected in the cheval glass in the corner.

  Her eyes were dark, and her skin was flushed. She looked too soft, too yielding, too pliant. What was he doing to her? she asked herself. And why was it working?

  Before she could change her mind, she slipped the thin silk over her shoulders and went to find him.

  He’d been reading the same page for nearly an hour. Thinking about her. Cursing her. Wanting her. It had taken every ounce of self-possession he had to set that wine beside her bed and leave the room when he could hear her splashing lazily in the tub just one narrow door away.

  It wasn’t as if it were all one-sided, he thought in disgust. He knew when a woman was interested. It wasn’t as if it were all physical. He was in love with her, damn it. And if she was too stupid to see that, then he’d just have to beat her over the head with it.

  Laying the book on his lap, he listened to the bluesy eloquence of Billie Holiday and stared into the fire. The cheerful flames had cut the chill in the bedroom. That was the practical reason he had built a fire in here, as well as one on the main floor. But there was another, a romantic one. He was annoyed that he had daydreamed of Cilla as he set the logs and lit the kindling.

  She had come to him, wearing something thin, flowing, seductive. She had smiled, held out her hands. Melted against him. When he had lifted her into his arms, carried her to the bed, they had …

  Keep dreaming, he told himself. The day Cilla O’Roarke came to him of her own free will, with a smile and an open hand, would be the day they built snowmen in hell.

  She had feelings for him, damn it. Plenty of them. And if she weren’t so bullheaded, so determined to lock up all that incredible passion, she wouldn’t spend so much time biting her nails and lighting cigarettes.

  Resentful, restrictive and repressed, that was Priscilla Alice O’Roarke, he thought grimly. He picked up his wine for a mock toast. It nearly slid out of his hand when he saw her standing in the doorway.

  “I want to talk to you.” She’d lost most of her nerve on the short trip down the hall, but she managed to step into the room. She wasn’t going to let the fact that he was sitting in front of a sizzling fire wearing nothing but baggy sweats intimidate her.

  He needed a drink. After a gulp of wine, he managed a nod. He was almost ready to believe he was dreaming again—but she wasn’t smiling. “Yeah?”

  She was going to speak, she reminded herself. Say what was on her mind and clear the air. But she needed a sip of her own wine first. “I realize your motives in bringing me here tonight were basically well-intentioned, given the circumstances of the last couple of weeks. But your methods were unbelievably arrogant.” She wondered if she sounded like as much of a fool to him as she did to herself. She waited for a response, but he just continued to stare blankly at her. “Boyd?”

  He shook his head. “What?”

  “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “About what?”

  A low sound of frustration rumbled in her throat as she stepped closer. She slammed the glass down on a table, and the remaining wine lapped close to the rim. “The least you can do after dragging me all the way up here is to listen when I complain about it.”

  He was barely capable of breathing, much less listening. In self-defense he took another long sip of wine. “If you had any legs—brains,” he corrected, gnashing his teeth, “you’d know that a couple days away from everything would be good for you.”

  Anger flared in her eyes, making her all the more arousing. Behind her the flam
es shot high, and the light rippled through the thin silk she wore. “So you just took it on yourself to make the decision for me.”

  “That’s right” In one jerky movement, he set the glass aside to keep it from shattering in his fingers. “If I had asked you to come here for a couple of days, you would have made a dozen excuses why you couldn’t.”

  “We’ll never know what I would have done,” she countered, “because you didn’t give me the option of making my own choice.”

  “I’m doing my damnedest to give you the option now,” he muttered.

  “About what?”

  On an oath, he stood up and turned away. Hands braced on the wall, he began, none too gently, to pound his forehead against it. As she watched him, confusion warred with anger.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m beating my head against the wall. What does it look like I’m doing?” He stopped, letting his forehead rest against the wood.

  Apparently she wasn’t the only one under too much strain, Cilla mused. She cleared her throat. “Boyd, why are you beating your head against the wall?”

  He laughed and, rubbing his hands over his face, turned. “I have no idea. It’s just something I’ve felt obliged to do since I met you.” She was standing, a little uncertain now, running nervous fingertips up and down her silk lapel. It wasn’t easy, but after a deep breath he found a slippery hold on control. “Why don’t you go on to bed, Cilla? In the morning you can tear apart what’s left of me.”

  “I don’t understand you.” She snapped out the words, then began to pace. Boyd opened his mouth but couldn’t even manage a groan as he stared at the long length of her back, bare but for the sheerest of black silk, at the agitated swing of her hips, accented by the sassy little flounce. She was talking again, rapid-fire and irritated, but it was all just a buzzing in his head.

  “For God’s sake, don’t pace.” He rubbed the heel of his hand against his heart. In another minute, he was sure, it would explode out of his chest. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “I always pace when I’m mad,” she tossed back. “How do you expect me to go quietly to bed after you’ve got me worked up this way?”

  “Got you worked up?” he repeated. Something snapped—he would have sworn he heard it boomerang in his head as he reached out and snatched her arms. “I’ve got you worked up? That’s rich, O’Roarke. Tell me, did you wear this thing in here tonight to make me suffer?”

  “I …” She looked down at herself, then shifted uncomfortably. “Deborah packed it. It’s all I’ve got.”

  “Whoever packed it, it’s you who’s packed into it. And you’re driving me crazy.”

  “I just thought we should clear all this up.” She was going to start stuttering in a minute. “Talk it through, like grown-ups.”

  “I’m thinking very much like a grown-up at the moment. If you want to talk, there’s a chestful of big, thick wool blankets. You can wrap yourself up in one.”

  She didn’t need a blanket. She was already much too warm. If he continued to rub his hands up and down the silk on her arms, the friction was going to cause her skin to burst into flame.

  “Maybe I wanted to make you suffer a little.”

  “It worked.” His fingers toyed with the excuse of a robe as it slid from her right shoulder. “Cilla, I’m not going to make this easy on you and drag you to that bed. I’m not saying the idea doesn’t appeal to me a great deal. But if we make love, you’re going to have to wake up in the morning knowing the choice was yours.”

  Wasn’t that why she had come to him? Hoping he’d take matters out of her hands? That made her a coward—and, in a miserable way, a cheat.

  “It’s not easy for me.”

  “It should be.” He slid his hands down to hers. “If you’re ready.”

  She lifted her head. He was waiting—every bit as edgy as she, but waiting. “I guess I’ve been ready since I met you.”

  A tremor worked through him, and he struggled against his self-imposed leash. “Just say yes.”

  Saying it wasn’t enough, she thought. When something was important, it took more than one simple word.

  “Let go of my hands, please.”

  He held them another long moment, searching her face. Slowly his fingers relaxed and dropped away from hers. Before he could back up, she moved into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I want you, Boyd. I want to be with you tonight.”

  She brought her lips to his. There had already been enough words. Warm and willing, she sank into him.

  For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The onslaught on his senses was too overwhelming. Her taste, her scent, the texture of silk against silk. There was her sigh as she rubbed her lips over his.

  He remembered taking a kick in the solar plexus from one of his father’s prized stallions. This left him just as debilitated. He wanted to savor, to drown, to lose himself, inch by glorious inch. But even as he slipped the robe