Читать книгу Sleeping With Beauty - Laura Wright, Laura Wright - Страница 12

Eyes closed, body relaxed, she floated in a shallow sea of warm light, soft sand. No cares, no worries, just peace.

Dropping down beside her, he grinned, then took her hand and kissed the palm. He had that look in his eye, the one that made her weak and wanting. Waves curved, lapped against them both, between them. The man slipped a plum under her nose, then a silver plate of biscuits, still warm.

She inhaled deeply, smiled. “Tea and fruit…and biscuits.”

“I don’t make tea, Angel.”

A gasp shot forth from deep in her throat as she forced her eyes open, forced her dreams back where they belonged. The first thing she saw was morning sunlight, yellow and brilliant.

Then she saw him.

Freshly showered and looking far more handsome than any man had a right to in jeans and a black T-shirt, Dan towered above her, a touch of amusement glinting in those deep-brown orbs of his.

Her mind reeled. Yesterday was all that she recalled; the accident, memory gone, shower, hands touching, dinner, sleep—sleep in this man’s bed, the scent of him in the sheets that tangled between her legs. Her skin warmed at the thought.

“I don’t make biscuits either,” he said.

“What was I saying?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

An eyebrow shot up. “You were giving me your breakfast order.”

“I wasn’t.”

A devilish grin tugged at his mouth. “I’m afraid you were.”

If she’d given him a breakfast order, what else had she said? How long had he been standing there? “I was obviously dreaming.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe you were remembering.”

“I don’t think so—”

“Maybe you were remembering that you had a maid or something.”

“That’s ridiculous.” But his suggestion didn’t feel strange or wrong. She stared up at the log ceiling with its smooth waves of wood, and willed herself to remember anything; a favorite food, her parents’ names…a boyfriend.

Dan shrugged pensively. “A maid, an accent, swanky manners. But pretty open and honest—I’m thinking you don’t live in the U.S.”

“I don’t know.” Frustration stacked up like bricks in her mind.

“Traveling alone, though, in the mountains. Why would you do something like that?”

Though her headache was gone now, the bruise above her eyebrow was still tender. The niggling ache intermingled with the aggravation she felt. “Do you mind if we take a break from the questions? At least until after breakfast?”

“All right. But we don’t have tea or biscuits.”

She pulled the covers back and sat on the edge of the bed. “No problem. I’ll make something for myself. And for you if you haven’t—”

“No, actually I haven’t.”

“Perfect.”

His eyes narrowed skeptically. “You can cook?”

She stood, gave him a proud look. “Of course I can.” Could she cook? She felt no answer to this, no instinctual pull toward the kitchen, and sadly no recollection of what any kitchen tools were called and used for.

Oh, well. She would know soon enough if she possessed any culinary talents.

“What do you have in the kitchen?” she asked, stretching. “We’ve already covered biscuits and tea. How about eggs, bacon—”

“Before you turn into Julia Child, tell me how you’re feeling this morning.”

She touched her bruise gingerly. “Hurts a little, but other than that I’m right as rain.”

“Right as rain, huh?”

“Yes. Don’t you think I look better?”

In response, his gaze slid down the length of her. She still wore his baggy sweats, but at that moment it felt as though she wore nothing at all. Strangely, the feeling didn’t fill her with apprehension. Instead, pleasure flowed in her veins, unfamiliar yet wonderful.

She asked him, “Are we going to town today?”

“I don’t think so. Last night I was looking through an old first-aid manual. Said you should be relatively inactive for forty-eight hours. It’s a long way on foot. Too long for you.”

“I could ride,” she suggested.

He shook his head. “I only have the one horse and he’s injured.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

Dan was a good five feet away, leaning against the wall, tall, fiercely handsome, with a history of pain and suspicion and need behind his eyes. In that moment, all she wanted to do was run to him, fall into his arms, hold him as he held her. Such a strong pull for a man she hardly knew. But it was the truth. Despite his edgy manner of speaking, she liked him, felt a kinship with him. They had both forgotten their pasts—one out of choice, one not.

The air seemed to warm between them, cracking with an alarming jolt of electricity. A muscle jumped in Dan’s jaw. “I’m gonna head outside, chop some more wood. I think it’ll get pretty chilly again tonight.”

Obviously a fire would have to be the only thing keeping them warm tonight. “I’m going to head into the kitchen then, whip up something grand.”

He pushed away from the wall and walked out of the room. “There’s a fire extinguisher by the front door.”

“Very funny.”

No flames licked at the cabin door when Dan returned with the wood, but there sure was a lot of smoke.

Drifting out of the kitchen window was a dark cloud, accompanied by the sound of coughing. Without taking the time to put his shirt back on, Dan dropped the kindling and rushed into the cabin.

Still dressed in his sweats, the woman stood at the stove fanning smoke away from two cast-iron pans.

He was at her side in seconds. “What happened here?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, frowned. “You’re going to be pleased.”

“What does that mean?”

“You were right.” Shaking her head woefully, she added, “I must not know how to cook.”

She turned and stared up at him with those violet orbs. She looked so pathetic he couldn’t stop himself from chuckling.

“Why are you laughing?” she demanded, turning back and pointing at the pans. “Look at these eggs. Gray as the ashes in the fireplace. And look at this.”

He glanced over her shoulder. Thin black strips of burnt something gaped up at him, still smoking. “What exactly was that?”

“Bacon.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course I’m being serious!”

“Well, it doesn’t look all that bad,” he lied.

“Really?” She turned again to look at him, a shadow of hope crossing her eyes.

“Really.”

“Not so bad you might want to try some?”

That’s what a guy got for being nice. Reminded him of the time Josh, one of his foster brothers had begged him to try a taco at a greasy local restaurant. Josh had just loved the place, could eat there every day. He’d pleaded, made offers of marbles, action figures—for two whole days. The kid could’ve been a top-notch hostage negotiator. But as it was, the other side of the law had offered Josh a better deal.

Anyway, a seven-year-old Dan had gone and been the boy’s taste tester. Dan’s stomach lurched in remembrance. That beef taco had caused him to worship the porcelain god for three whole days.

But that had been old, maybe even contaminated food. What Angel had here was just charred. Hell, if he could survive seventeen hours in a truck with Rank Ron Hunnicutt waiting on a fugitive, this’d be a walk in the park.

He grabbed a fork, scooped up a bit of the goopy, gray eggs and took a taste. Actually, it was a crunch.

He nearly choked on a shell, but covered pretty quickly. Or so he thought.

“Not bad, Angel.”

But she was no fool. Her eyes grew liquid and weary. “I’m sorry. Excuse me. I’m just going to get a breath of fresh air.”

“Angel?”

She didn’t answer him. She was out the door.