|
|
|
|
|
|
|
rushed out in relief at the sight of him asleep on the bed. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
D.J. backed out of the room, closing the door behind her. But just before the latch clicked shut she paused, then opened the door once more. He would get cold lying there, shirtless, without a blanket. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Shaking her head, D.J. chastised herself over her newfound mothering instincts. But she crossed the room anyway, stopping next to the bed. For several seconds she stared at him, memorizing the way the dark locks of hair lay against his forehead, the way the curling hair on his chest lay against his skin. She wanted to touch that hair and discover if the two textures were the same and, if not, how they differed. Instead of giving in to such dangerous desires, she clenched her fists and turned away. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
McCall didn't want her. She should be able to understand that by now. If she hadn't been so infatuated with him, she'd have gotten the message the first time he pushed her from his arms. His earlier anger proved the truth. The flash of fury in his eyes had killed the burgeoning sense of intimacy between them. She knew his deepest secret, and he hated her for it. He didn't trust her with that special part of himself, and the knowledge shattered her. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
D.J. took an afghan from the bottom of the bed, one of the few homey touches her gran had provided for the cabin, and gave the knitted material a yank to free the fringe from beneath McCall's feet. He didn't move when she covered him and tucked the blanket beneath his chin. His early morning wood-splitting marathon had worn him out. Despite herself, D.J.'s fingers strayed, and she caressed his cheek for just a moment. He hadn't shaved, and her fingertips tin- |
|
|
|
|
|