A Promise of Fireflies (49 page)

She picked things up and put them down, the intrinsic ability and discernment of Logan’s talent—or Midas touch, perhaps—for transforming something from mediocre to exquisite seemed the trademark of the Cavanaugh name. The effects of his influence and charm grew unmistakably apparent as she dragged her fingers along the cracked, crumbling walls, a metaphor to her own recent past.

Ryleigh stepped through the French doors to an arbor shading a full-length patio. The canopy of vines had given way to a burst of new life and the arbor dripped with unopened purple wisteria clusters. The air had that moist heaviness about it when spring opens its arms to summer and comes alive with the perfume of damp moss, fertile earth, and sun-warmed pine. She leaned against the railing, Logan’s footsteps light across the hardwood floors. He handed her a goblet. The wine slid down her throat and settled in her belly, a tiny fire of warmth. He set his down and cradled her, the power of his arms around her and his thighs against hers the security and solidity of purpose she knew him to be.

Whether the influence of the wine, the music or simply his presence next to her, the feeling of belonging grew and settled over her and around her and in all the empty spaces within.

A light breeze lifted her hair, the subtle movement adrift with his musky scent. “I need you, Logan Cavanaugh,” she said, reflections of afternoon light playing on the soft curls that caressed the tops of his ears. She touched the curls, wanting—needing—to know the stories behind the silver, ghostly reminders hidden in the same way the past had taken the color. “You became my strength when I needed it most.”

A quiet moment passed. “And you, my weakness. You held my heart in your hands and I fell apart only to see the one who could hold me together slip away.”

His hands moved over her like the gentle roll of waves on a summer lake. She closed her eyes, his touch slowly shifting, rearranging her inner core, and with a contented sigh, gave herself wholly—her dreams and her fears—for him to safeguard in his heart. “Breathe” played quietly in the background. “It’s peaceful here, Logan.”

Brushing her hair aside, he leaned in and kissed her neck, his tongue light on her skin. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Cabin Number Three.”

She turned her face to meet his. Raw emotion emanated from his gaze, a message conveyed without words.

Logan took her face in his hands and kissed her with unresolved passion, a kiss profoundly physical and meant to recapture the weeks lost, one she hungered to deepen and surrender completely to its power.

Her hands loosened his shirt from his jeans, but Logan took them and gripped them tightly to his chest. His gaze drifted over her, awakening her body as if he’d touched her with his hands.

An artful smile lifted one side of his mouth. “I can take it from here.”

And he claimed her, his kiss soft and moist and laden with the sweet ruffle of wine. “
Ti amo così tanto,
Ryleigh Collins. I do so love you.” The words drifted over her, spoken as if in prayer.

“Logan—”

Logan pressed his fingers to her mouth and then swept an arm under her knees and lifted her against him. “Sometimes words get in the way,” he said, and carried her inside.

Sunlight filtered through the bedroom windows, bathing him in a pool of amber light. He set her down, the air alive with promise. His fingers brushed the hollow of her neck with such seasoned tenderness, she felt only the whisper of cloth as he lifted her top over her head. He unfastened her bra and it fell unhindered, exposing her breasts, heavy with the unspoken invitation. And he took them, the desire in his eyes naked, yet reposeful, his breath a sigh on her bare skin. Blood pulsed through her, rousing her in places hungry for his touch. Everything she offered, he claimed with no hesitation in his need, and the whole of her went liquid as he nourished her with the touch of his hands.

In answer, she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and when the last gave way, the tangle of chest hair flowed dark and soft between her fingers, and then she gave the ripple of muscle a gentle squeeze. A hard nub rose beneath her palm and desire rose in her own nipples as if he’d stroked them. A moan rumbled in his throat, his male spice rich and heady. Her memories shifted and became real—constant and solid and unquestionable.

With discreet abandon, she unfastened his jeans and traced the dark line from navel to groin. She met his eyes and tucked her arms around him and urged him closer, the need to be one with him absolute, a bond she had refused to relinquish in his absence, nor would she today or any day after.

“Is this okay?” Her eyes sought the confirmation of her thoughts. “What we’re doing, I mean?”

He took her head in his hands, “Your body is a treasure, your pleasure my gift,” he whispered, his thumb stroking her chin, “and I do not intend for either one to be taken lightly. I say ‘I love you’ and my words come not from my mouth, but from the blood and bones and heart that sustain me, the soul and spirit that are me. You are not the first I have spoken these words to.” And then he moved his thumb to her lips, each stroke a caress of words softly spoken. “And though a first love cannot truly be forgotten, love is a priceless treasure to be guarded. And I shall do so, with my heart and mind, and with my life. And you shall be my last love. I’m just a man,
amore mio
,” he said, his smile linked to hers, “a man who’s wanted you from the first time I saw you, whose heart has been scribed with your name before the beginning of time, and who will spend the rest of his days pleasing you, and worshiping your body the way a man should, if you’ll allow me the honor.”

His words tugged at something so deep inside her, the tiny cracks in her heart came together as if he’d used the fiber of his words to mend it. Ryleigh tucked her lips between her teeth and bit down to keep a rein on the emotion stirred by his words and penetrating gaze. “Yes,” was all she managed to say through a blur of unspilled tears. Logan took her hands, guiding her until his jeans slipped past his hips and fell in a heap. He did the same with hers until nothing remained between them but the bond of skin against skin, his heartbeat matching hers as if their hearts beat as one.

With one hand cradled on her bottom, he reached into the drawer and removed a foil package. “I made sure the villa came well-stocked.”

“Smart-ass,” she said, took the package and peeked at him through lowered lashes. “I can take it from here.” She tore the package and slid the condom over his length. A breath hissed through his teeth and he pulled her tight against him, the urgency of his need hard and restless against her belly.

Logan laid her down, the featherbed an airy cushion beneath her, his body a cradling shield of strength and power, of compassion and tenderness above her. And she welcomed the whole of him as she molded her body to his. With a kiss that left no doubt he’d claimed the whole of her, he eased himself inside her, the pleasure deep with promise. They joined as one, the intimacy as slow and easy as fine wine: ripe with passion, yet mellow in the arms of empathy, the bond complete.

Like a feather caught in the current of a stream, the haunting memories drifted away in silence—a language with no need of words. In the subtle glow of the waning afternoon, they returned to the place where two lost souls had collided into one under the cover of a Rocky Mountain snowstorm.

The clock ticked and blood pulsed in his veins, but time seemed irrelevant. Propped on one elbow, Logan watched her doze—every breath, every rise and fall of her chest an unspoken answer to a prayer. Emotion crashed through him, something so deep, so compelling, there wasn’t enough of her to fill the void each time he took a breath. And when he’d taken her mouth, her answer had been so deeply rooted the sheer depth unhinged the last of his resolve, and left no doubt her dreams were his to bring to life and her fears were his to heal—now and every day after.

Bubbles of moisture still clung to her lashes and he smiled at the hint of freckles sprinkled just below her eyes, an unconsumed keepsake to the little girl. In the stillness of the moment he traced the outline of her face, the touch so light she didn’t wake, memorizing her sleepy smile and the feel of her flesh beneath his fingers. And he’d use the rest of his lifetime to please her and keep her safe. In the moments before she stirred, he breathed the faint notes of her perfume and tucked them away to recall at will, and bathed in the languor of their lovemaking.

“Hey,” she said with a sigh and then reached to meet his leisurely kiss.

“Tell me your eyes will be the last I see when I close mine and the first I wake up to.”

“Always,” she said with a sheepish smile, “unless you surprise me with a puppy.”

“Sei mia, mia cucciola.”

RYLEIGH LAY BESIDE
him, secure in his arms and the rumble of his laugh a soothing melody to the intensity of his words. A day’s stubble rasped against her cheek, a contradiction to the man beneath and his breaths a reminder of the life beside her. And if she stopped breathing—this day, this moment would be enough. “I love you, and I want to know the stories behind every silver hair,” she said and wrapped a curl around her finger.

His voice shook with impish pleasure. “The title would be, ‘Two Daughters and Forty-Six Years Under My Belt.’”

“Okay, smart-ass, I’m trying to be seriously charming and you’re making jokes.”

“You’re already seriously charming.”

“And I happen to enjoy what’s under your belt.” She tucked her lip between her teeth and studied him—the bold chin and eyes that spoke without words—and her belly fluttered at how deeply she had fallen under his spell. Logan brushed her nose with his finger and winked, and the tug of these simple acts curled her toes. With her arm around his waist, she snuggled closer, a finger tracing the smooth indentation of the scar below his ribs.

He flinched and pushed her hand away.

“I’m sorry,” she said, frowning, “does it still hurt?”

“It tickles.”

“I’m sure it didn’t tickle at the time.”

“No, it didn’t. In fact,” he said with a deep noise in his throat that might have passed for a chuckle, “that day’s a little hazy, but I was told I was rather vocal.” He did chuckle this time. “Guess I was somewhat insolent while they tried to dig a cannonball out of my side.”

“Cannonball?”

“Felt like one. Before the magic of drugs took hold.” Logan rolled on his back and she curled beside him, her head nestled against his shoulder. One hand stroked his chest. He drew a deep breath. “Pink Lady .38 Special. We were serving dinner at a local soup kitchen on Christmas Eve. I watched her pull the gun—”

Ryleigh raised up on an elbow. “A woman?”

“She aimed, fired five rounds, and all I could think of was why’d she need a pink gun to tell us she wasn’t fond of turkey?”

“A woman? With a pink gun?”

“And lousy aim.” He raked a hand over his chin. “It was a long time ago. No one was seriously hurt.”

“Besides you?”

“And the pot of gravy,” he said, making a rather dubious imitation of an explosion.

“And you?”

“A bit messy, but it wasn’t serious. Gravy pot bled more than I did.”

“Smart-ass.” She took his hands in hers and pressed them to her cheek, humor relaxing from her face. The weight of him next to her satisfied the doubt of his physical presence, but what she needed now was to know all the pieces that made him one. Besides what she did know—the consummate partner, sensual lover, compassionate minister and devoted father she knew him to be, she sensed the other, more discreet layers of this fascinating man. And she hungered to peel those layers away, to uncover the whole of the man within, to hold his hand through the dark places he wanted to forget, and to know his thoughts through the weeks that had separated them. “I wish I could take your memories—the painful ones—and erase them.”

“I wouldn’t want you to, Cabin Number Three. Scars are proof we fought through our battles. And made it through.”

“I want to know them. The good ones and the painful ones. Your secrets.”

“Amore mio,”
Logan said and pulled her close, “there are secrets meant to be shared and some that aren’t. I’ll never lie to you and I’ll share those that are meant for you. To keep safe. As I will do with yours.” Logan tightened his embrace and kissed her forehead. “Our past is what makes us who we are, but without pain, we never know true joy. Joy like you’ve given me.”

“You told me once you didn’t have a gift for words.”

“I don’t,” he said, brushing her nose with a finger. “But when I look at you, you become my words and it’s a story I wish to write until I no longer walk this earth.”

Her face erupted in a brilliant smile at the implication. With his help, she ran her finger over the scar again, evidence of the past hidden in a ticklish grin. But the invisible scars remained. The ones on his heart she could never truly mend. Over time, she hoped those too would be as remote and as smooth as the one beneath her touch, knitted together with the fabric of her love in the same way his body had closed a gaping wound into a fine line of remembrance, but no longer painful.