Craving a Hero: St. John Sibling Series, book 3 (24 page)

Sometime during the night, he woke to find her silhouetted in the open door of the wood stove as she added a couple logs. She was still dressed in her fatigues, though her shirt hung open over her insulated underwear.

She shuffled, stocking-footed into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door where she stood chowing down a piece of chicken and drinking milk from the carton.

He smiled to himself. It was the sort of thing he and his brothers did. His mother had always scolded them for it. He wanted to tell her that. Two summers ago, the words would have come easy because she'd been so easy to talk to.

But now… Something told him to stay quiet and leave her to own devices.

#

Dane next woke to the smell of coffee, crawled out of his tangled sheets, and shuffled into the kitchen. She gave his long john clad body a once-over.

"You couldn't put something more decent on, St. John?"

"You've seen me in a lot less," he muttered as he snagged a mug from the cupboard, immediately regretting his words. His morning grumpiness was not conducive to conversation, especially not the kind he needed to have with her.

She took her mug to the couch where she curled up in front of the wood stove. He cooked enough bacon and eggs for the two of them, unable to remember a time he woke at her side grumpy.

"Breakfast's on," he said, setting two plates on the table.

"Not hungry," she replied.

He sighed. "Don't tell me. You like your eggs cold and in the middle of the night."

Her head snapped in his direction. So now she knew her nighttime foray hadn't gone unnoticed.

She came to the kitchen table, picked up her plate, and returned to the couch where she ate. He ate his breakfast staring at the back of her head, not at all what he'd intended when he'd placed her dish across the table from his.

Not at all what he'd envisioned when he'd thought the storm and her truck getting stuck was divine intervention.

When she brought her empty plate and the kettle of hot water off the wood stove to the sink, he said, "This isn't good for you."

"Too much cholesterol?" she quipped without humor in clear reference to the eggs and bacon.

"I'm talking about all this tension," he said, moving to her side and adding his plate to hers in the sink, determined to get some sort of dialogue going between them.

She stoppered the drain and poured the hot water over a squirt of dish detergent.

"Kel, this anger isn't healthy for you."

"My health is none of your concern," she said, pumping cool water into the steaming suds.

"I care about you," Dane said, holding his ground even as she elbowed him aside for the dishrag.

"You aren't the same Kelly I—" He hesitated, not sure saying
fell in love with
wouldn't send her running out into the storm. "You're not the same Kelly I came to know two summers ago."

"Get used to it. This is the Kelly I am now," she muttered, seemingly focused on the dishrag she slopped in the sink.

"I don't buy that for a minute."

She flung the dripping dishrag into his hands and strode back to the couch. Tossing aside the rag, he followed her.

"Talk to me, Kel."

She hugged her knees up against her chest. "If you don't leave me alone, I swear I'll go out in that storm and walk back to town."

Sighing, he returned to the kitchen sink. Silently, he cleaned their breakfast dishes.

Selecting a faded tome from the bookshelf under the window between the cook stove and wood stove, he joined her on the couch. She glowered at him. He held up the book. "Not much light by your dad's recliner."

Come lunch, she made two ham sandwiches and returned to the couch, muttering, "Yours is on the table."

Likewise, she ate her spaghetti supper on the couch. The tension wasn't proving any too healthy for him, either, given the tightness pulling across his shoulders. This time, when she brought her dirty dish to the sink, he stayed at the table but he didn't stay quiet.

"This is a small cabin, Kel. We can't avoid each other."

Without so much as a glance his way, she returned, "But we don't have to talk to each other." And headed toward the far end of the couch.

He cursed, rose, and went to the sink. The wood stove door creaked open. She was fueling the fire.

In more ways than she knew, Dane thought, pumping cold water over their dishes because, if he went to the wood stove right now for the pot of hot water, he wasn't sure he wouldn't take her in his arms and try kissing her attitude away.

The scrape of chair legs brought him around to the dining table to find her sitting in the chair nearest the door pulling on her boots.

"You can't go out in this weather," he said, sounding far more Neanderthal man than he intended.

Her head came up, her shoulders rigid.

"I didn't mean it the way it sounded," he said, taking a step toward her. "If it takes me not talking to keep you from going out in that storm, then I'll shut up."

She tied off her boot laces and rose without looking at him. "There's that ego of yours again, St. John. Still thinking this is all about you."

He skirted the table toward her. She threw on her jacket. He caught her by the arm.

"If it's not about me, then why won't you talk to me?"

She blinked up at him, surprise and anguish flashing across her eyes before she pulled up her CO cloak. "Jeese, St. John. I'm just going out to get more firewood."

Bewildered by what he'd seen in her eyes, his fingers were slow to release her. "I'll go with you."

"Don't need the help," she said, zipping up her jacket.

A blast of icy air hit him and she was gone, the door shut between them. She was independent. He knew that. She was sensitive about men seeing her as weak, at least her father and her fellow COs.

He moved from window to window, watching her plow through knee deep snow as she made her way around the cabin toward the shed, head lowered against the driving snow, pausing now and then and huddling against the wind. The hell she didn't need his help.

He pulled his jeans on over his long johns, cinched his boots tight above his ankles, threw on his jacket, cap, and gloves and went after her. By the time he got to her, she was fighting to tug a toboggan full of firewood from the shed.

Reaching around her, he grabbed the rope handle and reefed the sled from the shed. She went down in the snow on her back.

"What the hell," she shouted, slapping away his hand as he reached for hers. "I told you I didn't need help."

"The hell you don't," he shouted back, hauling her to her feet in spite of her fighting him. "Now grab the rope and help me."

Even with the two of them, it took longer than expected to drag the heavy toboggan to the cabin door. Arms loaded with wood, they stumbled into the cabin to the wood bin where they collapsed, winded by their efforts.

"What…were…you…thinking," Dane panted out, "trying to haul a toboggan full of wood from the shed?"

"That…I…didn't want…to make the trip…twice," she managed to answer.

There'd been a time when he would have laughed at her stubbornness. But that was back when she'd have laughed with him.

With the snow melting into his jeans and the sweat seeping out through his insulated underwear, he shivered. "We better get out of these wet clothes."

"Speak for yourself, St. John," she said, climbing to her feet and giving his legs a pointed look. "I wasn't dumb enough to go out in this snow wearing only jeans."

"Those top-of-the-line DNR duds of yours keep you dry inside and out?" he asked, standing.

"Of course," she said, hanging up her jacket by the door.

He joined her at the table where they sat on kitchen chairs removing their boots. "So that's not a sweat staining back of your shirt?"

Ignoring the scowl she lifted at him, he dropped his boots on the boot tray, hung up his jacket, and headed to the bench at the foot of the bunks. By now, his jeans were sodden and removing them a chore.

"I could use some help here," he said, giving her what he thought was a plaintive look as she rounded the near end of the couch.

"That's lame even for you, St. John."

"It wasn't meant as a come-on," he said, weary of her undeserved disdain. "I was simply asking for help. Some of us aren't afraid to do that."

He wrangled the wet jeans off along with his soaked long johns, leaving them in a pile on the floor while he dug a pair of sweats from his duffle on top the dresser. Insulated top exchanged for a fresh sweatshirt, he hung his wet clothes on the fireplace mantle and built a fire in the fireplace.

He turned and caught her studying him. "I'll pay for the extra wood the fireplace eats up."

"Of course you will," she said, all curled up in her corner of the couch pretending her sweaty t-shirt wasn't growing colder by the minute, which he was certain it was.

He stalked into the kitchen end of the cabin where he poured milk and cocoa mix into a pot on the range. He stirred the mixture, thinking he should treat her the way she'd been treating him.

His shoulders hurt and his neck was stiff. Hell, he was renting this place and he couldn't even relax.

Tendrils of steam rose from the cocoa. He turned off the burner, frowning at the mix. He'd made enough for two. He should have made only enough for himself if he was going to play her game.

He filled two mugs and carried them to the couch. He held one out to her.

"No, thank you," she said, arms wrapped tightly around her torso.

He plunked the mug down on the coffee table in front of her and sat on the far end of the couch, feet propped on the table, his wool socks soaking in the heat from the fireplace. The first sip of his cocoa scalded his upper lip.

He cursed under his breath. He couldn't even drink cocoa around her without getting burned.

On the other end of the couch, Kelly shivered.

He scowled at her. "You sure you and Frank aren't blood kin?"

She blinked at him, eyes widening in confusion. "What?"

"You are as stubborn as he is. If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were his daughter."

Her cheeks turned red. "I—what?"

"You're sitting there in wet clothes, shivering. If you don't still have some old clothes of your own in the dresser to change into—" The memory of the spread eagle tee she'd taken from that dresser and worn that one time she rode him to oblivion flashed through his mind, making his chest ache. "—at least put on one of my t-shirts and a pair of my sweats."

"Don't tell me what to do," she growled, the effect lost when her teeth chattered.

He slammed his mug down on the table and rose to his feet. "If you don't get yourself out of those wet clothes, Kelly, then I'm taking you out of them."

She jumped to her feet. "We're not lovers anymore, St. John. You don't get to see the goods."

"Is that your problem? You think I'm looking for a cheap peek?"

Her chin swept the air between them.

"You want me to step outside while you change?"

Her brow puckered and she shook her head. "Just turn your back. And keep it turned."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

He lay in his bunk, staring up at that thin mattress separating him from Kelly. She turned over, the bed springs above him creaking. It had been like that all night, her tossing and turning, him listening to her restlessness—staring into the darkness, at a loss as to what more he could do after their evening row.

And time was running out. The abating wind told him the storm was dying down and the grayness filling the windows marked a new day.

All he'd come up with through his sleepless night was her obstinacy had begun to remind him of how she'd treated him when she'd first met him—when she'd thought him no more than a Hollywood actor.

But it didn't fit. She knew better. She had to.

"What happened with us, Kel?" he asked.

No answer. But her sudden stillness told him she'd heard him.

"Everything seemed good and then you stopped responding to my texts and emails. Why?"

Still no answer.

"I thought we'd built at least a friendship," he said

"Friendship?" She harrumphed. "More like friends with benefits."

"Is this really about sex? Is that what's wrong?"

No answer.

"Okay. We started out with an amazing attraction to each other. We started out with sex. But I thought there was also friendship."

Silence.

"I told you things I hadn't felt free to talk about with anyone outside my family. I trusted you with my private thoughts and you seemed to trust me with yours."

No answer.

"I really thought we were building something more through our correspondence."

She remained quiet.

"Did I write something that hurt your feelings?"

Still no answer from the top bunk.

"If I wrote or said or did something wrong, tell me. Give me an opportunity to make things right between us."

"There is no
us
."

Her words were like a knife to his heart. "I guess the joke is on me, then. I thought there could have been. Thought there might have been some spark between us we might have built on."

"The spark was lust," she said, her tone almost harsh.

"If you believe that's all it was, why are you so upset with me?"

No answer.

"If sex is all there was between us… Is it because I didn't keep the relationship at a sexual level? Are you angry because I didn't jump your bones the moment I saw you? I wanted to. But—"

#

"But what?" Kelly asked, a harsh edge to her voice. "Were you afraid I'd reject you—wound your ego?"

"You'd already rejected me. You rejected me when you stopped answering my emails."

The pain in his voice sliced through her. She badly wanted to reassure him he'd done nothing wrong, that she died a little with his every observation, his every plea. But she couldn't let herself feel for him. Because to feel for him was to set herself up for an even bigger hurt than the one she already suffered.

Because
, if he found out Angel was his and she hadn't told him, he'd never forgive her. Or worse. He'd fight her for custody, maybe even take her away. She had to stop his probing, and if it took giving him some ridiculous reason for how she was reacting to him then she'd do it.

She swung down from her bunk under the guise of adding a log to the fire, flinging words at him. "What do you expect from me, Dane? I see you on screen making love. Those scenes look pretty damn real to me."

She turned to find him standing beside the bed, all bronze and gloriously naked in the firelight. In that instant, everything that magnificent body had ever done to her, everything good he'd ever made her feel slammed through her.

"They're supposed to look real, Kel," he said. "That's why it's called acting."

Tearing her gaze from him, she slammed the wood stove door shut. "I suppose you're going to tell me you were thinking of me all through those scenes."

"Actually, I couldn't," he said, taking a step toward her.

She turned away from him and headed for the kitchen end of the cabin before he could reach her—touch her. One touch and her resolve would crumble. But his voice kept pace with her steps.

"Whenever I'd think of you, the acting stopped because my body took over. That doesn't work for movie-making. When making love for a movie, an actor has to be aware of where the camera is and the lighting."

She yanked open a cupboard door, silently begging him to stop. But he kept talking, crowding her.

"The actor has to remember his angles. All that posing is for the audience."

She turned to the sink. He turned with her.

"And let's not forget the fact you're doing all these bedroom gymnastics on a soundstage full of cameramen, grips, make-up artists, hair-stylists, producers, a whole phalanx of people."

She pumped water into the glass she held, her hand shaking so badly water spilled over her hand.

"Then there's the director yelling "cut" at moments an audience would find quite frustrating," he hammered on. "Not to mention the numerous reshoots to get the shot from a dozen different angles."

Leaving the glass in the bottom of the sink, she wheeled on him. "Tough job, huh?"

"Dammit, Kel. When you and I were making love, do you think I could have stopped just because someone yelled cut?"

"There was that time Max interrupted us," she leveled as her heart was breaking.

"You were the one who stopped then," he said, moving closer, trapping her between the edge of the counter and him. "If you recall, even with that interruption, it took a while for my body to
settle down.
"

She remembered all right. Her body still thrilled with the memory—itched for want to return to that day.

Not for you, not if you want to spare yourself a whole lot more hurt.

Not if you want to free him.

And there was yet another reason to make him give up on her.

She lifted her best CO face at him. "You telling me in all that time we were apart you didn't once have sex with another woman?"

She saw the answer before he even spoke the words. Saw it in the way his shoulders dropped. Saw it in how he sank back on his heels. She wanted to weep.

"I hadn't gotten an email from you in over a month," he grumbled. "We'd gone from production of movie two to three without a break. I hadn't seen you in nearly a year."

She managed a contemptuous snort that was Academy Award worthy. "And of course making it with that other woman meant nothing."

His head lifted through the gray light coming in through the window, the hinge of his jaw popping. "It wasn't
making love
."

"And how often did you have to experience this meaningless sex?"

"Just that once. It was enough to show me another woman couldn't take your place."

She wanted to believe him.
Hell
, she did believe him. But this whole charade was about giving him a reason why there could be no
us.

Before she could slap him with another jealous sounding tidbit, though, he shot a zinger of his own.

"What about you, Kel? Did you honor that unspoken commitment you seem to think we made?"

It cut deep to have the tables turned. But she'd pushed him there.

"Of course you did," he said, not waiting for her answer. "You weren't the one isolated from family and friends—stuck on a—"

"Movie set acting out love scenes?" she finished for him, pushing him harder.

He stepped forward—pressed himself into her. "Feel that?"

She sucked a breath before she could stop herself.

"
That's
the real deal.
That
never happened on a movie set in any of those love scenes, which, by the way, there's only one of in each movie."

He released her, stepped back, paced a half-circle away from her. "A hundred action scenes per movie and you fixate on the one and only love scene."

He faced her. "If we're going to have a chance together, Kel, you can't get jealous every time I kiss a woman in a film. It's part of my job. I'm still on that bloody Sexiest Man of the year list! Audiences want to see me doing romantic things. They want me to take my shirt off. They want me to kiss the girl."

If we're going to have a chance together
echoed in her brain.

Her heart shattered into a million pieces because she knew any chance they had to be together she'd destroyed by her lies—shattered that he still fought for what could never be
.
She shook her head when all she wanted to do was throw herself into his arms.

"There is no
us.
There never was," she managed to huff out.

"The hell there wasn't," he shot back. "From the moment you dabbed anti-sting sticks on my wasp bites, I started thinking there could be an
us
."

He shook his head. "All those long talks, the unspoken words in our kisses. I
wanted
them to mean more than what we shared in those moments. That's what I was working to find out before you stopped answering my emails—to see if we had more than wild chemistry going for us."

"The hell you did," she said, advancing on him, trying for all she was worth to cut off his offensive. "You wanted to get into my pants that day you got stung and you want the same thing now."

He shook his head, backing from her. "Kel, no."

She kept advancing, driving him back from her. "You want sex? You got it."

"That's not what I'm asking for."

She backed him across through the cabin between the dining table and couch, all but purring, "You don't want me?"

"I want you more than breath itself, Kel. But not like this."

She peeled off her tee, bared her breasts to him. "How about like this?"

He groaned, the backs of his knees clipping the edge of the bed. "Kel, don't."

She slid her panties down her legs and stepped out of them toward him. "How about like this?"

"Geez, Kel. It's not about the sex, not for me."

"Maybe it
is
for me," she said, reason telling her she'd pushed him far enough, something else entirely making her reach down between them and close her fingers around his arousal.

He pulled in a breath. She yanked open the dresser drawer at her hip, the fingers of her free hand easily finding what they sought.

What the hell did she think she was doing?

He stroked her cheek, softly, gently, and shook his head.

Damn him for still caring—still being the man she wanted.

Taking a corner of the foil wrap between her teeth, she tore open the packet and held up the condom. "Shall I do the honors?"

"Kel, please."

"That's what I thought," she said, purposely misunderstanding him and pushing him back onto the bed. Faster than she could have believed herself capable, she sheathed and mounted him.

He groaned and caught her around the waist. Maybe he would push her away. He had every right to do so. She wasn't sure which she wanted him to do.

He circled his pelvis beneath her, and the reasons she'd pushed him to this point no longer mattered. Worse, she knew she would never stop wanting him and there was no way to keep him, not given how she'd lied to him.

Taking his mouth with hers, she swallowed his moans, making them part of herself. And she rode him hard, memorizing the sensation each stroke sent through her body, memorizing the way his hands moved over her skin.

They came together in an explosive orgasm as the cabin filled with the golden light of a new day. She collapsed on top of him, their bodies wet with sweat, her face with tears because, even though the storm had passed, the issue of Angel still spread between them like a chasm.

"Ah, Kel," he murmured, hugging her to him.

She pressed her face into his hair, blotting her tears, fighting the pain the sad, gentle way he spoke her name caused her. For all her efforts, he still hadn't given up on
them.

She rolled off him to the edge of the bed where she snagged her panties and tee off the floor, a coldness schooled into her voice. "Nice to see you can still get the job done, St. John."

Instantly, he was on his hip at her side. "That wasn't just about sex for you, Bright Eyes."

She tugged the tee down over her head, fighting back the lump climbing into her throat. "Jeese, St. John. Get a grip on that ego of yours."

"Kel—"

"I've got no complaints," she said, standing and pulling up her panties.

"That was angry sex. Why?"

"Angry sex. Happy sex," she said with a flippancy she hoped hid her pain as she donned her fatigues. "Does it really make a difference?"

He climbed from the bed and followed her to the dining table where she sat, pulling on her boots. "It does if you're angry with me."