Still Lake - Anne Stuart [75]
He was a lot bigger than she was, and even though he was occupied in taking off the enveloping raincoat he was still blocking the doorway, and he wasn’t the type to be taken off guard. And she was so damned cold.
In the end it didn’t matter. He took her icy-cold hand and pulled her over to the fireplace. “Stay there,” he ordered, and she didn’t waste more than a moment considering escape.
There was nowhere else she wanted to be.
Oh, God, not the Curse of the Wilsons, she thought somewhat crazily. Life was complicated enough. She should run away, back home, and lock the doors. Lock him out, lock her ridiculous fantasies inside, and maybe they’d go away.
But they wouldn’t. She knew it with a depressing certainty. And she knew that all he’d have to do was come knocking on the door and she’d let him in.
She was doomed.
16
He’d never seen anyone look more pathetic in his entire life. Sophie had just stood there in the rain, staring at him out of whipped-puppy-dog eyes, and he’d had the absurd longing to put his arms around her and tell her everything would be all right.
He hadn’t, of course. Not his style. And it would have been a lie. He’d made a crack about her weight, enough to jar her out of her pitiful daze and make her move. He had to be careful, though. He hadn’t seen her in the light yet, but he’d come to the uncomfortable conclusion that her soft, luscious body was almost perfect. It would be a damned shame if he goaded her into starving away her curves.
He grabbed an armful of the threadbare white towels that came with the cottage and headed back into the living room. She hadn’t moved from the spot where he’d left her, and the firelight flickered against her blood-streaked face. Her hair was clinging damply to her head, her dress was streaked with blood and mud, and if anyone had ever looked like a drowned rat, she did.
He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to wipe the blood and mud from her, strip off her ruined clothes and warm her from the inside out. Last night had only been a start, and he’d had a hard time concentrating on anything but Sophie all day long.
And here she was, vulnerable, full of possibilities, and he wanted to explore each and every one of them, slowly, thoroughly. He didn’t want to think about murder, about the past, even about the future. He wanted to think about now, and Sophie, and the way she smelled like flowers and fresh-baked cookies.
He dumped the towels on a wicker chair. “Did you see what you look like?” he asked, trying to keep his hands off her.
She looked at him instead, numbly. “What?”
“Over the window seat. There’s a mirror.”
She turned to look, obedient for a rare moment, and stared at her reflection. He’d half expected her to burst into tears.
Instead, to his surprise, she managed a rusty-sounding laugh. “Damn,” she said. “No wonder you’re being nice for a change.”
“I’m always nice,” he protested, starting to dry her head with one of the towels.
“Yeah, right. Ouch!” She grabbed the towel out of his hand. “I hurt my head, remember? I’ll take care of it.”
“Fine,” he said, reaching for another towel. “I’ll take care of your body.”
She took a step back from him, shooting him a warning glance. “I’ll break your hands.”
“You and what army?” She was cold—he could see the goose bumps on her arms, the faint shiver in her body. Damn, he really wanted to see her. The darkness had been a sensual treat last night. Now he was ready to get a good look at her.
But she was too miserable for him to push, at least for the moment. “Sit in the chair and I’ll get you a blanket,” he said after a moment. “Then I’ll see what I can do about that cut on your head.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You’ve got it, whether you want it or not. And you’ve made your head bleed again.”
“I didn’t—you did,” she snapped.
At least she was still capable of fighting back. As long as he kept her pissed off she wouldn’t start crying again. He was really hopeless with crying women.
By the time he returned to the living room, a quilt in one hand and a poorly