Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [38]
Each time she fell, Donovan picked her up patiently, shaking his head ruefully at her giddiness and urging her on with quiet determination. Once they reached the bottom of the hill, the going was easier, and it was only a matter of minutes before they were running up the steps to the chalet. They were both breathing hard from the run, but as Brenna leaned back against the door, she felt no weariness, only happiness and a bubbling confidence in herself and the world around her. After the countless days of pressure, she was drunk on the sheer exhilaration of being joyfully alive.
She looked blithely around the chalet. It no longer intimidated, but merely amused her. Donovan himself was a far from intimidating figure, sopping wet and woefully mud splattered.
“What would everyone say if they could see the big movie tycoon now?” she giggled irrepressibly.
“They'd say he looked a great deal better than a certain fledgling actress,” he said coolly, shaking his head. Brenna's shorts and top were wet and clinging to her slim body, her long, wet hair hanging in ropy strands around her glowing face. “And you're still cold,” he went on briskly, as he touched her throat lightly. With swift strides he crossed the room to the portable bar at one side of the stone fireplace, and poured something dark and potent looking into a glass. He returned to offer it to her commandingly.
“Drink it all,” he ordered curtly. “It will warm you.”
She started to protest that she didn't need warming, but one look at his determined face convinced her that it would be useless. She drained the glass in one swallow and collapsed against the door, gasping, her face a bright scarlet.
“For God's sake, that was straight whiskey,” Donovan said impatiently. “You're supposed to sip it, not gulp it.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” she wheezed, her eyes tearing. “I've never had whiskey before.”
“Another famous first,” he said ironically. “Sit down while I see if I can scare up something for you to change into.” Not waiting for her reply, he took the spiral steps to the sleeping area two at a time.
She obediently headed toward the scarlet velvet couch, but looking ruefully down at her dripping form, she moved instead to lean against the fireplace. Now that the first violent effects of the whiskey were over, she found that the liquor did make her feel warmer, and what was more, it increased the delicious euphoria that she was experiencing. She was delighted that the whiskey seemed to have no other effect on her, and she impulsively moved to the liquor cabinet and poured herself another. This time she did sip it more cautiously, but found that it still gave her that all-pervading sensation of well-being. She was just about to refill her glass again, when Donovan returned with an armful of clothes and two fluffy white towels. He arched his brows inquiringly, as he looked pointedly at the glass in her hand.
“I've decided I like it,” she announced cheerfully, smiling at him. “I must have a good head for liquor. It has practically no effect on me at all.”
“Amazing,” he drawled mockingly, as he firmly took the glass from her, and set it on the bar. He placed the clothes and towels in her arms, and, strolling over to the ornamental screen, drew it aside and turned on the faucets full force in the sunken tub.
“Get undressed, and into that tub,” he ordered briskly. “I'll light a fire, and then put on the steaks.”
She stared at him wild-eyed, clutching the clothes to her chest protectively. Surely he didn't expect her to bathe with her privacy ensured only by that flimsy screen?
He had turned away as if he had no doubt of her obeying his injunctions, but as she stood hesitating, he barked impatiently, “Get moving!”
She found herself moving automatically toward the screened