Ashley Summers - On Wings Of Love

After jotting down expected arrival times and replacing the receiver, he took the pan of corn bread from the oven and set it on a cooling rack. Bending over sent a dull ache down one hip, a rainy-day reminder of injuries sustained in the car wreck that had nearly killed him.

His thoughts lingered on the subject. Before his near-death experience, he’d been a Wall Street wizard whose main interest in life was what he’d arrogantly termed the easy-money game. Making money was a power-trip that had utterly consumed him, until the day he’d rounded a curve too fast and sent his Porsche and himself over the edge of a deep ravine.

During the ensuing days of pain and confusion, he realized what a joke his life had been up to that point. Motivated by the radical change in his outlook, he’d left New York and returned to the islands to help his adored grandparents run this lovely inn.

Remembering, he shook his head in wry amusement. No one could believe that he’d given up his glamorous, high-profile life-style for the rough urbanity of Orcas Island. They’d believe even less how happy he was here, he thought, uncapping a beer. He had taken up flying immediately upon settling here, got his license, discovered the sheer, rapturous glory of soaring into the sky. He could, and often did, spend hours in his plane, alone or taking people out on chartered flights.

True, since his grandparents had moved to Florida, it was lonely here sometimes, on nights like this, especially. But for the most part he was content. Or would be, if the rest of his needs were met, he conceded with another sigh. He was thirty-five, time to be getting on with the rest of his life. But he hadn’t found anyone he wanted to get on with, he mused as he uncovered the baked ham.

He had many women friends because he was a friendly, caring man. But they just stayed friends. Still, some were eminently qualified to become Mrs. Thomas Miles Logan. But all or nothing was his motto, though sometimes he wondered if such a thing as deep, passionate love really existed. Certainly passion did, and love, too. But together?

And if it did exist, would he ever find it?

A sound from upstairs tightened his stomach. Katy. A pretty name. A pretty lady. Who had no business going out tonight.

He fetched a tray and set it with silverware, dipped beans into a bowl, sliced the savory ham and cut a wedge of golden corn bread. Angel food cake layered with fresh raspberries and whipped cream made a sumptuous dessert, at least in his opinion. Then he spared a thought as to why he was bringing her a tray of food. The gesture probably came from having three sisters, he decided. His mother’s words rolled across his mind: “Watch out for your sisters, Thomas. Take care of your sisters, Thomas.”

Chuckling at the cozy memory, he carried the tray upstairs and tapped on Katy’s door.

She opened it, her damp hair drifting around her shoulders as she stared up at him. She was wrapped in a long white terry-cloth robe that clung to every gorgeous inch of her. Any brotherly thoughts instantly vanished from Thomas’s mind.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening. Oh!” Katy’s eyes flew wide as she noticed the tray.

“I saw no sense in your going out tonight just to get something to eat,” he said gruffly. “So I fixed you a tray.”

“Well!” She looked at the tray and then up at him again. “My goodness, you shouldn’t have done that. I mean, it’s really very kind of you, but totally unnecessary. Oh, Lord, that does smell good!” She sighed, inhaling the savory aromas.

Thomas gave her a smug smile. He was a damn fine cook, if he did say so himself. “Tastes as good as it smells. Now you can stay in and get a good night’s sleep, instead of wandering around the island in the dark.”

Her eyes narrowed, instantly challenging his sensible suggestion. All right, command, but still sensible, Thomas insisted, holding out the tray

“I’m sure the food is delicious,” she said, taking the tray. “I may still go out, however.”

“It’s raining and the roads are narrow two-lanes, with few street signs,” he said, frowning.

“I think I can find my way around. After all, I do live in a large city,” she returned with a hint of coolness that irked the devil out of him.

“Well, whatever you choose to do, enjoy the meal,” Thomas said. He turned on his heel and strode back downstairs.

“Mr. Logan?” Her soft voice stopped him on the landing.

“Yes?”

thank you.”

He heard her door close. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled, feeling pushed and pulled by the change in that silken voice.

The telephone was ringing again. No more guests, he thought irritably. But it was the airport. He had an eleven o’clock charter in the morning.

Thomas jotted down the client’s name, then just stood there, staring, unseeing, out the kitchen window. His mind had already winged back to the woman upstairs. He’d seen those violet eyes flash, seen the twist of mouth that bespoke fire and temper. She looked as cool as a glass of ice water, but that mouth would never kiss a man coolly. She’d put her entire self into every hot, passionate kiss, scatter a man’s senses to the wind, wrap his heart around those slender fingers...

With a snort of self-disgust, Thomas hauled himself back to reality. What the hell was he thinking? This morning he didn’t even know she existed, and here he stood dithering about kisses and passion and wrapped-up, hearts.

“It’s been too long, Logan,” he muttered. Maybe he ought to clean the kitchen. At least put the food away. But he didn’t feel like cleaning kitchens. What he felt like was...

Making another sound of disgust, he decided to sit on the porch a while and let the cool evening air chill the many little fevers inside him.

Katy jerked awake with a soft cry. She had been dreaming, that recurring nightmare that tormented her sleep. She exhaled a long, tremulous breath. Thank goodness it wasn’t one of her really bad dreams. Sometimes she awoke screaming.

Sitting up, she drew the drapes and peered out at the new day. It was only four-thirty, but daylight, soft and misty, streamed in through the windows. The air had a tang to it that was almost a taste on her tongue.

She stretched, yawning, and touched her eyelids. They didn’t feel red or swollen, or even gritty. She hadn’t cried anymore last night. She hadn’t gone out, either, just enjoyed her delicious meal and went to bed to read a paperback romance. They were her weakness, tales of beautiful love and dreams and happy-ever-afters. She wasn’t sure any of it was true, but some secret part of herself wanted to believe it was possible.

Unbidden, her thoughts leaped to the memory of Thomas’s blue eyes glinting at her when she had opposed his will. Preposterous, of course. Who was Thomas Logan to decide if she should or should not go out?

Thomas. She liked his name, the soft, clipped sound of it. He was certainly full of himself, she reflected, swinging her feet to the floor. And so good to look at that just picturing his face pleased every part of her lissome body.

Reminding herself that California was full of good-looking men, Katy tumbled out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

To her annoyance, she brought a nagging sense of guilt with her. Bossy or not, Thomas had been nice to her last night and she’d been a bit, well, ungracious.

“Not too smart, Katy,” she muttered, slathering cleanser on her face. “After all, you’re spending several weeks with the man as host, you can at least be friendly.”

Friendly, yes, but that’s all, she warned herself, rinsing off the cream. If you can’t think of him as just your host, consider the man an intriguing new acquaintance.

Satisfied with her pragmatic solution, she dried her face and patted on an oatmeal mask. Then she walked back to her room, snuggled under the comforter once more and finished her book.