Cait London - Slow Fever

“Don’t drink any more wine, Kylie,” Michael said rather shakily after a long hesitation.

“I’m just mellow, not drunk. I never drink. It’s the ring,” she said, flopping back on the sofa to rest her head upon a pillow. Michael’s shoulders were too hard for real relaxing.

“Ring?” he repeated slowly, looking at the flannel robe that had just parted full-length to reveal her plastic coating.

“Ring! Wedding ring!” Kylie waved her left hand and the gold band that had symbolized her marriage in front of him—because he didn’t seem to be following her logic easily. His eyes slowly drifted from her body to her hand as Kylie said, “I can’t seem to just take it off. I mean what would I do with it? It’s got to be a ceremony of sorts. A burial in a tin can, that sort of thing.”

“What’s this mummy act?” Michael asked, his fingertips smoothing the plastic on her thigh. They dug in slightly and his expression did that tight, darkening thing again. “Take it off.”

The deep, raw edge to his order was unfamiliar. The dark, rich tone curled around Kylie, and she got that odd prickly feeling again. She studied Michael closely and pushed away the warning signals. Tonight, wrapped in plastic and dealing with the past, her logic could be akilter. She was having an off-night and not about to be intimidated by his order. “I have to take care of the man-catching equipment. Moisture is good for old divorced women who have to rebuild their lives. The prune look isn’t appealing to potential sex-partners.”

“You’re thirty-two, Kylie, not ninety,” Michael said roughly. “Take it off, dress in something else and I’ll take you down to Valentina Lake where you can throw in the damn wedding ring and do what you have to do.” Michael’s voice was dark and rich, almost a growl. He scowled at her, poured another glass of wine and this time downed it quickly.

The idea appealed to Kylie, like the perfect maraschino cherry atop the nuts atop the banana split. She considered going to the lake, the drama of September winds sweeping across the lake as she hurled the ring into the dark mysterious depths. Michael was perfect for drama and late night adventure. “Good idea, but wrapping myself took a good hour. The stuff clings to itself and it will be a real job to take it off.”

“I could help,” Michael offered quietly, studying her with those dark forest-green eyes. Suddenly the air crackled with electricity, raising the hair on Kylie’s nape as she scooted off the couch.

The tight binding around her knees almost caused her to fall back again, but Michael’s broad palm flattened on her backside to push her upright. He had that closed-in, dark brooding look and the air seemed to steam around him as she wrapped her flannel robe around her protectively. “Mmm, no thanks. I’ll be right down.”

Healing hands are a gift and so is a gentle, loving heart. If I could have my wish, there would be more people like my daughter, Kylie. When she is a woman, that kind, patient nature could be her undoing. Yet, there hovering cold in the shadows, the most lonely, torn heart will open to her healing touch.

—Anna Bennett’s Journal

At two o’clock in the morning, Michael stood in the shadows of the pines bordering Valentina Lake. Outlined in the moonlight, Kylie stood with her ring clenched in her hand. She looked too small and alone, and he wanted to wrap her in his arms. He’d always wanted to protect Kylie, even when she was a girl and tormenting him.

She was all woman now—defenseless, explosive, steaming with sensuality. She moved like a dancer, and each succulent curve had called out to him. Michael frowned, unfamiliar with the hard desire riding him. The way her mouth had curved around the word “sex” had drained his mind and filled his loins. Holding her to comfort wouldn’t work, not with his body hard and needing the warmth of hers. Michael lifted his face to the cold night air, scented with pines and Kylie’s earthy womanly fragrance. He trusted the solitary life he’d built with Anna’s help. He didn’t trust himself with Kylie, not the hot raw need that had leaped to life when she’d opened that door. He turned up his collar against the cold wind sweeping down from the mountains and knew that Kylie’s unpredictable and volatile moods could trigger emotions he couldn’t afford. The hard jolt of seeing her almost nude had hit his body with the impact of a brand. He could do little but sink onto Anna’s porch swing.

It was the same porch swing on which fourteen-year-old Kylie had tried to vamp him with Anna’s flowers and herbs perfuming the summer air. Anna Bennett’s daughter was off limits to a man who had little to offer. Michael accepted that he had no heart to give, no future to offer a woman. And yet tonight, he’d wanted to wrap his fists in that soft, wild storm of silky hair and devour her from head to toe.

She had him going again, he brooded darkly and resented his inability to deny the attraction. He’d known she was alone at the midnight hour and the need to see her was unnatural for a man who preferred his solitude. At Tanner’s wedding two weeks ago, Kylie had been pale and taut, but she never let anyone see her shadows. Michael had wanted to hold her then, but one searing stab from Kylie’s blue eyes told him she wasn’t in a friendly mood.

Women should have digital readings across their foreheads that prepared a man for their emotions. Michael rolled his shoulder, aware of his tense muscles. With Kylie in his vicinity, anything could happen.

Insight into her failed marriage made Michael want to punch something—preferably her ex-husband. A controlled martial arts expert, Michael leashed his dark mood. He didn’t want attachments, not even with Kylie’s soft heart. Was he with her now because of his tenderness for Anna?

Michael didn’t trust the storm of emotions circling him. He should have known better than to bring her here, with the night wind churning the past and mocking his fascination for her.

Dressed in a short wool plaid jacket and tight jeans, Kylie stood with her back to him, her legs braced. “I can’t do it, Michael,” she said. “I wanted my marriage to last like Mom and Dad’s. I thought I could make it work. I wanted— I know you’ve had women, but did you ever marry?”

Michael walked slowly to stand behind her; a strand of her hair floated on the wind, snagging gently upon the stubble on his cheek. He wrapped his finger around the silky softness and brought it to his nose, inhaling the fresh clean scent. This wasn’t the Kylie who as a child had pestered him. This was Kylie, a woman trying to make sense of her life. He wouldn’t touch her—she was too sweet and pure and…too damn voluptuous, looking like Mother Earth when she opened the door. Little had kept him from reaching out and placing his hands over her breasts, from devouring her mouth. He’d wanted to be in her, enveloped by her, holding her tight and— Michael breathed unsteadily, shaken by the deep primitive instincts to take Kylie, to bond with her.

He closed his eyes, remembering how many women he’d helped who had had men with those same unleashed instincts. He realized now that his hand was trembling, the hard impact of his need still circling him, but mixed with tenderness now. Michael’s life hadn’t prepared him for tenderness.

She looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes silvery and haunted in the moonlight. “Help me. Talk to me. Tell me why dreams go so wrong.”

He caught the windswept hair curling about him in his fist, tethering it gently and rested his hand upon her shoulder. He’d known her all her life and respected her family. He shouldn’t be here with her, her soft body leaning slightly, trustingly back against his. The curved nudge of her bottom against him thrust a white-hot need into his lower body, startling him. His free hand shot to rest on her hip, his fingers latched to the rich curve. He was acting as her brother, he reminded himself, and he would not take advantage of Anna Bennett’s daughter. He could see Anna in Kylie and Miranda, that loving nature. A man like himself—one too scarred by life—could easily tear Kylie apart. He forced his fingers to loosen and eased his hand away, shoving it into his pocket so as not to touch her. “I don’t know about dreams.”