Loreth White - Safe Passage

She nodded.

“Fine. I’ll call whoever it is when we get home.”

Scott pulled into Skye’s driveway, heater still cranked.

“No!”

It was the first time she’d spoken since the beach.

“Not here. Not my house…please.”

He looked at her. She was still shivering under his leather jacket, arms still wrapped around Honey. “Where?”

“Anywhere but here.” She looked away, out the dark window. “The wedding stuff. The caterer’s stuff…it’s all in there. In my house.”

“I see. Is there anywhere else, anyone you want to stay with?”

She shook her head.

Scott backed slowly out of Skye’s driveway, turned down his. He couldn’t think of another plan. The woman was in shock. And if she didn’t get some clothes on, her core temperature up soon, she’d be dealing with hypothermia, as well. If she wasn’t already.

Scott ran a hot bath, then fished around in his closet for something for her to wear. It all looked foreign to him. Rex had provided him with a “writer’s” wardrobe. Scott found a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt and a fleece sweatshirt. She would swim in them, but they’d keep her warm.

While she bathed, he built a fire. He heated soup and poured a large brandy. This he pushed into her hands when she walked into his living room.

“Here. Want some soup?”

She looked deep into his eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. “Scott, thank you. I—I don’t know what to say…”

“It’s okay. Come, sit here by the fire.” He pulled the sofa up close to the warmth of the flames. She sat. Her hair hung in damp, dark waves, her silver eyes were wide, startling against her impossibly thick dark lashes and pale skin.

She took a deep sip of the brandy, swallowed, coughed, eyes watering. Honey settled at her feet, curled into a ball. Scott watched the blush of color creep back under those high cheekbones, into that lush mouth.

He tore his focus from her lips, seated himself in the chair on the opposite end of the hearth. “What happened? Why’d you run?”

She didn’t look at him, just stared into the flickering flames, shaking her head.

“Skye?” he said softly.

Her eyes looked slowly up into his. He swallowed sharply. What he saw there was vulnerable, raw. She’d dropped the veil. She was all naked emotion as she looked at him. It threw him completely.

“He…he didn’t show.” Her voice was thick. “Jozsef left me at the altar.” Moisture pooled along the bottom rims of her eyes, making them glimmer like quicksilver in the fire-light. It spilled over onto her cheeks into shimmering trails.

Something snagged in his chest. He took a shallow breath, came quickly over to her side, put his arms tentatively around her. “It’s okay, Skye. Take it easy. You don’t have to talk now.” He lifted a hand, hesitated, then let it gently stroke her dark hair. His breath caught in a ball. It was soft. So soft under his palm.

“I—I should’ve seen the signs…” A soft sob jerked through her body. Tears spilled softly over her face.

“Shh.” He pulled her close, enveloped her in his arms. Her scent surrounded him, a clean freshness mingled with the sophisticated scent of brandy and the faint saline of seawater. He held her a little tighter, stealing her fragrance with a flare of his nostrils.

She relaxed slightly, rested her dark head against his chest. It was a movement so innocent, so trusting. He couldn’t seem to breathe normally. He allowed his cheek to brush softly against her head, to feel the sensation of her hair on his face.

And something swelled painfully inside him, brought a sharp prick of emotion to his eyes. He hadn’t held a woman like this in a long time. Not since his wife.

His jaw tensed.

Sure he’d held women in that time—but not like this. Not like it mattered.

He’d fought hard against this very feeling, this aching sense of vulnerability. He’d gotten himself out of civilization. He’d left home, family, friends—anyone who reminded him. He’d blocked it all out by fighting. Fighting against bio crime, terrorists, the world, himself, his guilt…against finding himself in a moment like this.

His heart beat a wildly increasing pace against his ribs.

And now he was here.

He felt afraid—of himself, of feeling. But the instinct was overpowering. He gave in to it furtively. He closed his eyes, allowed the sensation of her body, warm against his, to sink into him, through him. He nestled his nose softly against the top of her head, drank in the silkiness of her thick dark hair, of the little breaths that shuddered intermittently through her body as she fell asleep in his arms. He held her, listening to the pop and crack of flames in the hearth, to the sounds of the night outside.

He didn’t want to think of anything, only of how it felt to hold a woman in his arms. A woman who needed him.

Honey gave a little whimper. Scott’s eyes flickered open. The dog watched him with her liquid brown pools.

God, he’d fallen asleep with her. The flames were faint glowing embers, the cool night air creeping in as their quavering watch against the cold dwindled.

Shocked, Scott edged out from under Skye’s weight, careful not to wake her.

She murmured.

“Shh. Sleep,” he whispered.

She stirred. “The…the bike, Peter Cunningham’s bike—”

“Shh. Not to worry. I’ll call him. Get some rest. I’ll get you a blanket.”

She nodded, snuggled deeper into the sofa.

Scott covered her with a blanket, stoked the fire, flicked the living room lights off, leaving only the shimmying copper flames and dancing shadows on the walls. He stared down at her. She looked like something unreal. So exotic, so striking…yet fragile, vulnerable.

How, wondered Scott, could anyone in their right mind ditch a woman like Skye Van Rijn? How could a man leave a woman like this at the altar?

Then with a rude jolt, he remembered his mission. He dragged his hand hard through his hair, reached for his cane, went to look for the phone book.

He called Peter Cunningham from the kitchen.

“Thank God she’s all right.”

“Yeah. Your bike’s fine, too.” Scott told him where he could pick it up.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Scott McIntyre, her neighbor…a…a friend.”

“You weren’t at the church?”

“I was late. Caught her bolting, so I followed her.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “The cops are out looking for her.”

“She’s okay, Peter. She’s sleeping, but I can wake her if you want…or you’re welcome to come ’round. Send the cops, whatever.”

Peter hesitated. “I’ll get Charly to come ’round. I think she’d prefer that.”

“Fine. Any idea what happened to her fiancé?”

Peter cleared his throat. “After the church, when I got home, I checked my voice mail. There was a message from Jozsef. He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Skipped town. Vamoose. Decamped—”

“I got it. Why’d he go?”

“Lord if I know. I thought I knew this guy…thought he loved her. I thought—”

“He say where he was going?”

“No. I went to his place to see if I could catch him, but he’d already cleaned out. I mean totally.” He hesitated. “We’re all terribly sorry for Skye. I just can’t believe this. We were worried sick. Thank God she’s all right.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll let the cops know you found her…and thank you.”

“Sure.” Scott hung up, then checked to make sure Skye was still sleeping. He closed the heavy kitchen door, activated the scrambler and called Rex.

The Bellona boss picked up on the first ring. “Hey, I was just about to call you. Bloody good hunch on Danko, old chap.”