The Passionate Lover. Carole MortimerЧитать онлайн книгу.
had been instinctive rather than intentional.
‘I'm sorry,’ she muttered as he examined her right temple with surprisingly gentle fingers. ‘And I think I probably got that when I fell into the cabin earlier.'
His mouth twisted with derision where it was on a level with her eyes, but the scathing comment she had been expecting didn't come. Instead he concentrated on the cut. ‘It doesn't look too bad, although the skin is broken. I'll clean it up for you once you have those wet clothes off.’ He stepped back.
She hadn't realised just how close he was standing until the warmth of his body was removed, feeling a sudden shiver through her body. ‘Get undressed,’ Kyle mistook the shiver for one of cold, turning back to the fire to give her what privacy he could in the close confines of the cabin.
Her clothes clung to her damply as she peeled them off, making the task doubly difficult, the cold seeming to have seeped into her very bones, the blanket she wrapped around her sarong-wise saving her modesty but giving little real warmth. It was also rough and abrasive against her skin. And she didn't even have a brush for her hair. Reaction suddenly began to set in, and she sat down heavily on one of the beds as the tears cascaded down her cheeks.
Everything had seemed so wonderful until today. She couldn't have been happier, was marrying the man she loved; Kenny had even decided they should live in London after the wedding, dispelling her worries about the salon. Now she had got lost in the snow, had been told Kenny no longer wanted to marry her, and was stranded in a primitive cabin with no clothes but what she had been wearing, with a man who made no attempt to hide the fact that he despised her.
It was all too much, too sudden, and the tears fell unchecked, the sound of her sobbing finally causing Kyle to turn and look at her. ‘What the—–!’ He was across the room in two strides, sitting down beside her on the bed, pulling her into his arms, her face buried against his chest. ‘What is it, Shelby?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Tell me what's wrong?'
The man must be an insensitive clod if he didn't know. ‘Everything,’ she sniffed miserably.
‘Hey, we'll be all right. We'll be out of here in a few days, and then—–'
‘A few days!’ she wailed, crying harder than ever.
‘I'll see that you don't starve.’ He mocked the appetite the mountain air had given her the last weeks, having eaten as much as any man.
‘It isn't that,’ she choked, seeming to have trouble stopping the tears now that they had started.
‘Then what is it?’ His voice hardened. ‘Are you afraid you won't be able to survive here without the—companionship, my cousin has been providing?'
The insult was completely unwarranted, and her tears dried immediately. ‘For your information, Mr Whitney,’ she said icily, pushing him away from her, ‘I have slept alone every night since my arrival here.'
‘Why?'
‘W—why?’ she echoed in a puzzled voice. ‘I don't know what you mean.'
He shrugged. ‘Kenny would have been more than willing to share your bed. And I'm sure that some of my men wouldn't be averse to it either,’ he added mockingly.
She flushed her indignation, her near hysteria of a few moments ago all but forgotten. ‘You keep referring to them as “your” men in that arrogant way,’ she snapped to hide how deeply he had wounded her with his assumption. She had heard all the old clichés about young widows since her husband had died, the most popular crudely being ‘once you've had it you can't do without it', but she had only ever had one lover in her life, and that had been Gavin. She hadn't been in any hurry to replace him on the intimate side of her life, and not being a very sensual person herself she hadn't found that too difficult. Unlike some people, she didn't believe life, and happiness, revolved around the physical.
Kyle raised dark brows at her criticism. ‘Shouldn't I?'
The argument was ridiculous, she could see that. They were stuck here, possibly for several days—she refused to think it could be any longer than that!—and to argue about such a trivial matter when their lives could ultimately be in jeopardy was fruitless. ‘This is stupid.’ She stood up with impatient movements, the blanket securely in place. ‘We're alone out here, and somehow we have to survive, any unpleasantness between us is pointless.'
For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then he too stood up. ‘I'll put something on your forehead.'
‘It doesn't really hurt—–'
‘No senseless arguments, remember?’ he mocked, as he opened the full medicine cabinet kept in the kitchen area.
She stood perfectly still while he administered to the cuts on her forehead, doing her best not to look up at him, although it wasn't easy in the circumstances. A faint aroma of male aftershave clung to his skin, and with this came the realisation that he already had more than just a five o'clock shadow. Obviously he was one of those men who needed to shave twice a day.
‘You'll have to grow a beard,’ she said inconsequentially, blushing as he looked down at her with taunting grey eyes. And for someone who rarely blushed she was doing it a lot lately. Somehow this man had the power to make her feel incredibly young, gauche almost. It wasn't a pleasant sensation.
‘I guess I can stand that if you can,’ he drawled.
‘What do you mean?’ she frowned.
He finished putting the adhesive tape in place. ‘I've been told that a beard doesn't suit me.'
She felt sure that it wasn't so much that it wouldn't suit him; it would just cover too much of that ruggedly handsome face, would make him look almost demonic. ‘I can stand it,’ she muttered, turning away. ‘I'll get our dinner now.'
She was aware of those watchful grey eyes on her as she worked, was unaware of how attractive she looked with her hair soft about her makeupless face, the blanket revealing more of the perfection of her body than she realised—or would have wanted had she known.
Now that they had decided not to argue they seemed to have little to say to each other, the impromptu stew she had made from the tinned meat and dried vegetables eaten in silence.
‘You really can cook,’ Kyle said appreciatively after downing two platefuls. ‘We could do with you out here at branding time, Charlie is the worst cook I know.'
She gave the ghost of a smile at his attempt at light conversation, exhaustion making her slow to react to what she knew was a standard joke at the Double K. Everyone made derogatory remarks about Charlie Peterson's cooking, but Shelby had a feeling it was done more out of affection for the old man than from any real truth. ‘Your aunt told me she taught him herself,’ she said as she cleared the table of their crockery, putting it in the soapy water she had boiled.
Kyle grimaced. ‘That statement should speak for itself.'
Helen Whitney was one of the best cooks she had ever met; now she knew the jokes were only teasing. Kenny's mother ran the ranch-house with an iron will that matched that of her nephew, and Shelby had come to like her very much.
‘Let me do this,’ Kyle gently moved her away from the sink, his expression searching. ‘You look as if you're about all in. Get some sleep now, everything will seem different in the morning.'
She certainly hoped so, because everything seemed very bleak right now! Maybe tomorrow she would have the strength and mental capacity to ask him exactly what he had meant about Kenny. Right now she just wanted to sleep.
She did exactly that as soon as her head touched the pillow, heavily at first, and then the dreams began to intrude, dark frightening dreams of the snow falling in on her and burying her, bringing her to startled wakefulness. She looked about her dazedly for several minutes, despair washing over her as she realised where she was.
One of the lamps still burnt low in the cabin, and glancing at the man who slept across the room from her Shelby knew it wasn't for Kyle's benefit. He lay on his back, the