The hold on his line slackened as he turned intense eyes toward her. “Making love to you, Justine … that topped everything.”
“Sloane,” she moaned, turning her back to him in self-defense. “Why do you say things like that?”
“Because it is true. You wanted the truth, didn’t you? Or would you rather I cushion everything I tell you?”
“No, of course not,” she whispered softly. “It’s just … it makes things … so difficult.”
“Only if you make them so.” Propping the fishing line between his knees, he touched her. For what seemed to be the first time in an eternity, his hands closed over her shoulders and brought her back against him, half-turning her in the process. Instinctively, she finished the turn, burying her face against the warm fabric of his shirt, breathing in his scent and its intoxicating freshness.
God, how she had missed just this, she realized with shock. Much as she had put the physical from mind in the all-encompassing demands of the expedition, this was what her body craved. Her arms stole around his back as she hugged him, mindless of all else but his warmth.
“Whoa!” he cried suddenly. “Wait! I’ve got a bite!” Sure enough, within minutes, a large fish lay fluttering its last bit of life out on the aged wood planks. “Trout! Perfect! We’ll dine in style tonight, my dear!” he drawled, infinitely pleased with himself—as, to her surprise, Justine was with him.
They did dine in style that night. The rusticity of the dark log cabin took nothing from the meal of trout, vegetables, and potatoes, the last two from the supplies they had brought. Even the pains of adjusting to the primitive wood stove as a cooking vessel were forgotten with the first sips of wine and the final taste of fresh-brewed coffee.
“Whose cabin is this, anyway?” she asked as, together, they cleaned up later.
“A young couple, originally from Fairbanks, built this several years ago. They are back in the States, visiting with relatives before the winter sets in. They kindly agreed, through an agent, to lend us the use of their home.”
“They built it themselves?” she asked, eyeing the low-beamed ceiling, the close-fitted walls.
“Uh-huh. It is a traditional Alaskan trapper’s cabin, the same design that has been used for years. It is built snugly to serve as protection against the cold … and the mosquitoes.”
“I haven’t seen any mosquitoes.”
“The season, my dear,” he crooned softly, his tone at far odds with the topic of discussion. “The mosquitoes are rampant during June and July. It is too cool and dry for them now. We’re lucky. The droning can drive one insane, not to mention the welts they raise. Alaskans do things big … including their mosquitoes.”
Justine laughed easily. “We heard about those mammoth blueberries. Do you think we’ll find any here?”
“Could be. The growing season is short, but the sun shines for such long hours during that time that things seem to grow beyond normal limits. We’ll go looking tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. But, she asked herself, what about tonight? With the last of the meal finished and cleaned, her eye roamed helplessly to the bed. That one, large bed.
“You go on.” He read her mind. “I want to sit up awhile and make some notes for myself.”
“I—I didn’t bring a nightgown,” she mumbled, half to herself. “I more or less assumed that I’d have my own room in a hotel. It seemed silly to pack lots of extras.” Even to her, the rationalization sounded feeble.
Sloane was unfazed. “I presume you’re wearing long johns beneath those jeans and top?” His gaze speared her.
“Y—yes.”
“Then wear those. It will be pretty cold before the night is through.”
Given all they’d been through together and particularly given the fact that she carried his child within her, modesty seemed ludicrous. Yet, Justine could not get herself to relax. Sidling uncomfortably toward the bed, she slowly and reluctantly removed her boots, then her heavy denims and her wool sweater. The chill itself hastened her movements at the end, though she was appreciative of Sloane’s preoccupation with his papers on the far side of the room. The weight of the quilts fell in welcoming array about her, yet sleep was elusive.
How long she lay, thinking, wondering, imagining, she couldn’t tell. Though the sun had stayed late, its glow had now deserted the small, single window at the front of the cabin. The kerosene lamp by which Sloane worked cast an orange luster about him, its warmth a reflection of that which stole through her quivering limbs. Defensively, she turned her back and snuggled into the far corner of the bed. But, while she might deprive her eyes of the sight of him, his image was vivid in her mind, his presence alive in her senses. When his soft footfall and the rustle of clothing heralded his approach, she stiffened, cringing farther from him. It wouldn’t work, she told herself. Yielding to him now would accomplish nothing but a renewal of that devastating torment. But was that worse than the agony she suffered, wanting him, needing him, loving him as she did?
The bed yielded beneath his weight. His hand reached for her. “Justine?” His gentle whisper was nearly drowned out by the thudding of her heart. “Justine? Come here.”
Had it not been for her telltale quiver, she might have feigned sleep. But he would know, with those dark and cunning eyes that saw through her as no others could. Silently but determinedly, she shook her head.
“Justine … it’s cold. Let me warm you.”
Again, she shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m not cold.”
