Half impatiently, he reached out and circled her wrist with his thumb and forefinger. 'Come. Closer to the fire.' Her skin was so cool, her bones so fragile. The combination made his heart lurch with unexpected tenderness. Women were popularly supposed to be the nurturing sex but right now all he wanted to do was keep her safe and warm, provide comfort and ease.
He tugged her into the circle of the firelight, an exploratory hand sliding over her back. As he had thought, the sleeveless cotton top was still soaking wet; he had seen the way she'd curved her body protectively around Sophie as she'd run through the downpour.
Huge golden eyes were fixed unwaveringly on his face as he touched her and she was still shaking, inner tension intensifying the tremors, affecting him too, making his fingers shake as he slowly began to undo the row of tiny fabric-covered buttons that marched down the front of her top.
Affected his voice, too, making it emerge thickly, as if he hadn't used it in a long, long while, when he explained, 'You'll catch a chill if you stay in these wet things any longer.'
The back of his hand brushed the taut swell of one breast, daintily covered—or nearly so—in the finest of laces and silks. He heard the inward tug of her breath, felt the smooth heat of her skin and felt his legs go weak, his stomach muscles clench with a fire that spread in a wild explosion of need, engulfing his loins, every last part of his body.
Now all he wanted to do was stroke her, pleasure her, possess her.
And she, the witch, knew that, and began to draw on the magic she possessed to make it so, soft dark lashes fluttering against her ivory cheeks as she bent her head to watch her fingers tug his shirt from the waistband of his trousers then move to the buttons, her breath coming in quick, shallow beats, her breasts taut, swollen, rosy in the fireglow.
His hands moved to her shoulders, whether to hold her away or to keep her close he couldn't be sure. His head was reeling, his mind a blank. He wasn't sure of anything until her small hands parted the sodden fabric of his shirt and her soft palms rested against his ribs. And then there was no doubt. None at all.
He needed this woman with an intensity that overwhelmed him, with a hedonistic abandonment that testified to the power of her sorcery, and the blood roared through his veins, the drum-beat deafening him as her hands slid smoothly up to his shoulders, easing the wet fabric away from his body.
Caro drew in a jagged breath, holding it, hardly daring to exhale as tiny tremors of exquisite sensation trickled through her when her fingers stroked the warm, oiled satin of his skin.
His acceptance of her apology had been curt and cold to the point of total indifference, and he'd left the room as if he couldn't bear to be anywhere near her.
But now—now that he'd touched her, looked at her with naked desire in those sexy silver eyes—now maybe everything would be all right. She moved closer, sliding her body against his, wound her slender arms around his neck and lifted her face to his.
His warm lips lightly covered hers, tasting her, the tip of his tongue outlining the shape of her mouth, dipping inside until she opened to him, moaning her need to accept him utterly.
And when the kiss deepened to a passionate intensity that left her reeling,
clinging to him, she responded with a hunger that matched his own. She loved him, was in love with him, and even if things didn't work out she would have this.
This... and more... Sensations bombarded her, leaving her weak and giddy, breathless and clinging as his hands fastened on her hips, pulling her against his body, leaving her in no doubt at all about the extent of his arousal, one of his thighs nudging hers apart, making her shock all the greater when he suddenly stepped back, his chest heaving as if each breath was torture.
'God help me—but you send me insane!'
'Finn!' Caro gasped his name. She felt as if she'd been pushed out in the cold, away from light and love and hope, the fallen angel banished from heaven. Her breath bunched in her lungs, hurting, her eyes filled with tears, stinging.
His voice was low, raw. 'Sophie could wake at any moment. I should congratulate you. No other woman has ever come near making me forget my child!'
He turned abruptly, dragging the old sofa closer to the fire, draping her top and his shirt over the end to dry.
Caro put her hands up to her burning cheeks. Sophie. Of course. The tiny girl napped for an hour every afternoon. Rarely any longer than that. Which meant she'd soon be waking, needing her nappy changing, wanting a drink and maybe one of the sandwiches.
That both she and Finn had overlooked the possibility of her waking at any moment just went to show how far they'd been carried away, absorbed in each other. She took her top and held it closer to the leaping flames, watching the steam rise gently from her skirt. She felt absurdly shy, although her bra was perfectly respectable. It was because there was still an edginess between them.
'Finn?'
He had gone to stand at the windows, watching the weather. The storm was passing, the sky lighter, the rain less heavy.
'Well?'
The touch of impatience in his voice made her suck her lower lip between her teeth. Somehow they had to get things straightened out. She had to know if there was any chance at all of things working out between them. She wouldn't weep and wail if he told her there wasn't. She would accept it, with dignity, and cut her losses. Or try to.
She cleared her throat. 'When we were here before...' They had become absorbed in each other that time, too. Lost to everything but the way they could make each other feel. 'You said...' God, but this was difficult. And he wasn't making it easier, the rigid line of his back, the way it was turned on her hurtfully dismissive. 'You said you thought you were falling in love with me,' she pushed out bravely. 'Did you mean it? It wasn't just a line you use to get a woman into your bed?'
Sweat broke out on her short upper lip at his dry riposte. 'I don't normally have to go quite that far.'
'I can believe it.' Was that her voice, so thick and heavy? She wished he would turn and look at her when he spoke; she wished he'd smile, reassure her, let her feel she wasn't about to make a monumental fool of herself.
'I want you to have meant it...I... You see, I was falling in love with you, too.' She held her breath, hardly daring to breathe or to hope, and he did turn then, but slowly, swinging round on the balls of his feet, his austere features unreadable.