When Lightning Strikes

"So thass it," she said in a rush. "Thass what this 'trust me' is all about. You want to get me into bed."

He sighed. "No. I meant, let's go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

"I feel good now. And sleeping is . .." She started to say, meant to say, the last thing I need; she even opened her mouth to say it, but what came out was different. "Hard for me."

Lainie couldn't believe she'd said it, couldn't believe she'd thrown her vulnerability out there for him to see. She glanced wildly around for another bottle of whiskey. She wasn't drunk enough; Jesus, she wasn't drunk enough.

"I know how that goes."

She paused. It seemed to take an hour for her to turn to look at him, and when she did, she wished to hell she hadn't. He was looking at her with an understanding that unaccountably made her want to cry. She sniffed and raised her eyebrows, trying to look sober and casual. "I want another drink."

"You've had enough."

She clicked her heels together and shot her right hand forward. "Heil Hitler."

He ignored her and sat on the fallen log near the fire. Beside him, two sleeping bags lay side by side. He pulled off his boots and set them aside, then crawled into one of the sleeping bags, patting the one beside him. "Come to bed. You need the sleep."

You need the sleep. The words washed through her,

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leaving her ragged and shaken. "I ... don't sleep well. You go ahead."

"Come here, Alaina." His voice was soft and rich. It seemed she'd waited a lifetime for that voice, that quiet request. Before she knew it, she'd taken a step toward him.

When she realized what she'd done, she jerked to a stop.

"Don't be afraid," he breathed.

She stiffened. "I'm not afraid."

"Prove it. Lay by me."

That had been a stupid thing to say. She hadn't walked into his trap; she'd hurtled into it. And now there was nothing left to do but back up her words with action. Slowly she crossed the campsite, only stumbling over her feet twice, and dropped onto the edge of the bedroll.

He reached down, took her boot in his hands. Startled, she glanced at him before she could stop herself. Their gazes met. She saw in his eyes a gentleness that stole her breath.

He leaned over and pulled the boot off, tossing it aside. Then he reached for the other foot.

"I can get that," she said in an irritatingly weak voice.

He was angled toward her, so that he had to turn his head to look at her, and when he did, they were almost close enough to kiss. "I know you can. Let me."

The words sent a shiver through her. She dredged up an ineffective smile and wished she had another drink. She wasn't drunk enough to be in bed with this man. Not by a long shot. "Whatever."

He withdrew the boot and threw it beside the other one, then eased back, leaning against the makeshift pillow

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he'd propped on a fallen log. Once again, he patted the bag beside him. "Come on, Lainie. Get in."

Warily she crawled into the bag and yanked the sheepskin-lined duck fabric up to her breasts.

For a long time they sat there, both silent and staring. Lainie felt his presence beside her, warm and strong and waiting. She knew that he wanted something from her, but she didn't know what, couldn't imagine what.

Her heartbeat sped up. Fear blossomed in the pit of her stomach, making her swallow convulsively. It had always frightened her to feel out of control, and right now it felt as if she were spinning, as if everything she knew, or thought she knew, were being slowly, inexorably drawn away from her and concealed in some impenetrable darkness. She wanted to reach for it, to say or hear something normal, something expected. Wanted desperately to feel something besides this vague, blurry sense of isolation and loss.

"There were years when I didn't sleep at all," he said at last.