Rainshadow Road (Friday Harbor 2)

“I’m not going to have sex with you just to make the shower easier,” Lucy said.

That drew a brief grin from him. “Don’t take it personally, but you’re wearing a hospital garment printed with little yellow ducks, and you’re also bandaged and bruised. So you’re not doing a thing for my libido. You’re also on drugs, which leaves you unable to make decisions on your own behalf. All of which means there is absolutely no chance that I’m going to make any moves on you.” He paused. “Does that make you feel better?”

“Yes, but…” Lucy’s cheeks burned. “While you’re helping me, you’re probably going to get an eyeful.”

His face was grave, but amusement lurked in the corners of his mouth. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Lucy sighed heavily. “I guess there’s no alternative.” She pushed back the covers and tried to sit up.

Sam came to her immediately, fitting his arm behind her back. “No, let me do the work. You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t take it easy. I’m going to help you to the edge of the bed. All you have to do is sit up and let your legs hang over—yes, like that.” His breath stopped abruptly as Lucy grappled with the hem of the hospital garment, which had ridden high on her hip. “Okay.” He started breathing again. “We’re not supposed to take the splint off. But the nurse said to wrap it in plastic when you shower, to keep it from getting wet.” He reached for the bag of supplies and pulled out a bulky roller of nonadhesive clear wrap affixed to a metal handle.

Lucy waited quietly while Sam proceeded to wrap her entire lower leg. His touch was deft and careful, but the occasional brush of his fingertips at her knee or behind her calf sent ticklish sensations along her skin. His head was bent over her, his hair rich and dark. Surreptitiously she leaned forward to catch the scent that rose from the back of his neck, a summery smell, like sun and mown grass.

When the leg was covered to Sam’s satisfaction, he looked up from his kneeling position on the floor. “How does it feel? Too tight?”

“It’s perfect.” Lucy noticed that his color had heightened, the high crests of his cheeks burnished beneath the rosewood tan. And he wasn’t breathing well. “You said I wasn’t doing anything for your libido.”

Sam tried to look penitent. “Sorry. But wrapping you in mover’s tape is the most fun I’ve had since college.” As he stood and picked Lucy up, she clung to him automatically, her pulse quickening at the feel of his easy strength.

“Do you need to … calm down?” she asked delicately.

Sam shook his head, rueful amusement flickering in his eyes. “Let’s just assume this is my default mode during showertime. Don’t worry—I still won’t make any moves on you.”

“I’m not worried. I just don’t want you to drop me.”

“Sexual arousal doesn’t rob me of physical strength,” he informed her. “Brainpower, yes. But I don’t need that to help you shower.”

Lucy smiled uncertainly and held on to his sturdy shoulders as he carried her into the bathroom. “You’re in good shape.”

“It’s the vineyard. Everything’s organic, which requires extra handwork—cultivating and hoeing—instead of using pesticides. Saves the expense of a gym membership.”

He was nervous again, talking a little too fast. Which Lucy found interesting. So far in her acquaintance with Sam, he had seemed completely self-possessed. She would have thought that he would handle a situation like this with aplomb. Instead, he seemed almost as rattled by their enforced intimacy as she was.

The bathroom had been decorated in a clean and uncluttered style, with ivory tile and mahogany cabinetry, and a big framed mirror over a pedestal sink. After lowering Lucy to the plastic stool in the shower stall, Sam showed her how to turn the shower control handles. “Once I clear out of here,” he said, giving her the handheld sprayer, “just toss the robe and gown out of the stall and turn on the water. Take as long as you want. I’ll be waiting on the other side of the door. If you have any problem, you need anything, just give a shout.”

“Thanks.”

The accumulated soreness from the accident caused Lucy to grimace and groan as she maneuvered on the stool and tossed the robe to the floor beyond the shower. She turned on the water, adjusted the heat, and directed the spray over her body. “Ow,” she said, as her cuts and scrapes started to sting. “Ow, ow…”

“How’s it going?” she heard Sam ask from the other side of the door.

“It hurts and feels good at the same time.”

“Need help?”

“No, thanks.”

It required a great deal of maneuvering to soap and rinse herself. Eventually Lucy discovered that the project of washing her hair was too much to contend with. “Sam,” she said in frustration.

“Yeah?”

“I do need help.”

“With what?”

“My hair. I can’t wash it by myself. Would you mind coming in here?”

There was a long hesitation. “You can’t do it by yourself?”

“No. I can’t reach the shampoo bottle, and my right arm is aching, and it’s hard to wash all this hair with only one hand.” As she spoke, Lucy turned off the water and dropped the sprayer to the floor. Painfully she pulled the towel around herself.

“Okay,” she heard him say. “I’m coming in.”

As Sam entered the bathroom, he looked like a man who had just been called for jury duty. Stepping into the open shower stall, he picked up the sprayer. He fumbled with it, adjusting the pressure and temperature. Lucy couldn’t help noticing that his breathing had changed again, and she said, “With the echo in here, you sound like Darth Vader.”

“I can’t help it,” he said edgily. “With you sitting there all pink and steamy—”

“I’m sorry.” She looked up at him contritely. “I hope that being in default mode doesn’t hurt.”

“Not at the moment.” Sam’s hand slipped around the back of her head, cradling the shape of her skull. As she looked up into his blue-green eyes, he said, “It only hurts when I can’t do anything about it.”

The way he was holding her head, the rough-soft sound of his voice, caused a curl of responsive pleasure deep in her stomach. “You’re flirting with me,” she said.

“I take it back,” he said instantly.

“Too late.” She smiled as she closed her eyes and let him wash her hair.

It was heaven, sitting there while Sam worked the shampoo through her hair, his strong fingers rubbing her scalp. He took his time, careful not to let water or suds get into her eyes. The rosemary-mint scent of the shampoo filled the steamy air … that was what she’d smelled on him earlier, she realized. She breathed deeply and tilted her head back, relaxing.

Eventually Sam turned off the water and hung the sprayer in the wall holder. Lucy squeezed out the excess water from her hair with her hand. Her gaze traveled over Sam’s clothes, damp and water-blotched, his jeans sodden at the hems. “I got you wet,” she said apologetically.

Sam stared down at her, his gaze lingering at the place where the damp towel drooped low over her breasts. “I’ll live.”

“I have nothing to wear now.”

He continued to stare at her. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Do you have anything I could borrow?” At his lack of response, Lucy waved her hand between them. “Sam. Come away from the dark side.”

Sam blinked, the glazed blankness leaving his eyes. “I could dig up a clean T-shirt.”

With Sam’s help, Lucy wrapped her hair in a turban. He kept her steady, lightly gripping her h*ps as she balanced on one foot and brushed her teeth at the sink. When she was finished, he carried her to the bed, handed her a T-shirt, and turned his back tactfully as she put it on. The turban became dislodged, its weight tugging at her hair. Lucy pulled it away and finger-combed the damp tangled locks.

“What is this?” she asked, glancing at the squares and letters covering the front of the shirt.

“The periodic table of the elements.” Sam sank to his haunches to remove the covering from her splint.

“Oh, good. I’d hate to be out somewhere and not know the chemical symbol for rhodium.”

“Rh,” Sam said, using a small pair of scissors to snip through layers of wet plastic.

Lucy smiled. “How did you know that?”

“It’s located on your left breast.” Sam tossed the discarded plastic tape to the floor and examined the splint. “If you feel up to it, I’ll bring you downstairs for a change of scenery. We’ve got a big sofa, a flat-panel TV, and Renfield to keep you company.”

As she watched the daylight playing over his hair, Lucy was unnerved by the feeling that had swept over her, something beyond gratitude or mere physical attraction. Her pulse jumped in several places at once, and she found herself wanting, needing, impossible things.

“Thank you,” she said. “For taking care of me.”

“No trouble.”

Slowly Lucy reached for his head, letting her fingers delve into the satisfying heavy locks of his hair. It felt unspeakably good to touch him. She wanted to explore him, learn every texture of him.

She thought that Sam would object. Instead he went still, his head bent. Stroking her way down to the solid nape of his neck, she heard his breath fracture.

“It is trouble,” Lucy said gently. “Isn’t it?”

Sam looked up at her then, his lashes half lowered over unearthly blue, his features taut. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The truth was suspended in their shared gaze, between them, filling their lungs with every breath.

Definitely trouble. The kind that had nothing to do with splints or bandages or sickroom care.

Sam shook his head as if to clear it, and reached for the covers. “I’ll let you rest for a few minutes, while I—”

In a headlong moment, Lucy curled her arm around his neck and brought her mouth to his. It was crazy, reckless, and she didn’t care. Sam took all of a half second to respond, his mouth fastening to hers, a faint groan coming from his throat.

He had kissed her before, but this was something different. This was a waking dream of kissing, a feeling of tumbling with nothing to catch her. Her eyes closed against the view through the windows, the blue ocean, the white sun. Sam’s arms went around her back, supporting her, while his lips caught hers at varying angles and absorbed the small sounds that climbed in her throat. She went weak, molding to his chest, unable to get close enough. Dragging his mouth from hers, Sam kissed her neck, using his tongue and the edges of his teeth as he worked his way to her shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said against her skin. “Lucy, I’m not—”

She searched blindly for his mouth, rubbing her parted lips across his shaven jaw until Sam shuddered and kissed her again. His mouth became roughly coaxing, searching deeper until Lucy gripped the back of his shirt in shaking handfuls.

One of his hands pushed beneath the hem of her shirt, his fingers cool and textured against the burning skin of her side. Her br**sts ached beneath the loose garment, the tips tightening in anticipation of his touch. She groped for his hand, urging it upward. “Please—”

“No. God, Lucy—” He broke off with a quiet curse and tugged the shirt back into place. Forcing himself to let go of her, he scrubbed both his hands over his face as if awakening from a deep sleep. As Lucy reached for him again, he caught her wrists reflexively and kept them manacled in his hands.

Sam kept his face averted, his throat rippling with hard swallows. “Do something,” he muttered. “Or I’ll…”

Lucy’s eyes went round as she realized he was fighting for control. “What … do you want me to do?”

When Sam could bring himself to answer, a wry note had entered his voice. “Some distraction would be nice.”

Lucy looked down at the periodic table that covered the front of her shirt. “Where is glass?” she asked, trying to read the chemical elements upside down.

“Not on the periodic table. Glass is a compound. It’s mostly silica, which is … crap, I can’t think straight. It’s SiO2. Here…” He touched the Si, which happened to be located high on the right side of her chest. “And here.” The pad of his thumb brushed the O on her left side, close to the tip of her breast.

“Glass also has sodium carbonate,” she said.

“I think that’s…” Sam paused, struggling to concentrate. “… Na2CO3.” He studied the front of the shirt and shook his head. “I can’t show you sodium carbonate. Dangerous territory.”

“What about calcium oxide?”

His gaze scanned the shirt until he found it. He shook his head. “I’d have you on your back in about five seconds.”

They both started at the harsh metallic ring of the doorbell, a Victorian hand-turn style.

Sam left the bed with a groan, moving slowly. “When I said I wasn’t going to make any moves on you—” He opened the door and stood at the threshold, pulling in a couple of deep breaths. “I was planning for it to be a reciprocal arrangement. From now on, hands off. Got it?”

“Yes, but how are you going to take care of me if—”

“Not my hands,” Sam said. “Yours.”

* * *

The doorbell rang a couple more times while Sam made his way downstairs. Heat and arousal played all through him, making it impossible to think straight. He wanted Lucy, wanted to take her slowly and stare into her eyes as he moved inside her, and make it last for hours.

By the time Sam reached the front door, his temperature had cooled sufficiently to allow for clear thinking. He was confronted by his brother Alex, who looked more irate and underfed than usual, his frame rawboned beneath loose-fitting clothes. Clearly Alex was not blossoming in the aftermath of divorce.

“Why do you have the fu**ing doors locked?” Alex demanded.

“Hey, Al,” Sam said curtly, “it’s good to see you too. Where’s the key I gave you?”

“It’s on my other key chain. You knew I was coming over this morning—if you want free work done on your house, the least you can do is leave the door unlocked.”

“I’ve had a couple other things on my mind besides waiting for you to show up.”