Snowbound

from the bath, her hair curling even more from the

steam, cheeks rosy, gaze shy. She hadn’t gotten dressed

again, nor had she slipped into a little negligee. Instead

she wore flannel pajama pants and a simple white

camisole. Without—a flicker of a glance told him—

having put a bra on beneath it.

He’d been aroused even before he kissed her. Now

that he had… He wished like hell he’d had sex some206

time within the last two years. It had been so damn

long, he didn’t know if he had the self-control not to

come the minute he got inside her.

Slow things down, he told himself, lifting his head.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured.

“You know I’m not…” She stopped, humor briefly

lighting her face. “Never mind. I’m not really dumb

enough to try to convince you I’m ordinary looking. It’s

okay for you to think I’m beautiful. Gorgeous. Ravishing.”

Wanting her to believe him, John covered her mouth.

“You have these fine bones.” He traced a fingertip over

her cheekbone, along the delicate line of her jaw. “Big

eyes that flash a thousand emotions. And questions. I

can always see them crowding your head.”

Right now she watched him helplessly, as if he held

power over her.

“Do you know how shiny your hair is?” His fingers

slipped into the strands. “You turn your head and it

shimmers.”

She let out a tiny sound.

“Your voice. Gentle but with steel beneath when

you’re in schoolmarm mode.”

She opened her mouth as if to protest, and he

silenced her by kissing her. Lightly, ending with a tug

at her lower lip.

“And your lips,” he whispered, “are perfect. Not thin,

not pouty, just…sweet. And sexy.”

“You know,” she said, voice thready, “you don’t have

to flatter me. I was already yours with the ‘should I take

your suitcase upstairs?’”

“Yeah, I do.” John knew he wasn’t very good being

romantic, but he felt he owed her the words. The next

ones, though, he didn’t know how to say. They came out

sounding awkward. “Mostly, though, it’s not the way

you look. It’s…you.”

Her forehead crinkled. “What do you mean?”

“Your optimism. The way you want to believe in

everybody. Your honesty, your kindness…” His throat

clogged. “You have a gift for seeing people. Looking

past the outside.”

“You mean, your scar.” She reached up and stroked

it, her fingers as gentle as an early spring breeze.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “My scar.”

“Well, it’s my turn. This scar, it doesn’t disfigure

you! It made me worry about how much it must have

hurt, and how close that shrapnel or whatever it was

came to your eye. But you’re as handsome as you were

before. You’re, um, a hunk.” She blushed. “Even the

girls noticed, believe me.”

Crap, he was blushing at the idea of teenage girls observing him that way.

“Don’t worry.” A smile lightened her voice. “They’re

just hoping the boys their age come out nearly as well.”

“God,” he muttered.

Any humor fled. “And…and I’m not here because of

how you look, either. I’m here because of you. ”

That was the part he didn’t get. He knew what he

was: bad-tempered, withdrawn, and, yeah, a little bit

crazy. Sane men didn’t see blood soaking pristine white

snow. They didn’t wake up shouting warnings that came

a year too late.

But he was sane enough to want to take what she was

offering. Acceptance, friendship, healing. And, yeah,

sex. He wanted the sex something fierce.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” John said gruffly.

“I was about to make reservations here.”

“I haven’t put anyone in your room since the day you

left.”

“Uh-oh.” Tears sprang into her eyes. “Darn it, now

I’m getting weepy!”

He caught a tear from her lash on his fingertip. “Have

I killed the mood here?”

With sudden fierceness, she said, “Not on your life,”