The bed shifted, and he turned around. Kirby climbed out, her pale skin almost ghostly as she padded naked out of the bedroom.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She didn’t answer him, and her thoughts were distant, almost sleepy. Frowning, he rose and followed her down the hall. She hesitated in the living room, then headed for the back door, battling to open it.
Sleepwalking, he thought. But why was she attempting to go outside? He reached past her, unlocking the door. She showed no awareness of his presence, and though her eyes were open, it was obvious she wasn’t seeing anything beyond whatever images filled her dreams. He grabbed his coat to wrap around her once the dream had ended and followed her outside.
Sure-footed as a cat, she walked down the steps and out into the wildness of the night. The wind spun around her, snagging her warm brown hair and playing with it wildly. She raised her hands, as if reaching for the wind, then laughed, a soft sound of pleasure that sent a shiver of desire running through him.
She moved down the hill, a slender apparition barely visible in the darkness. He followed her past the black patch of grass that was the remains of the zombie, to the trees. There she sat cross-legged on the grass, staring up at the tossing trees.
Communing with the wind, he thought. He stopped behind her, watching the goose bumps chase across her pale skin, wishing he could hear what the wind was telling her. Wishing he knew why this was happening. She wasn’t a storm witch, and talking to the wind was not something she’d been able to do before now. He knew that from her earlier thoughts and words.
She raised her hands again, as if reaching for someone. Sorrow ran through her, through him, and he knew without looking that there were tears on her cheeks. Maybe it wasn’t the wind she was talking to after all. Maybe it was the ghost of her dead friend.
The wind played about her again, briefly including him in its wild dance. For an instant he heard the song—a gentle, melodious sound of love. Then it died, and Kirby collapsed sideways to the ground. He tucked his coat around her and carried her back inside.
She snuggled back under the blankets and sighed contentedly. He caressed her cheek, wondering if she’d remember her nocturnal journey in the morning. Wondering if she’d remember what the wind and her dead friend had told her—and whether she’d pass that information on to him.
He glanced at his watch. It was barely three o’clock, and he really needed to get some more sleep. But that wasn’t going to happen just yet, especially if he tried to lie down beside her. Good intentions were all well and good, but right now he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone in his life. Time, he thought, for a shower. A very cold shower. He bent and kissed her cheek, then headed into the bathroom.
KIRBY DREAMT OF WARMTH AND DESIRE. IT WRAPPED around her, pressed heat against her, providing a security, a tenderness, she’d never felt before.
She sighed and turned toward it. An arm wrapped around her, pulling her close. Breath whispered against her skin, sleepy and warm. Lips sought hers, lips that were tender yet sensuous. Lips she just wanted to keep tasting forever.
Desire ached through her, and in that instant, she fully woke, realizing with shock that it was no dream. She was indeed lying in bed and kissing a man. And she was naked to boot.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she pulled back abruptly. We couldn’t have, she thought, not daring to open her eyes. Surely she would remember if she and Doyle had made love …
“I would certainly hope so,” he said, his voice gravelly and sexy as hell.
She opened her eyes. His face was inches from hers, blue eyes filled with mischief, warmth and desire.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked.
“Fine.” A little on the weak side, maybe, but that was probably due to lack of food more than anything else. She touched his smooth cheek, running her finger down to his chin. “You’ve shaved.”
He was also fully dressed and lying on top of the covers, rather than underneath. Relief ran through her, though it was touched by an odd sense of disappointment.
His sudden grin sent another shiver of desire through her.
“I thought I’d better,” he said. “Didn’t want to give you whisker burn, if I ever got the chance to kiss you again.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What made you think you were ever going to get another chance?”
“You’re a woman. I’m a man. We’re in a dangerous situation, and we’re mutually attracted.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, his touch flushing warmth down to her toes. “The odds are on my side, you know.”
“Pretty damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she muttered. Trouble was, they both knew he was right.
“Sure of myself, yes.” He stared at her for a moment, blue eyes intent, his thoughts suddenly troubled. “But sure of you? That I’m not.”
It was pointless to say anything. Not when she was as unsure of herself as he was.
He caught her fingers and kissed them lightly. “Happy birthday, by the way.”
Her birthday. Helen’s birthday. This certainly wasn’t the way she’d imagined she’d be spending it. Nor was he the person she’d thought she’d be spending it with. She bit her lip and blinked back the sting of tears.
“I haven’t got you a present,” he said, and rose swiftly from the bed. “But I can make you breakfast.”