Frank led her to an overhanging rock where it was dry underneath. “Can you build a fire?” he asked over the rain, which was coming down harder.
When she nodded, he ran back out and gathered their belongings. By the time he got back, the rain had turned into a storm and Frank was drenched.
Miranda had found a stack of dry branches piled in the back of what was almost a cave. And toward the front was a circle of rocks enclosing some burned wood.
Frank put the two packs and loose gear on the stone floor.
“You come here often, don’t you?” she asked. She’d found plastic-encased matches with the wood, as well as dried leaves needed for tinder.
“When I can. Do you mind?”
He was asking her permission to remove his wet shirt.
Miranda got up and helped him, peeling the wet cloth over his cast.
“Damned thing!” Frank muttered. “I hate being helpless.”
“I would too.” She tossed his wet flannel shirt onto the stone, then started on his long-sleeved undershirt. It was plastered to his skin. “I think I should have left a bread-crumb trail.”
“Didn’t the birds eat those and the kids ended up in serious trouble?”
“So you have read something other than a business report. Bend down.” He was too tall for her to reach to pull the shirt over his head. When she had it off, she put it on the rocks, then turned to see him, nude from the waist up.
For a moment she stared at him, at his muscular chest, with its light coating of hair. The rain outside, the darkness of the cavelike rock formation, the warm light of the fire, all made them seem very isolated. And it had been a long, long time since Miranda had felt a man’s body against hers. She missed the hardness of a man’s flesh, the warmth of him, the way he could make a woman feel protected and safe—and the way he could ignite a raging desire in her body.
As she went to her pack, she made herself turn away. She’d put in one of the cotton shirts she’d found in her suitcase. “Sit,” she told him.
She couldn’t bring herself to look into his eyes. If there was even a hint of invitation in them, she didn’t think she could resist. Between the atmosphere and the longing, she knew she’d slide into his arms and they’d make love on the stone floor.
She walked behind him and began to rub his wet back with her dry shirt, rubbing hard to generate warmth in his skin. He kept his head down, letting her do what she wanted to him.
After a few minutes, he put his hand up and she handed him the shirt so he could dry his chest. He was facing the entrance to the rock formation and the fire was before them.
Miranda couldn’t help herself as she ran her hands over his shoulders. The shape, the hardness of them made her own body grow warm. There seemed to be no fat on him, just acres of warm, honey-colored skin that curved and dipped over lean muscle.
He sat very still, not moving, and she knew that if she made even the slightest gesture, he’d turn to her. Could he kiss? she wondered. Or did he think kissing wasn’t needed? Not “efficient”?
She stepped back from him. “Did you bring another shirt?”
“In my pack.” There was an almost sad tone to his voice, as though he knew the moment had been lost.
She got the shirt out, helped him pull it on over his cast, then tended to his
wet clothes. She wrung them out and made a makeshift rack by the fire to get them dry.
“How about you?” he asked. “Dry?”
“Sure. Thanks to you. I guess you assumed I was lost.”
“No,” he said. “I missed your company. I’ve never had anyone up here before. My brothers come, but . . .” He trailed off. “I caught a few fish.”
“So you did,” she said. “While I clean and cook, why don’t you tell me about your big family. Do they think like you?”
Frank leaned back against the rock wall. “Not at all. Some of my brothers are fairly good businessmen, but they don’t take it seriously.”
As he talked, Miranda gutted and scaled the fish. She’d brought flour and butter and even capers with her, and she handed Frank the little potatoes to peel and slice.
It took a bit of encouragement from her to get him to talk about himself, but he did. What she heard was of a life with an underlying loneliness to it. His siblings had all been gregarious, laughing kids who tumbled over each other like puppies. But Frank had been quiet.