“It looks that way.”
“Where’s my room?” Her gaze traveled over the lobby, the first traces of fatigue showing on her face.
“It’s this way.” Keeping a supportive hand under her elbow, he walked her over to the broad staircase and pressed the room key into her palm, then pointed up the steps and repeated the clerk’s directions, “Second floor, turn left at the head of the stairs, third door on the left.” She gave a great show of listening intently, then nodded her head once in understanding. “Can you make it all right?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He remained at the bottom of the staircase, watching as she started up the steps, keeping one hand on the banister’s wood railing and using it to pull herself along. A third of the way up, she paused and turned back to him with a puzzled frown.
“Hey, Dakota, where did you say it was again?” The note of annoyance in her voice was self-directed.
It brought a glint of amusement to his eyes. Obviously, she didn’t like this addled, helpless feeling that had resulted from too much alcohol in the system. He stared at her for another long minute, conscious that she stirred something more than amusement in him, something that quickened his senses and his desires. It was more than her undeniable beauty that drew him. Beauty, in his experience, had too often been a shallow thing. But in this woman, there was more than mere beauty; there was a pride and strength of character, an assertion of independence in the way she had rejected his sympathy. Someone weaker would have welcomed it, perhaps even wallowed in it. But not this woman. He had the feeling that weakness was something she despised in anyone, including herself.
All of this went through his mind in that flashing instant between her question and his briefly delayed response. “I’ll take you to your room,” he said, and knew that he welcomed the excuse to remain in her company a little longer, despite the fact that he also knew she was privately grieving for another man.
He joined her on the stairs and spread his hand across her back to guide her up the steps. In a different way, he was just as conscious of her nearness as he had been on the dance floor.
“I can find it on my own.” She gave him a perplexed little frown.
“This way will be quicker.”
She looked at the key in her hand and nodded. “True.”
Together they started up. She caught her toe on the next step and stumbled against him. He reacted instantly to catch her against him and keep her upright. She dipped her head briefly against him, then tipped it back, a rueful laugh slipping out.
“My legs suddenly feel so rubbery,” she admitted, a faintly bemused light flickering in her green eyes.
From other women, such a remark would have been a plea to be carried, but not her. Instead, she gathered herself and started up the stairs again on clearly unsteady legs. He stayed with her for two more steps, then scooped her into his arms.
After a startled gasp, she looped her arms around his neck and murmured, “I probably should object, but I’m too tired and this is too comfortable.”
“Good, because I wouldn’t pay any attention to you anyway.”
As he took the next step, she rested her head on his shoulder.
“I’ve never been carried before, not since I was a little girl, when my daddy would carry me upstairs and tuck me into bed.”
The idea of tucking her into bed was a tantalizing thought, conjuring up images that were far from the innocent ones she recalled. It was a woman’s body in his arms, not a child’s.
“It makes me feel safe,” she murmured. “Safe and protected.”
Something strong and fiercely tender surged through him. Logan subtly shifted his grip, gathering her closer. At the same time, he was disturbed by his reaction, and oddly irritated as well. He was a man, pushed by the same lusts as other men. Alcohol had lowered her defenses, but only by the law’s definition was she drunk. With her guard down, it wouldn’t be that difficult to work his way into her bed, and he knew it. If she had been like other women he had met in bars, none of this would be bothering him. But she wasn’t. She was a different breed entirely.
She snuggled closer and nuzzled his neck. “You smell good, do you know that?”
“Probably the aftershave I used,” he replied as heat curled through him, triggered by the warmth of her lips against his skin. He saw, with a bedeviling mix of relief and regret, that he was nearly to the top of the stairs.
“I like it,” she murmured. “It reminds me of the tall grass plains in summer—with a storm coming.”
As far as he was concerned, the storm had already arrived. The charged tension of it licked through his nerve ends and sharpened all his senses, making him aware of the curve of her hips and the firmness of her breasts. It was an easy step to remember the taste of her kiss and the way her body molded itself so naturally to his. Much too easy.
By the time he reached the door to her room, her nuzzling had turned into a provocative nibbling, and his breathing had roughened.
He let her feet sink to the floor, her body sliding over his and making him harder than he already was. Her hands remained around his neck, her face upturned and her lips softly parted in a woman’s age-old signal of invitation.
But he didn’t trust himself to accept, didn’t trust that he would stop with a kiss. “I need the room key.”
“I need to be kissed again.”