Chill Factor

“I won’t. I’m not modest.”

He carried her bathwater outside and discarded it, refilling the bucket with snow. While he was waiting for it to melt, then heat, Lilly rummaged in the kitchen. “We’ve got pots and pans. Do you think we could heat a can of soup in the fireplace?”

“Sure.”

She glanced over her shoulder and caught him peeling his sweater over his head in the inexplicable way a man does it, making his hair stand on end, and only then pulling his arms from the sleeves.

Not wanting to think of him with that tolerant fondness her sex has for the peculiarities of the other, she crossed to the living room window and pushed aside the drape. “Maybe it’s my imagination,” she said, “but the snow seems to have let up a little.”

“I guess the forecasters were right.”

“I guess.”

She heard the clank of his belt buckle striking the rock hearth when he dropped his jeans. The whispery rasp of fabric against skin. The soft splash of water as he dipped the washcloth into the bucket.

She placed the tip of her index finger against the cold windowpane, then drew a vertical line in the frost. “I don’t believe any of my calls to Dutch got through.”

She sensed that he’d ceased all movement and was standing perfectly still, staring at her back. After several tense moments, she heard the ripple of water and knew that he was resuming his bath.

“Which means that Dutch didn’t hear from me that you’re Blue. So if Dutch didn’t identify you to the FBI, they were seeking you on their own. Why, Tierney?”

“You can ask them when they get here.”

“I would rather you tell me.”

He didn’t say anything for such a long time she thought he was going to ignore her. But eventually he spoke. “That girl, Millicent Gunn. I know her from the sporting goods store where she clerks. I was in there buying socks within days—maybe the very day—of when she was reported missing. I’m sure they’re checking out everyone who had any contact with her.”

“Is that what they said on the radio, that they were checking out everyone? Or was your name the only one mentioned?”

“I may be the only one they haven’t got around to.”

That was a reasonable explanation, but if that was all there was to it, why had he become so upset about it? Also, she doubted his name would have been broadcast if the FBI wanted him only for a routine interview.

“If I hadn’t been able to etch your name into the cabinet, I suppose I could have written it in the frost on the window.”

Suddenly she realized that was precisely what she had done. Like a schoolgirl writing the name of her beau on her book cover, without even being aware she was doing it, she had printed his name in the frost.

Embarrassed and impatient with herself, she swiped the name off the glass . . . only to see, in the watery smear left by her hand, a reflection of him. Naked, backlit by the fire, his wet skin glistening.

Her lips parted on a swift intake of air. Desire, embedded deep within her center, unfurled and expanded. Unaware of her watching him, he leaned down to dip the cloth in the bucket. He wrung water from it before applying it to his chest, moving it gingerly over his bruised ribs, down his flat belly, then into the shadowy lushness between his thighs.

Lilly closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the windowpane. Her blood was pumping thick and hot. The roaring in her ears was so loud she could barely hear him when he said, “You could have done that. The oil from our skin leaves marks on the glass that last until the window is washed.”

What was he talking about? She couldn’t even remember. She raised her head and, to prevent herself from looking at him again, let the drape fall back over the window before she opened her eyes.

“Just about finished,” he said. She heard the jingle of his belt buckle when he picked up his jeans. A few seconds later, he said, “You can turn around now.”

When she came around, she didn’t look directly at him, but out of the corner of her eye she could see him pulling his head through the neck of his sweater. She moved into the kitchen. “I’ll get the soup ready.” Miraculously her voice sounded normal.

“Good. I’m hungry.”

He went outside to empty the bucket. By the time he joined her in the kitchen, she had emptied a can of condensed soup into a pan and added some of their drinking water to it.

“Thanks for the Southern Magnolia,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I hate asking you to do this again, but would you check that gash on my head?”