Chapter Eight

Allison curled inside her sleeping bag on the couch and watched Sloan add another log to the fire. Sparks flew up the chimney as the charred wood collapsed under the weight of the new log. By the firelight, she studied the strength of his jaw and broad shoulders. His suit was nothing but a faded memory. Dressed casually in jeans, he looked as if he belonged in the wilds of the mountains instead of the glitz of the big city. His ability to blend with his environment, to adapt to the situation, was impressive.

She wondered exactly when her opinion of him changed. Had it been when he came into the garage? When he helped Mitchell with his homework? While he silently watched as she spent hours tracing through code? Or was it there all along and she’d just pushed it aside? If she wasn’t careful, her resolution to stay detached would snap like a broken icicle.

A few feet from the fire, Mitchell was stretched out in his sleeping bag. She was glad he was around to help keep the situation in perspective. Unfortunately, it had only taken him minutes after his head hit the pillow to fall asleep, so he wasn’t running much interference at the moment.

By staying awake as long as she could, Allison was delaying the inevitable—sleeping in the same room with Sloan. It shouldn’t be such a big deal that she and Sloan were alone, not in today’s society. Yet, in her mind they would be together, breathing the same air, dreaming through the same night. The closeness, the intimacy, was tangible—almost like sharing the same bed.

The blizzard hadn’t let up and the power hadn’t returned. The rooms upstairs were quite cold when she sent Mitchell to get ready for bed. Instead of trying to find ways to warm the second floor, they decided to use the sleeping bags near the fireplace. It made the most sense, but the closeness made her uncomfortable.

Sloan insisted Allison use the couch while he rolled out his sleeping bag on the floor next to Mitchell. At first, she thought the gesture unexpectedly generous of him. Then she recalled how helpful he was with Mitchell’s homework—how supportive he’d been when they’d needed to take care of the house after the power went out. Chivalry was obviously part of Sloan’s character. Just when she thought she’d found a flaw to hold onto, to keep her resistance strong, he revealed a quality totally unforeseen before tonight.

She wished his thoughtfulness didn’t affect her. She didn’t want to like him. However, the man stoking the fireplace was not the Sloan Cartland she thought she knew.

It was late. The day had been eventful. She should be tired, but her nerves were stretched to the point of snapping. She was hypersensitive to every move he made.

He turned and caught her staring at him. Heat flooded her cheeks and she hoped the shadows hid her blush. She glanced away and looked at her watch. It was nearly midnight.

“Do you think the log will last a while?” His deep voice was quiet, riding on the scent of burning wood. The sound coiled around her, warming her with a familiarity she wanted to ignore.

“It should.” She focused on the question and kept her voice casual. “It took almost two hours to burn the last one.” Nodding toward the log he’d placed on the fire, she added, “That one is bigger.”

He poked at the fire one more time and then replaced the screen.

She shifted in her sleeping bag. “Are you sure you’re going to be comfortable on the floor? That’s hardwood under the carpet.”

“Are you offering to share the couch?”

“No.” The denial came sharper than she intended. “I mean…”

He smiled, seeing her discomfort. “I’ll be fine.” He glanced at the sleeping bag, then at her. “I need to let you know something, though.”

“What’s that?” She frowned.

“I’m not sleeping in all these clothes.”

His statement sent hot tremors racing to the pit of her stomach.

“Okay.” To her dismay, her voice squeaked. So much for sophistication. “I don’t have a problem with that.” What else could she say?

“You can watch…or not.”

Duh! Of course he wasn’t asking permission to sleep in the buff. At least he’d been decent enough to warn her. “Right.” She flipped to her other side and faced the back of the couch.

She heard a dark chuckle, then a thud as his boots hit the floor. Next, came the torturous sound of the zipper on his jeans. A few more seconds passed, where she imagined him slipping out of his shirt, before she finally heard the rustle of his body sliding into the sleeping bag.

“You can turn around now.” His voice drifted up from his position on the floor.

“I’m fine this way.” Her reply was muffled from facing the couch.

“Chicken.” There was teasing in his tone.

“No need for name-calling.” She couldn’t see him, but the image of him shrugging those well-muscled shoulders suddenly appeared in her mind.

The room went quiet. She closed her eyes and counted breaths. Slow and steady, in and out, deep and relaxing. Except there was a problem with the relaxing part.

“Allison?”

She started when he interrupted her meditation. “Yes?” She rolled onto her back.

“I never thanked you for bringing me here.” He paused. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t expected any thanks. “You’re welcome. You didn’t have anywhere else to go. I couldn’t just let you wander the town in a blizzard.” If he could be gracious, then she could certainly try, too.

He gave a noncommittal grunt and then it was quiet again.

She relaxed her breathing.

Deep and slow, in and out.

A small smile graced her lips as she drifted off to sleep.

****

“Allison.” A large hand shook her awake. “Allison. I think Mitch is having a nightmare.”

She rolled to her back and peered through sleep-heavy eyes. “What?”

“Stop! I’m gonna tell!” Mitchell’s shout came from the middle of the living room floor.

Wide-awake now, she slipped out of her sleeping bag and hurried to her nephew’s side to crouch beside him.

“Is he okay?” Sloan looked down at the boy.

She nodded. “It’s just a bad dream. He gets them sometimes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry he woke you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

She glanced at him, standing shirtless in his bare feet and jeans. He must have dressed to wake her. As he ran a hand through his hair and tousled it into sexy disarray, she averted her eyes and turned to comfort Mitchell. “Hush, baby.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Everything’s okay. It’s just a dream.”

A lock of hair had fallen onto his face. She brushed it back, and he rolled to his side; the tension in his body seemed to ease as his breathing evened out.

Allison lightly rubbed his shoulder until she was satisfied he’d settled into a deep sleep.

“He didn’t even wake up.” Sloan’s whisper came from above her. She hadn’t heard him move.

“Mitchell sleeps like the dead. He doesn’t get the dreams often, but once they play out in his mind, it’s over, and he seems to be able to rest better.” She smoothed her nephew’s hair, stood, and turned too quickly, bumping into Sloan as he leaned over. The contact made her jump, but he caught her before she tripped over Mitchell’s sleeping form.

“Steady.” He held her forearms, his bare chest only inches from her face.

She’d forgotten to put on her sweater when she got up, and the heat from Sloan’s palms burned as though he’d held them next to the fire. The contrast against the cool air made her shiver.

Several long seconds passed. She didn’t trust herself to move, afraid to look into his eyes, afraid she’d lean into his warmth. Shadows cast by the faint light of pulsing coals in the hearth emphasized chiseled planes and angles of his well-defined torso. A tattoo of a compass, much like Northstar’s logo, rested high on his chest and caught her eye. Then, a glint from the top snap on his jeans drew her gaze downward.

She placed a hand against his arm to push away. A mistake. The feel of the silky hair on his forearm spread molten fire through her limbs. Her tank top and sweats covered her, but offered little protection from the super-heated air suddenly surrounding them. All thought fled as his scent melded with the warmth from his body, circling her in a veil of sensual longing. She raised her eyes and caught him staring at her lips.

“Why?” His tone was husky, smoky.

Her thoughts swirled around the heady sensation caused by being so close to him. She had no idea what he was asking. “Why, what?” She swallowed.

Sloan’s gaze drifted lower and a shiver tightened her nipples in response.

His lips flattened and he lifted his gaze. “Why does Mitch have nightmares?”

Mitchell. Right! That’s why she was standing in the middle of the living room in Sloan’s arms. “Oh. Umm.” She backtracked to her nephew’s problem. “We think it’s because some of the kids tease him at school.”

“The teasing causes nightmares?” He lightly stroked the underside of her arm.

She could barely concentrate. “He’s sensitive about his size. I think other boys see him as too brainy.” Her voice sounded breathy.

“Like you?” There was a touch of humor in his question.

Sloan must have some image of her. “I suppose.”

“I could teach him some things about self-defense—”

“No.” Her reply gave her strength to escape his hold. She slipped away and walked across the room where the air was colder. It helped her regain composure.

She finished her explanation. “I mean, I’ve already taught him some techniques. He’s afraid to use them. He thinks others will treat him like even more of a weirdo.” Through the darkness, she felt him search her out.

“I suppose he might see it that way.”

Needing something to do, she picked up the flashlight from the end table next to the couch and hefted it from hand to hand.

“It may feel like forever,” Sloan continued, “but boys usually grow out of this sort of thing.”

“That’s what we’ve been hoping.” She turned on the flashlight. “Why don’t you get some sleep?” Anxious to put more distance from Sloan and the chaotic sensations he stirred inside her, she headed for the kitchen. “I’ll see if the storm has let up.”

In stocking feet, she padded around the kitchen island. She was a fool. All Sloan had to do was touch her and she practically fell into his arms. The longer this night went on, the more confused her reactions made her. She hoped the snow had stopped falling and the crews were working on the power.

Aiming the light out the window showed the storm wasn’t letting up any time soon.

Sloan’s quiet footfalls sounded behind her.

“How does it look?” His question drifted seductively through the cold night air.

It would be so easy to let the sound of his voice wrap around her—a cocoon from the cares of the day. Instead, she switched off the flashlight to view the frenzied, swirling flakes that mirrored her emotions. There was no artificial light for miles, but the white of the storm was clearly visible.

“Mitchell was right. There won’t be any school tomorrow.”

No reprieve for her, either. Once the snow stopped, it would take half a day for the plows to clear the road to the house. If they were lucky enough to reach Boise after the storm, they wouldn’t be able to take a flight to L.A. until tomorrow night.

Allison turned on the flashlight again and moved away from the window. Sloan stilled, and a charged silence split the air between them.

Not understanding the change in energy, she looked at the angry scowl on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

He reached out, grabbed the flashlight from her hand, and directed the beam at her arm. His sudden nearness took her by surprise. “What in the hell happened to you?”

She followed his gaze to her bare right arm. The flashlight’s beam made her scars visible, distorting them as they snaked across her flesh in vicious, ugly lines. After two years, she continued to experience bouts of pain, but rarely gave the scars a second thought. Looking at them now, through Sloan’s eyes, she saw how grotesque they were.

She rubbed her hand down her arm and then dropped it. She wouldn’t hide or be ashamed. She couldn’t—not when Reggie had given his life. “I was shot.” She’d been wounded. Reggie was dead.

“A large caliber weapon,” Sloan said. It wasn’t a question.

She nodded.

“It’s amazing you didn’t lose your arm.”

“I almost did. It’s still not a hundred percent. But the surgeries are finally over.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I’m shocked you don’t already know. Aren’t you privileged to access Northstar’s personnel history?”

“I am. But your file is surprisingly thin.” He pulled out a chair from the table and sat, then gestured to the empty seat across from him. “How did it happen?”

She hesitated. The habit of sparring with Sloan kicked in, and she searched for a cutting remark that would keep them on the battlefield. However, one look at his shadowed face, and the sincerity in his question, encouraged her to share the incident that had changed her life. She sank into the chair, feeling a level of candor she’d never experienced before.

“About three years ago, I was a rookie with the Ada County Sheriff department. My partner and I got a call for a robbery in progress. Both suspects were armed, as you guessed, with large caliber handguns. One of them had armor-piercing rounds.” She laid the flashlight on the table and followed the beam with her eyes. The scene played out in her mind as though it had happened only yesterday.

Two suspects ran out of the convenience store just as their patrol car rolled into the parking lot. Instead of fleeing as expected, the men—boys really—began shooting at the cruiser.

A stupid thing to do, Allison thought at the time. First rule in the Robbers-R-Us Handbook: Police shoot back.

Reggie Sharp, a five-year veteran, had been driving. After slamming the cruiser into Park, he withdrew the shotgun from between the seats and got out. Allison opened the passenger door as she un-holstered her sidearm. The smell of rain hung heavy in the summer night as she ducked behind the open door. The way the car was parked put her directly in the line of fire.

Reggie shouted for her to move around to the rear of the car. She kept her weapon trained on the suspects as she crouched and started to scoot backward.

Then one of the suspects fired.

The bullet shattered the passenger door window, showering her with glass. Instead of continuing to move out of the way, she froze and covered her face. A rookie mistake. Reggie yelled and she took aim to return fire, but never got the shot off. The suspect’s next bullet tore into her right shoulder. The impact dropped her to the asphalt.

Pain came in excruciating waves. Terrified, believing she was dying, she tried to move but couldn’t. There were three more shots, and she tried to keep her eyes open, but the pain was too much.

When she awoke, sirens were erupting from every direction, accompanied by screams and shouts. Strobes of red and blue lights pierced the dark night. Someone—Reggie? She never knew for sure—had moved her because she was no longer lying in the shattered window glass.

She’d turned her head to shout for help and saw Reggie, her partner of only two weeks, on the ground next to her—a bloody hole above his right eye. His eyes stared without blinking.

She tried to reach out, offer aid, but the agony of lifting her arm had plunged her cruelly into oblivion.

She related the incident to Sloan in a clear, matter-of-fact manner, like giving a police report, filling in details of when she hadn’t been conscious, but was told later what happened. She spoke without emotion. No tears. Nothing. There was nothing left to give except the facts.

Mere words could never convey how for days after her first surgery, she wanted her arm removed. It was something—anything to atone for the loss of her partner. Words could never describe the valiant look on Reggie’s widow’s face as she placed a single rose on his coffin. Then, taking her little daughter’s hand, she walked, straight-backed, away from the sea of uniforms saluting their fallen comrade.

Allison should have been in that coffin. It took a long time to accept her fate. Because she’d survived, she had an obligation. She must live out her life—not for her, but for Reggie.

She didn’t share any of this with Sloan, yet as she finished, she had a feeling there was no need. Somehow, he seemed to understand that the pain she carried ran much deeper than her visible scars.

When she stopped speaking, silence filled the kitchen; the occasional pop and crackle from the fireplace and ticking from the battery-run wall clock the only sounds.

“You could have stayed with the department,” Sloan said after a moment. “I’m sure there were other positions you were qualified for.”

“I suppose I could have.” Not really.

“Mitch said you wanted to be an agent.”

“Before I was accepted to the academy, I had the opportunity to become an agent with Northstar. I never wanted to be anything other than a police officer. After the shooting, Byron O’Neal called again and said he had a lab position open if I wanted it. It wasn’t the job I was offered at first, but I couldn’t pass up a second opportunity to work with such an elite group.” She shrugged. “Even though my injury prevents me from doing field work, I’m glad I accepted.” She didn’t add that it kept her from facing her guilt.

“Despite the fact it took you so far from home?”

“It was hard at first, but the change was good. I needed distance from things that reminded me of the shooting. I needed perspective.”

“Maybe Northstar’s timing wasn’t right the first time. We’re fortunate to have you now.”

His compliment took her by surprise.

“Don’t look so shocked.” He gave her a wounded look. “You’ll hurt my feelings.”

“I didn’t think you had any feelings. Until tonight.” His smile sent a warm tingle through her.

“You always speak your mind, don’t you?”

“Guilty as charged.” She smiled back, enjoying his company more than she would have thought possible.

“Well then, it’s my turn for some honesty.”

“Oh?”

He aimed the flashlight at the tattoo just below his left collarbone. “Picked up a souvenir myself about a year and a half ago.”

“A tattoo of Northstar’s compass?”

“Look closer.” He pointed to a scar that looked suspiciously like a bullet wound.

“Is that—?”

He nodded. “I have firsthand experience that the body and spirit do bounce back, so don’t sell yourself short.”

He placed the flashlight on the table and stood, then he walked around the table and took her hand. With a gentle tug, he helped her to her feet. Softly, his fingertips skimmed over her shoulder, feeling each of the scars—as though reading Braille.

“You are an amazing woman, Allison Richards.” He lifted her chin to look at him. “If I have to be stranded in a blizzard in the middle of nowhere, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather be with.”

His voice caressed her, seeped into her bones. Warmed her until she burned with a raging desire. Rational thought melted away under his intense look. She made one last effort not to succumb to the firestorm. “I’m sure I’m the only person you know who lives in the middle of nowhere.”

He threw back his head with an unrestrained laugh. “Touché.” He released her and it was all she could do not to sway into him.

He backed away and cool air brushed her skin. What had she done wrong? Hadn’t he been about to kiss her? Maybe he was repulsed by her scars, in spite of what he said. To mask her confusion, she grabbed the flashlight off the table and angled the beam toward the floor so he couldn’t see her face.

“It’s getting cold.” She felt far from cold, but she wasn’t about to let him know the effect he had on her. “We should put another log on the fire before going to bed.”

“Is that an invitation to join you in your sleeping bag?” His eyebrows lifted suggestively.

Allison shone the light in his face, making him squint.

“No,” she replied as emphatically as her dry mouth would let her. Just then, she heard Mitchell move around in his sleeping bag, and was glad she hadn’t given into the urge to throw herself into Sloan’s arms.