Chapter Twelve

Trace snagged the curbside spot in front of the inn, put the Yukon in park, and came around to the passenger side to let a whining Key out of the back seat. The dog hopped down and raced over to where Mad, Wing, and Ford stood, drinking coffee. To avoid getting nosed in the nuts by a Husky, Ford dropped to a knee and gave the dog attention.

“Met your future auntie this morning, K’eyush. Yes, I did. You know what, boy? I think you’re bigger than she is. I do. Don’t go jumping on her like you do the rest of us, ’kay? You’ll knock her flat.”

“Hey, guys,” Trace greeted the trio, then, to Ford, went on, “Glad you met Izzy. Now”—he looked around pointedly—“what’d you do with her?”

“She went shopping,” Mad volunteered.

“She’ll be back any second,” Ford said. “Just walked to the general store to buy a few souvenirs.”

“Shows what you know about women,” Mad retorted. “Best get comfy, Trace. ‘A few souvenirs’”—he made air quotes around the words—“could take hours. Be glad you didn’t get roped into going with her…”

A squall of honking interrupted Mad’s discourse on female shopping habits. Trace, like the other men, turned to the source of the sound. From his vantage point on the sidewalk, he saw Izzy haul ass up the street, screaming, being chased by a gaggle of at least twenty agitated Canadian Geese.

“Oh, fuck…”

“Whoa, man. Look at her go,” Wing said, in awe. “You got yourself a natural born mudder.”

No, he didn’t. Not even close. “Key, go!” Trace said to the dog, whose body quivered in anticipation of scattering geese. The dog bolted off the sidewalk and shot toward the commotion, barking nonstop. He bypassed the fleeing woman and went straight for the birds.

The geese got a gander at Key and dispersed with a flurry of wings and some high-pitched squawks. Izzy, however, just kept running. And screaming. He saw the puddle. He judged her speed. Jumping from the sidewalk to the street, he put himself on a trajectory to intercept her before she could—

Fuck. She hit a patch of mud. From the sidewalk came a collective, “Aaah!” She lost her footing and started an arm-wheeling battle with gravity. A battle she did not win. He winced as she went over like a runner sliding into home, sending a spray of mud up on either side of her. The peanut gallery on the sidewalk gave a low, cringing, “Oooh!” A cell phone and shopping bag bounced out of her hands and tumbled over the pavement. Her forward motion came to a stop about a foot away from him. Her phone skidded to a halt by his left boot. A couple small boxes landed by his right. The plastic shopping bag fluttered like a white flag of surrender between them.

Two wide, brown eyes looked up at him from a mud-streaked face. “Oh my God.”

He sprang into action. Step one, grab her phone. She’d want that. Step two, grab her.

She raised one mud-covered arm in an attempt to keep him away. “No, don’t. I’m a mess—”

He hauled her up into his arms and cradled her against his chest. “You’re my mess. Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know.” He felt a shiver run through her and held her tighter. She sniffed and tried to wipe her cheek on her sleeve, but only managed to smear more mud all over the white sweater. “Mean geese attacked me.”

“Geese are mean,” he sympathized, carrying her swiftly toward the entrance to the inn. “It’s common knowledge.”

She shivered again. “I di-di-didn’t know that. I th-thought they were s-s-silly. Why do people call them silly g-g-geese? Why n-not m-m-mean geese?”

Peripherally, he saw Mad and Wing move toward him. Mad whistled for Key, who came running.

“Can you take him to the airfield?”

The blond nodded. “Done.”

Ford held the door open for him. He went through, but halfway across the lobby, Wing called, “Hold up. Wait. You forgot your condoms.”

Every eye in the lobby turned to them. Rose, Lilah, Jorg, Peter the night clerk, and—oh, perfect—Father Donahue from Our Lady of Captivity stood in silence. Appalled silence or concerned silence, he couldn’t be sure. Wing ran over and handed Izzy two boxes of Bearly There ultra-thins.

She somehow managed a shellshocked, “Thank you,” and hugged the boxes against her muddy vest.

Ford moved ahead, hitting the button for the elevator. As he carried Izzy past the assembled witnesses, Trace heard Rose say, “I will bring up extra towels.”

Trace said a silent prayer of thanks when the doors finally shushed closed.

“I am unbelievably b-b-bad at Alaska,” Izzy stammered. “The flight in n-n-nearly gave me a n-n-nervous breakdown. Snowshoeing? Fail. And now…wild goose attack. Holy shit. Has anyone else ever been this h-hopeless?”

“Baby, you’re wet, muddy, and freezing.” Possibly broken. Possibly bleeding. She hadn’t taken a header on a smooth, L.A. sidewalk, but the rocky, pitted asphalt along the shoulder of Main Street. The elevator doors opened at their floor, and he stepped out. “Let’s get you warm, clean, and dry, and then…” What? He wanted to make her feel better. “We’ll go goose hunting.”

She laughed. A weak laugh, but still. It counted. “Based on how w-well everything else has gone, I don’t think I should try a firearm while I’m h-h-here.”

“I’ll handle the gun. You just point to the ones you want me to take out.” He stopped in front of her suite. “Do you have your key?”

“Yeah. It’s…um…if you could put me down…?”

“Uh-uh. You’re on the express. Street to the bathtub, no stops in between. Just dig out that key and—”

She slipped it between his lips.

“Thanks,” he said around the thin plastic, and leaned down to hold it next to the sensor. The light turned from red to green, the lock clicked. He rebalanced her a little so he could turn the knob and pushed them through the door. Once inside, he spit the key onto the bed and carried her straight into the bathroom.

It smelled like her. Looked like her, too, with all her toiletries specifically grouped and ordered, the towels neatly hung or folded, and her cloud-soft robe hanging on a hook behind the door. The only reasonable seating option was the counter, so he perched her there, amidst her fancy bottles and jars, and turned the water on full blast at the sink beside her.

She sat before him, mud-coated, with a box of condoms in each hand and her booted feet dangling. At least she wasn’t shivering anymore. “Souvenirs?” he asked as he took them from her and set them on the counter. In their place, he handed her a washcloth doused in warm water.

“Yep.” She immediately used it to wipe mud from her hands.

“Something I should know about?” He tugged her vest zipper down and helped her shrug out of it. Then he tossed it under the counter in what he designated the mud-zone.

“They’re for my friend Danny. He put the surprise box in my luggage, so I thought I’d return the favor.” After pausing to rinse the washcloth, she ran it over her face, which prevented him from using her expression to help him decide what to make of that bit of information.

He knelt and got to work unlacing a boot. “You and Danny make a habit of buying each other condoms? Should I be jealous that the woman I’m trying to convince to marry me has some kind of condom exchange program with another man?” The first muddy boot joined the vest under the counter.

“Ha. You should not be jealous for several reasons, including the fact that our alleged romantic relationship is a fiction.”

“Hmm.” He unlaced the second boot. “Not complete fiction.” Their kisses weren’t fiction. The way their bodies reacted to each other was sure as fuck not fiction. Last night on the sofa? Definitely not fiction. “How can you call it fiction when I’m standing here taking off your clothes?” Before she could argue that point, he peeled her socks off and went on. “Gimme another reason.”

“Well, I love Danny dearly…”

“Great.” He stood and unbuttoned his flannel shirt, which bore some muddy marks from carrying her. “How foolish of me to feel jealous.”

She ignored him. “And I’m sure he feels the same about me.”

After stripping down to his long-sleeved thermal undershirt and tossing the dirty button-down into the clothes pile, he placed his hands on the counter on either side of her hips and leaned in, so their faces were close. “Sounds like I should be seeing green.”

Big, liquid brown eyes stared into his. She gave her head a quick, little shake but didn’t break the connection. “I love Danny. He loves me. But we’re not in love. Danny’s gay.”

“Oh.” Whatever degree of fiction their relationship involved, her disclosure relieved some vague tightness in his gut. “Good to know.”

“Why is that?”

“Because that means he’s not going to be upset if he finds out I did this.” He unsnapped her jeans and lowered the zipper.

“Trace…” Slim hands curled around his wrists.

“Let me make sure you’re okay, Izzy.”

“I’m okay.”

“Then let me confirm it.” He held his hands up, palms toward her, in his best, I’m harmless gesture. He had no intention of taking advantage, and every intention of making sure any bumps, bruises or scrapes were properly attended to. “ETT remember?”

She sighed and released his wrists. “Fine.”

“Okay, then.” He helped her down and eased her jeans over her hips, trying not to get caught up in the wisp of pink protecting parts of her he’d very nearly had the privilege of pleasuring last night. Kneeling brought it all to eye level. He clenched his jaw to stop himself from saying…anything…and helped her free one foot, then the other, from the legs of her jeans. The jeans went in the mud-zone. A zone from which they might never return. Seeing the bruises darkening the tops of her knees reminded him that the seduction of Isabelle Marcano—no matter how inevitable it might be—would have to wait.

“Jump back up there,” he instructed, and helped her return to her perch on the counter. “Can you straighten this leg?” He cupped her right calf.

“Uh-huh.” Her voice sounded thick, which might have been pain, but she straightened it to full extension. She did the same with the other. He moved a possible knee injury down several notches on his list of things to worry about.

“Okay. Arms up.” He straightened, grabbed the hem of her once-white turtleneck sweater, and lifted it over her head. In the process, he noticed her reflection in the mirror behind her, and couldn’t stop his eyes from zooming to the sight of her pink thong framing the tops of her smooth, bare ass cheeks. Once her head and arms cleared the sweater, he shifted his attention as quickly as possible to her face, but knew she’d caught him looking. Since he was already busted, he took the opportunity to do a more thorough inventory. The sheer, snug, long-sleeved shirt that served as her base layer didn’t do much to hide the pink bra beneath, or the lush opulence supported by the bra. His throat went so dry he had to swallow before speaking.

“Jesus, Izzy. You are a whole lot of temptation wrapped up in one small, tightly wound package.”

She colored at the compliment—which presented even more temptation, to his mind—but pointed out, “And yet, somehow, everyone has resisted this temptation for longer than I care to count.”

“Not me. I don’t stand a chance. The sole reason I’m not on my knees begging right now is because when you finally give me the go-ahead, the only ache I want you suffering from is the ache to have me scratch”—he brushed his lips over her forehead—“your”—he kissed the tip of her nose—“itch.” He denied himself her cotton candy lips, as they were quickly becoming a point of no return, and instead opted to give the point of her chin a friendly bite.

When he drew back, those fathomless eyes stared into him for a long moment. Then her lips curved. “I bet you say that to all the girls you pull out of mud puddles.”

He felt his lips twitch. “Would you believe, you’re my first mud puddle rescue?”

“Sadly, yes.” She dropped her arms and folded her hands around the edge of the counter. “It seems like the kind of honor only I would earn.”

“The honor is mine,” he corrected, and then noticed, in the mirror, a place by her elbow where blood leaked through her undershirt. “And I should probably get on with it. Arms up again, please.”

Instead, she pressed one diagonally across her chest. “I think I’ve got it from here. I’m just going to take a quick shower, and—”

“You’re bleeding, honey.” Taking her other arm, he carefully lifted it, and bent her forearm back so she could see for herself. Torn fabric, torn skin. “This one, too,” he noted, showing her the wound on her other arm, which didn’t look as bad, based solely on the amount of blood visible.

“Oh dear.”

That sounded a little hollow, maybe because she’d suddenly sagged as if her spine had turned to spaghetti. He let go of her arms and looked at her face. Alarm jangled in his brain. “Hey, you’re kind of pale.”

“Sometimes, I don’t…do well…with blood.” She pitched forward in slow-motion, and her forehead landed against this chest. He put his hand along the back of her head. Her neck felt cold and clammy.

“Izzy?”

“Huh?”

“You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?”

“I just…need a minute.”

He reached for the washcloth, ran it under cool water, and draped it over the back of her neck. “Breathe,” he reminded her, and took his own advice. She rested against him, still and limp. Unsure what else to do for her, he ran his palm over her back in long, slow, strokes. His hand easily spanned her waist. She really was a tiny little thing.

An appreciative sigh sounded from somewhere around the vicinity of his chest.

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

He felt her lungs expand with a deep inhale, felt the heat of her exhale filter through his shirt. Her hands flattened on his chest, and she pushed against him to straighten. He stayed directly in front of her, his hands hovering by her shoulders in case she toppled. But she didn’t. She took the washcloth from the back of her neck and ran it over her face. “Sorry. I hate when that happens.”

“Oh, baby.” This trip to Captivity was really putting her through a wringer. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m sorry. Sorry about the damn geese, and the mud, and not being close enough to catch you.”

That put a pained smile on her face. “Believe it or not, I don’t need a spotter 24/7 when I’m in my normal environment. I fly like a pro. A hike down a hill doesn’t leave me in crippling pain. Animals don’t attack me, and I can cross a street without falling face-first in mud. I’m actually a very competent person.”

“Competence is situational. I’ve been driving since before I turned sixteen. I drive in rain, snow, and ice, no problem. I’ve dodged moose. I’ve avoided collisions with deer. But the one and only time I tried to drive in Los Angeles, I nearly wiped out on a freeway on-ramp. Lost a side-view mirror on the rental car.” He smiled down at her. “Thank God I’d bought the insurance.”

“Is there some insurance I can buy, for surviving Captivity?”

“I’m your insurance.” Comfortable with her degree of alertness and overall stability, he added, “Arms up.”

She complied. Bit her lip, scrunched her eyes closed, and just generally looked like someone about to face a firing squad, but complied. To distract her, he said, “If it makes you feel any better, Wing once nicked his forehead on a propeller blade.” As gently as possible, he peeled the shirt off her.

“That must have been awful for him.”

“He took it in his stride.” Pointing two fingers at her face, and then at his own, he said, “Your eyes stay here, on me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Great. Where was I?” He folded her arm back and looked at the wound. Not too dirty. Not too deep. Just some nasty road rash, really. “Oh, yeah. Wing calmly made a compress out of a wad of paper towels and walked back to the terminal.” He pressed the washcloth against her torn elbow. She sucked in a breath and stiffened, but her color remained good. After a second, he lifted the cloth and noted the bleeding had pretty much stopped. “Mad took one look at him, his eyes rolled back in his head, and”—he folded the cloth and pressed the clean side to her other elbow—“boom. He toppled like an old tree in a high wind.”

“Poor guy.”

“Yeah. Wing still gives him grief.” He brought her other arm down and tossed the cloth in the sink. “Want some good news?”

“I could use some.”

He tapped her arms, just above her elbows. “These aren’t bleeding much. How about I draw you a bath in that big ole tub. You have yourself a soak while I get my first aid kit from the car. When you’re done cleaning up, I’ll doctor the cuts, and then you’ll be good as new.”

He’d have a permanent hard-on, but she’d be fine.