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  “For the deposit you put down to guarantee the room. I had them credit your charge card and bill the room to mine.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she protested. “I offered you the use of the cottage tonight because it was already paid for. I didn’t intend for you to get stuck with expensive accommodations you hadn’t planned on.”

  He shrugged off her objections. “As you pointed out, I was lucky to get a room at all. There’s no reason for you to foot the bill for me. Or for Jordy, for that matter,” he tacked on, propelling her toward the door once more. “I’ll talk to him when I get back about the fix this aborted wedding put you in.”

  “Wait a minute.” Abby dug in her heels, a little indignant at his blithe assumption of authority in something that wasn’t really any of his business. “You don’t need to talk to anyone. The bride’s family is responsible for the wedding arrangements, you know.”

  “I’m sure Jordy didn’t realize his ditzy fiancée stuck you with—” He broke off and tried, unsuccessfully, to recover. “Sorry. What I meant is that I know Jordy. He’s a solid troop, one of the best in my squad. He’ll want to reimburse you for expenses incurred on his behalf.”

  Abby lifted her chin. Any desire she might have felt to share dinner with this hard-eyed cynical stranger faded in the face of a fierce protectiveness that was as natural to her as breathing.

  “Back off, O’Brian. Any expenses I incurred on my sister’s behalf are no concern of yours. Or anyone else’s.”

  His jaw squared. So did his shoulders.

  Abby refused to be intimidated, although she eyed the muscle twitching in his left cheek with a touch of wary interest. The expression in his eyes confirmed the impression she’d formed at the airport that this wasn’t a man to cross.

  “Have it your way,” he conceded, with a distinct lack of graciousness.

  “I will.”

  She spun around and sailed through the crowded lobby. Pete followed, his carryall clenched in one fist. They both halted outside the inn, pinned under the awning by the cold, pelting rain.

  “It’s not letting up.”

  The deep voice at her shoulder was still a little clipped around the edges.

  “No, it’s not.” She fished in her purse for her keys. “I think I’d better leave you to handle the rum-raisin cake by yourself, after all.”

  Abby knew darn well her decision to back out of dinner had more to do with Pete’s careless comment about Beth than with the weather. She suspected he knew it, too.

  Tough!

  She dashed to the van, wondering just what it was about Pete O’Brian that got to her so easily. In the short time she’d known him, she’d run the gamut from astonishment to fury to reluctant awareness to simmering anger once more. Since she’d always considered herself the sober, steady sibling, she didn’t understand or particularly like his unsettling affect on her.

  It was just as well that she was heading home after she dropped him off at the cottage, Abby decided. The man bothered her, plain and simple. In ways she wasn’t up to dealing with tonight.

  Following the directions Pete culled from a map of the resort, she circled a huddle of buildings he identified as the golf pro shop and starter shack, then aimed the van up a steep, narrow path. The winding road corkscrewed past the Pines’ famous cottages. Shingle-roofed structures the size of a house, they were tucked away amid stands of tall, dark firs. Gritting her teeth, Abby negotiating each switchback turn in the road at a pace a snail could have challenged. When she pulled up at the two-story cottage that sat in solitary splendor atop the crest, she shifted into park, but kept the motor running.

  Pete reached for the carryall stashed under his feet, then slewed around in his seat to face her.

  “I really think you should reconsider driving home tonight. Stay here. It looks like a big place,” he added. “Two stories. We’d have one apiece.”

  Well, that settled the question of whether his earlier invitation to share the cottage cloaked some ulterior motive. She offered him her hand and a small smile.

  “No, thanks. It’s all yours.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He searched her face for a moment, then opened the door and eased outside. “I appreciate the lift, Abby.”

  “It was the least I could do for Jordy’s personal messenger.”

  She waited until Pete had unlocked the cottage door before she put the van in gear. He stood silhouetted in a spill of light from the interior as she drove off, telling herself it was ridiculous to feel this perverse niggle of disappointment at the way the evening had turned out.

  Her disappointment quickly gave way to con_sternation. Some law of physics that she apparently didn’t understand made going down steep hills more treacherous than going up. She negotiated the first hairpin turn at a slow crawl, her muscles knotted with tension.

  The common sense Abby prided herself on asserted itself before she reached the second turn. If she could have turned the van around on the narrow path, she might have swallowed both her pride and her irritation and taken O’Brian up on his offer. Since she couldn’t, she decided she’d stop at the main lodge and wait till this drizzle let up before tackling the drive home.

  She never made it to the second turn.

  While she was still some yards away, the Antiquemobile hit a slick patch, slid off the road and slammed sideways into a tree.

  Chapter 3

  Pete should have been out by now.

  He should have crashed twenty seconds after stepping out of the shower.

  When the taillights on Abby’s van had disappeared, he’d come inside the cottage and barely glanced at the soaring open-beamed oak ceilings and luxurious furnishings before heading for the loft bedroom. Dumping his gear bag, he’d hit the shower with a sigh of sheer pleasure. He’d returned to the bedroom scant moments later, fully intending to sink into oblivion in the half-acre bed that dominated the spacious loft.

  Instead, he found himself standing beside the huge bed, ignoring the weariness that ate into his bones like a sad, sorry song. One corner of his tired mind admired the massive bed frame done in polished oak, metal scrollwork and gleaming brass. A less aesthetic part acknowledged that a bed like this was built to be shared.

  With someone like Abby.

  His body tightening, Pete gave in to the half-formed fantasy that hovered at the back of his consciousness. It began with the kiss at the airport and took wing. With unswerving male directness, it led to a vision of Abby sprawled across this ocean of royal blue spread, her arms outflung and her honey-streaked hair tumbling in wild abandon. Her brown eyes heavy-lidded. Her soft, full mouth curving in invitation.

  Sure, O’Brian. Sure.

  That soft, full mouth had chewed him up and spit him out in small, well-masticated pieces during their confrontation in the lobby. For all her refined appearance and warm smile, Abigail Davis could fire up hotter and faster than a phosphorous grenade in defense of that bubbleheaded sister of hers.

  Shaking his head, Pete snagged his jeans from the foot of the bed. His bare feet sank into thick wheat-colored carpet as he headed back down the stairs. He was too tired to sleep, he acknowledged. And too irritated by the way his misguided, heavy-handed attempt to make sure Abby didn’t get stuck with all the costs of this wedding had backfired on him. He wasn’t exactly sure why he even cared, except that the long, cold ride in her decrepit van had convinced him she wasn’t exactly rolling in cash.

  That, and the fact that his stomach still tightened every time he let himself think about that damned kiss. The memory of her mouth under his pulled at him, as did the woman herself. Despite her prickliness every time her sister’s name entered the conversation, or maybe because of it, she characterized everything he admired in a woman and wouldn’t let himself respond to.

  He liked the way she’d stood up to him. Respected her loyalty to her sister. The sensual appeal in her slender body and delicate, aristocratic features didn’t ex
actly repulse him, either, he admitted with a wry twist of his lips. No wonder he’d felt that kick to the gut when he kissed her, a solid hit he termed lust, for lack of any better description.

  Still, he couldn’t believe he’d invited her to share this cottage tonight. Twice! Good thing she hadn’t taken him up on either invitation. As bone-weary as he was, he wouldn’t have gotten much sleep, thinking about Abby all alone in that big bed, and there wasn’t much likelihood she’d have shared it with him.

  He snapped on a low table lamp and crossed to the oak wall unit at one end of the vast sitting room, confident one of its paneled doors would yield a wet bar stocked with a classy brand of Scotch. He found it on the second try. Splashing a good three fingers into a heavy crystal glass, he took an appreciative sip.

  Very classy, he decided as it burned a slow, satisfying line down his throat.

  Like Abigail Davis.

  He took the Scotch with him to the cavernous stone fireplace, which was conveniently equipped with a gas starter. Within moments, tiny pinpoints of blue flame licked along the stacked logs. Propping a foot on the low stone fender, Pete marveled at the tangled web of circumstance that had led him to an argument over personal finances with a woman he hardly knew.

  If Beth hadn’t gotten cold feet and skipped out on her wedding.

  If Jordy hadn’t deployed just hours before he was due to leave for the States.

  If Pete hadn’t made a downwind landing two weeks ago and torn his anterior cruciate ligament all to hell…

  Unconsciously he massaged his knee with a steady, rhythmic motion. He stared into the fire, seeing vivid, pulse-tripping images of that last jump form and reform in the dancing flames.

  The black hole of the open cargo door yawned before him. In his mind’s eye, he saw his men go out, one after another. He heard the snick of the static-line clips. The sudden catch in the rhythm. The jumpmaster’s frantic shout.

  Again and again, he relived the nightmare of trying to retrieve Carrington’s body.

  With a vicious curse, Pete downed the rest of his Scotch and shoved the glass onto the mantel. The doubts and questions that had plagued him since the accident pounded through his brain. He should have seen that Carrington was too nervous. Should have caught the way his fist had wrapped around the static line. Dammit, he should have…

  A sudden banging dragged him from his private hell. He swung around, his muscles coiled, as if in anticipation of attack.

  Another thump rattled the front door, and then a wavery voice carried through the solid wood.

  “Pete? It’s me, Abby. I’ve…I’ve had an accident.”

  He crossed the room in four long strides and wrenched the door open. It went crashing back against the wall. The shivering, bedraggled woman on the doorstep flinched at the violence, then lifted a shaky hand to gesture vaguely behind her.

  “The van…in a ditch. I walked…”

  Pete’s training kicked in before the words were half out of his mouth. Raking her from head to toe with a swift, blade-sharp glance, he cut off her stumbling recital.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I…I…”

  Her teeth were chattering so hard she couldn’t speak. Resisting the impulse to sweep her wet, trembling body into his arms and carry her inside, Pete took a firm grip on her arm instead. She’d walked this far. He wouldn’t add to any trauma she might have sustained by jostling her unnecessarily now.

  He got her inside, kicked the door shut and peeled her sodden cape from her shoulders. A swift visual showed no protruding bones or obvious hematomas.

  “Tell me if you’re hurting, Abby.”

  His voice soothed, calmed, demanded.

  “No… I don’t…”

  He slid his hands under her wet hair and wrapped them around her neck. His skilled fingers found no step-offs, no deformities or abnormalities that might suggest the spinal injuries so common in vehicle accidents. Capturing her cheeks and chin in a firm, gentle vise, he tilted her face toward the light. Her eyes were wide and teary, but the pupils hadn’t dilated with shock. Although clammy, the skin under his hands retained enough heat for him to rule out hypothermia.

  “I’m not…hurt. Just wet and…cold.”

  “We’ll fix that in a minute.”

  Holding back the relief that clamored in his veins, Pete swiftly attacked the buttons on the front of her black dress. She closed her hands over his, a startled question in her eyes.

  “It’s okay. I need to check your ribs.”

  Swallowing, she dropped her hands.

  Pete worked swiftly. In his twenty-two years in rescue, he’d seen too many cases where crew members’ minds had selectively shut down to pain while their bodies endured unbelievable trauma. Men had dodged the enemy for hours while carrying their own amputated limbs. Others had crawled incredible distances with the bones in both legs shattered. Abby might well have suffered internal injuries she didn’t feel, couldn’t acknowledge.

  Easing her dress down to her hips, he ran exploring hands over ribs encased in wet black silk. Her heart thumped solidly against his palms. Every rib felt whole and in place. He released the relief he’d been holding back. It flowed through him, a hot, surging wave that made his fingers want to grip the wet silk.

  “I don’t think you broke anything.”

  “Yes, I did….” She got the words out through racking shivers. “My van…is all…dented.”

  Grinning, Pete scooped her up and headed for the stairs, leaving dress and cloak in wet heaps on the floor. “If that’s the worst of the damages, I’d say you’re in pretty good shape, Ms. Davis.”

  Very good shape, he amended as she curled into him, seeking warmth. High, firm breasts flattened against his bare chest. Nipples rigid with cold peaked under the wet silk and poked into his skin. Hanging on to his professional detachment with some effort, Pete forced himself to ignore the sensations she caused in the upper portion of his body. He wasn’t quite as successful with the lower portion. Each step up the stairs brought her nicely rounded bottom bumping into his groin.

  He carried her into the bathroom that took up half of the loft. Relief edged with regret lanced through him when she pulled together a shaky smile. “I…can man…age.”

  He lowered her feet to the thick carpet, but kept an arm around her waist while he reached into the freestanding glass-and-brass shower cubicle to twist the knobs. When steam filled the stall, he disengaged himself.

  “I’ll round up some dry clothes while you defrost. Call me when you’re through.”

  Abby didn’t think she’d ever be through. In fact, she seriously considered taking up permanent residence in the glass shower stall. Blessed heat swirled around it, and around her. Hot water streamed down her body to pool at her feet. For the first time since leaving the shop this morning, her toes felt as though they were still attached to the rest of her. She propped her shoulders against the sturdy glass wall, fighting the urge to just slide down and puddle on the royal blue tile for the rest of the night, if not the rest of her life.

  Gradually the few seconds of stark terror she’d experienced when the van slid sideways across the icy road faded from her consciousness. So did the sickening crunch when its back end had slammed into the tree. She had no idea how much damage the Antiquemobile had sustained. At this moment, she didn’t really care. She knew she could increase the amount of the small-business loan she planned to take out, just enough to cover the cost of a new van to complement her new shop. She’d think about that later, though. Right now, more important matters concerned her.

  Like where she was going to find the energy to turn off the taps and step out of the shower. Pete provided the motivation some moments later by rapping on the bathroom door.

  “Abby? If you’re going under for the third time, I’m pretty good at mouth-to-mouth.”

  She smiled ruefully. Good? Judging by his kiss, she’d say he was a whole lot better than good. If she had to rate Pete O’Brian’s mouth-to-mouth technique on
a scale ranging from shattering to mind-bending, she’d give him one-hundred-percent erotic.

  What a shame that same incredibly skilled mouth had a tendency to voice rather unflattering opinions of Beth. Sighing, she lifted her face to the pulsing stream.

  Abby wasn’t blind to her sister’s faults, as many people seemed to think—Marissa, particularly. She just weighed them against the uncritical, unrestrained love Beth gave her. A love that had buoyed her during the bleak years after their parents’ deaths. A fierce love that had kept them together every time the nameless, faceless “system” tried to separate the Davis girls.

  “Abby?”

  “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “I didn’t bring much except my uniform and some exercise gear back to the States with me. I left some sweats on the bed for you. While you dress, I’ll go downstairs and fix you something hot to drink.”

  Reaching for the white ceramic faucets, Abby cut off the life-giving warmth and stepped out of the stall. Luckily, the bathroom came equipped with a thick terry robe, a blow-dryer, and an assortment of luxurious lotions and creams. Feeling almost human again, she dried her hair, then went into the bedroom.

  Two of her could have fit into the faded maroon sweats and thick socks Pete had left on the bed. The sweatshirt was emblazoned with USAF PARARESCUE in big silver letters on the back, and it hung to her knees. She rolled the maroon sweatpants up at the waist and cuffs, then pulled the warm socks on gratefully over her perennially cold feet.

  Pete met her at the bottom of the staircase and handed her a steaming mug. Wrapping both palms around the footed mug, Abby sniffed at the chocolate-scented swirls rising above its rim.

  “Mmm…this smells wonderful.”

  “You might try a test sip before you…”

  His warning came too late. Abby had already blown the steam away and taken a big gulp.

  Her eyes widened in shock, then filled with instant tears. She tried without success to work her paralyzed throat muscles. At her frantic, gurgling appeal, Pete thumped her on the back. Swallow by fiery swallow, the explosive brew scorched its way down her windpipe. By the time it reached her stomach, every nerve in her body was sending out distress signals.