She wasn’t such an idiot that she thought he loved her. He wasn’t the kind of man, didn’t live the kind of life where he could fall in love. The best she could hope for from him was … what? To be with him as long as he’d have her? Check. He’d brought her with him. To sleep with her? He’d done that literally countless times, curling his body around hers while she’d pretended she didn’t like it. To make love to her?
Men were supposedly simple creatures, her friend Jenny had told her. All you have to do is show up naked and they’re yours. She wasn’t sure if MacGowan was that predictable, but then again, one night probably didn’t even put a dent in three years’ abstinence.
She looked around her. The room was pretty, almost feminine, with soft colors and pretty country furniture. Her small duffle was sitting on a chair, and she realized she felt gritty, filthy, and she needed a bathroom quite desperately. If she had to run into MacGowan before she got cleaned up then so be it. He’d seen her looking worse, and she was still the only game in town.
She pushed out of bed and winced. She still had her t-shirt bandage wrapped around her hand, another sign of Finn’s seemingly reluctant care. She unwound it, then breathed a sigh of relief. The cut was looking remarkably healthy, needing nothing more than a solid band-aid when she was finished.
Thank god the huge bathroom was just across the hall. The toilet was in a separate compartment, and the room had clearly once been one of the bedrooms. There was an old-fashioned bathtub and a space age shower, and when she turned it on it was instantly the perfect temperature. With a sigh of pure bliss she stripped off her clothes and climbed under the water.
Someone had already used the shower – there was an open bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap. MacGowan most likely – Dylan had casual notions about cleanliness. She took the bar of soap and ran it across her stomach, watching the lather build up. That soap had slid across Finn’s stomach, his chest, all over him.
She moved it up to her breasts, and she closed her eyes, imagining the soap in his strong hands, touching her, caressing her, sliding it down between her legs. She covered every inch of her body, slowly, languorously, picturing his dark, intent gaze, the way he looked as he held himself above her, his eyes when he was inside her, and by the time she’d finished she was trembling.
She washed her hair, the grit and dirt from her face. Her cheek was tender, and she remembered the fists of that man, the rough fingers poking her roughly between the legs. She remembered MacGowan, his face against hers, his strong teeth taking hold of the duct
tape that covered her mouth and ripping it off, a look of unholy amusement in his eyes. He’d known she was going to have to go for the switchblade knife, and he’d been enjoying himself. He’d be laughing in the face of death when it finally caught up with him.
And she didn’t want to miss a minute that she could possibly spend with him. Okay, she may as well face the uncomfortable truth. It was no delusion, no fantasy. She was in love with him, because he was tough and brave and sweet and mean, tender and ruthless, a warrior when she’d spent her life a pacifist. It was inconvenient and doomed, but she loved him, and the least she could do was face it.
She pulled on her underwear, then reached for her jeans. They were dirty, and she shook them, then coughed as the dust flew from them. She hated having to put them on her clean body. She just had to hope she didn’t run into MacGowan when she dashed back into the hall wearing only her underwear and a towel.
But the hallway was dark and silent when she emerged, with no sign of MacGowan anywhere.
She glanced at the long, narrow hallway. The door next to hers was closed, the rest of them open. As usual he must have decided sleep was a luxury, not a necessity. She’d probably find him downstairs somewhere, planning something bloody.
She closed her door, then looked over at her satchel. She really couldn’t stand the feel of her jeans anymore, and if worse came to worst she’d wash them in that claw-footed bathtub. In the meantime she’d have to find something else to wear.
The satchel was too small to hold another pair of jeans, but there was a pair of shorts and a sundress. Her room was cool, though heat was coming from somewhere, and November in France was hardly the place for sundresses, but she could borrow a sweatshirt from Dylan for added warmth.
She pulled the dress over her head, then shivered. She had no shoes – maybe Dylan had a warm pair of socks she could use as well. It would help if she were at least physically comfortable before she faced MacGowan again.
Belatedly she realized there was a second door in her room, and it was ajar. She went over to it, her toes curling on the bare floor, and tapped softly. “Dylan?”
There was a sleepy mmph which she took as an invitation, and she pushed it open, stepping into the darkness. The warm light from her room barely penetrated into the shadows, and she could see the outline of a bed, rumpled, and the shadow of a man standing beside it.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” she said in a quiet voice. “I need a sweatshirt and a pair of socks. I’m freezing.”
He didn’t move. She came into the room, impatient. “I don’t want to bother MacGowan – I’m hoping he’s asleep somewhere and he needs all the rest he can get.”
He moved then. A shaft of moonlight came in the closed shutters, and she realized her mistake. No one moved the way MacGowan moved.
“You’re not bothering me.” His voice was low, and she could feel it vibrating through her body, between her legs. Oh, shit. “You could get back in bed.”
“What?” Okay, was it really necessary that her voice squeak like that?
“While I build you a fire in your room,” he clarified.
“There’s no fireplace.”
“Okay,” he said agreeably. “Get in my bed and warm up while I start one here.”
Grandma, what big eyes you have, she thought. She was doing this, she thought. No more panic. And without another word she walked over and climbed into his rumpled bed.
More trouble. It smelled like his skin, combined with the same soap and water she had used. It was still warm – he must have gotten up when he heard her moving toward the door. Warm with his heat. She curled up, snuggling under the covers, unable to help herself.
“That better?” he said in a pleasant voice, moving toward what she could now see was an old-fashioned fireplace.
“Yes.” He was wearing jeans and nothing else, and as he squatted down to load wood and kindling into the fireplace she could see the strong, beautiful line of his back. Even in the shadows she could see the scars. He wore his choice of work on his skin like a uniform. She wanted to touch him, wanted to kiss each of those scars, the bullet wounds, the knife wounds. She swallowed.