Crossed Hearts (Matchmaker Trilogy) Read online

  The desire he felt had grown during his ministrations, when his fingers had brushed her thigh and found it to be warmed from the shower and smooth, so smooth. Very definitely human and alive. A member of his own species. At that moment, he’d felt an instinctive need for assurance from her that he was every bit as human and alive.

  When he’d cupped her hand in his, he’d felt the oddest urge to guard her well. Fragility, the need for protection, a primal plea for closeness … he’d been unable to deny the feelings, though they shocked him.

  And when he’d searched her eyes, he’d found them as startled as his own must have been.

  He wasn’t sure if he believed she was genuine; he’d known too many quality actors in his day to take anything at face value. What he couldn’t ignore, though, were his own feelings, for they said something about himself that he didn’t want to know.

  Those feelings hit him full force as he stared at her. It wasn’t that she was beautiful. Her black hair, clean now and unturbaned, was damp and straight, falling just shy of her collarbone, save for the bangs that covered her brow. Her features were average, her face dominated by the owl-eyed glasses that perched on her nose. No, she wasn’t beautiful, and certainly not sexy wearing his shirt and long johns. But her pallor did something to him, as did the slight forward curve of her shoulders as she wrapped her arms around her waist.

  She was the image of vulnerability, and watching her, he felt vulnerable himself. He wanted to hold her, that was all, just to hold her. He couldn’t understand it, didn’t want to admit it, but it was so.

  “I’m not sure what to do with my clothes,” she said. Her eyes registered bewilderment, though her voice was calm. “I rinsed them out as best I could. Is there somewhere I can hang them to dry?”

  Garrick was grateful for the mundaneness of the question, which allowed him to sidestep those deeper thoughts. “You’d better put them through a real wash first. Over there.” He inclined his head toward the kitchen area.

  Through clean, dry glasses, Leah saw what she hadn’t been physically or emotionally capable of seeing earlier. A washer-dryer combo stood beyond the sink, not far from a dishwasher and a microwave oven. Modern kitchen, modern bathroom—Garrick Rodenhiser, it seemed, roughed it only to a point.

  Ducking back into the bathroom, she retrieved her clothes and put them into the washer with a generous amount of detergent. Once the machine was running, she eyed the coffee maker and its fresh, steaming pot.

  “Help yourself,” Garrick said. Resuming his silence, he watched her open one cabinet after another until she’d found a mug.

  “Will you have some?” she asked without turning.

  “No.”

  Her hand trembled as she poured the coffee, and even the small movement had repercussions in the tension-weary muscles of her shoulders. Cup in hand, she padded barefoot across the floor to peer through the small opening between the shutters that served as drapes. She couldn’t see much of anything, but the steady beat of rain on the roof told her what she wanted to know.

  Straightening, she turned to face Garrick. “Is there any chance of getting to my car tonight?”

  “No.”

  His single word was a confirmation of what she’d already suspected. There seemed no point in railing against what neither of them could change. “Do you mind if I sit by your fire?”

  He stepped aside in silent invitation.

  The wide oak planks were warm under her bare feet as she crossed to the hearth. Lowering herself to the small rag rug with more fatigue than finesse, she tucked her legs under her, pressed her arms to her sides and cupped the coffee with both hands.

  The flames danced low and gently, and would have been soothing had she been capable of being soothed. But sitting before them, relatively warm and safe for the first time in hours, she saw all too clearly what she faced tonight. She was here for the night; she knew that much. The storm continued. Her car wouldn’t move. She was going nowhere until morning. But what then?

  Even once her car was freed, she had nowhere to go. Victoria’s cabin was gone, and with it the plans she’d spent the past three weeks making. It had all seemed so simple; now nothing was simple. She could look around for another country cabin to rent, but she didn’t know where to begin. She could take a room at an inn, but her supply of money was far from endless. She could return to New York, but something about that smacked of defeat—or so she told herself when she found no other excuse for her hesitancy to take that particular option.

  If she’d felt unsettled during the drive north, now she felt thoroughly disoriented. Not even at her lowest points in the past had she been without a home.

  Behind her, the sofa springs creaked. Garrick. With her glasses on, she’d seen far more than details of the cabin. She’d also seen that Garrick Rodenhiser was extraordinarily handsome. The bulk that had originally impressed her was concentrated in his upper body, in the well-developed shoulders and back defined by a thick black turtleneck. Dark gray corduroys molded a lean pair of hips and long, powerful legs. He was bearded, yes, but twenty-twenty vision revealed that beard to be closely trimmed. And though his hair was on the long side, it, too, was far from unruly and was an attractive dark blond shot through with silver.

  His nose was straight, his lips thin and masculine. His skin was stretched over high cheekbones, but his eyes were what held the true force of his being. Silvery hazel, they were alive with questions unasked and thoughts unspoken.

  Had Leah been a gambler, she’d have bet that Garrick was a transplant. He simply didn’t fit the image of a trapper. There were the amenities in the cabin, for one thing, which spoke of a certain sophistication. There was also his speech; though his words were few and far between, his enunciation was cultured. And his eyes—those eyes—held a worldly look, realistic, cynical, simultaneously knowing and inquisitive.

  She wondered where he’d come from and what had brought him here. She wondered what he thought of her arrival and of the fact that she’d be spending the night. She wondered what kind of a man he was where women were concerned, and whether the need she’d sensed in him went as deep as, in that fleeting moment in the bathroom, it had seemed.

  Garrick was wondering similar things. In his forty years, he’d had more women than he cared to count. From the age of fourteen he’d been aware of himself as a man. Increasingly his ego and his groin had been rivals in his search for and conquest of woman. As the years had passed, quantity had countermanded quality; he’d laid anything feminine, indiscriminately and often with little care. He’d used and been used, and the sexual skill in which he’d once taken pride had been reduced to a physical act that was shallow and hurtful. It had reflected the rest of his life too well.

  All that had ended four years ago. When he’d first come to New Hampshire, he’d stayed celibate. He hadn’t yearned, hadn’t wanted. He’d lived within well-defined walls, unsure of himself, distrusting his emotions and motivations. During those early months his sole goal had been to forge out an existence as a human being.

  Gradually, the day to day course of his life had fallen into place. He’d had the occasional woman since then, though not out of any gut-wrenching desire as much as the simple need to assure himself that he was male and normal. Rarely had he seen the same woman twice. Never had he brought one to his home.

  But one was here now. He hadn’t asked for her. In fact, he wanted her gone as soon as possible. Yet even as he studied her, as he watched her stare into the fire, take an occasional sip of coffee, flex her arms around herself protectively, he felt an intense need for human contact.

  He wondered if the need was indicative of a new stage in his redevelopment, if he’d reached the point of being comfortable with himself and was now ready to share himself with others.

  To share. To learn to share. He’d always been self-centered, and to an extent, the life he’d built here reinforced that. He did what he wanted when he wanted. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of changing that, or if he
wanted to change it. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to venture into something new.

  Still, there was the small voice of need that cried out when he looked at her.…

  “What’s your name?”

  His voice came so unexpectedly that Leah jumped. Her head shot around, eyes wide as they met his. “Leah Gates.”

  “You’re a friend of Victoria’s?”

  “Yes.”

  He shifted his gaze to the flames. Only when she had absorbed the dismissal and turned back to the fire herself did he look at her again.

  Leah Gates. A friend of Victoria’s. His mind conjured up several possibilities, none of which was entirely reassuring. She could indeed be a friend of Victoria’s, an acquaintance who’d somehow learned of his existence and had decided, for whatever her reasons, to seek him out. On the other hand she could be lying outright, using Victoria’s name to get the story that no one else had been able to get. Or she could be telling the truth, which left the monumental question of why Victoria would have sent her to him.

  Only two facts were clear. The first was that he was stuck with her; she wasn’t going anywhere for a while. The second was that she’d been through a minor ordeal getting here and that, even as she sat before the fire, she’d begun to tremble again.

  Pushing himself from the sofa, he went for the spare quilt that lay neatly folded on the end of the bed. He shook it out as he returned to the fire, then draped it lightly over her shoulders. She sent him a brief but silent word of thanks before tugging it closely around her.

  This time when he sank onto the sofa it was with a vague sense of satisfaction. He ignored it at first, but it lingered, and at length he deigned to consider it. He’d never been one to give. His life—that life—had been ruled by selfishness and egotism. That as small a gesture as offering a quilt should please him was interesting … encouraging … puzzling.

  As the evening passed, the only sounds in the cabin were the crackle of the fire and the echo of the rain. From time to time Garrick added another log to the grate, and after a bit, Leah curled onto her side beneath the quilt. He knew the very moment she fell asleep, for the fingers that clutched the quilt so tightly relaxed and her breathing grew steady.

  Watching her sleep, he felt it again, the need to hold and be held, the need to protect. His fertile mind created a scenario in which Leah was a lost soul with no ties to the past, no plans for the future, no need beyond that of a little human warmth. It was a dream, of course, but it reflected what he hadn’t glimpsed about himself until tonight. He didn’t think he liked it, because it meant that something was lacking in the life he’d so painstakingly shaped for himself, but it was there, and it had a sudden and odd kind of power.

  Rising silently from the sofa this time, he got down on his haunches beside her. Her face was half-hidden, so he eased the quilt down to her chin, studying features lit only by the dying embers in the hearth. She looked totally guileless; he wished he could believe that she was.

  Unable to help himself, he touched the back of his fingers to her cheek. Her skin was soft and unblemished, warmed by the fire, faintly flushed. Dry now, her hair was thick. The bangs that covered her brow made her features look all the more delicate. She wasn’t beautiful or sexy, but he had to give her pretty. If only he could give her innocent.

  It wouldn’t hurt to pretend for one night, would it?

  Careful not to disturb her, he gently slid his arms beneath her and, quilt and all, carried her to his bed. When she was safely tucked into one side, he crossed to the other, stripped down to his underwear and stretched out beneath the sheets.

  Lying flat on his back, he tipped his head her way. The black gloss of her hair was all he could see above the quilt, but the series of lumps beneath it suggested far more. She wasn’t curvaceous. Her drenched clothes had clung to a slender body. And she wasn’t heavy. He knew; he’d carried her. Still, even when she’d been covered with mud and soaked, he’d known she was a woman.

  Eyes rising to the darkened rafters, he shifted once, paused, then shifted again. With each shift, he inched closer to her. He couldn’t feel her warmth, couldn’t smell her scent. Multiple layers of bedclothes, plus a safe twelve inches of space prevented that. But he knew she was there, and in the dark, where no one could see or know, he smiled.

  * * *

  LEAH AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the smell of fresh coffee and the sizzle of bacon. She was frowning even before she’d opened her eyes, because she didn’t understand who would be in her apartment, much less making breakfast. Then the events of the day before returned to her, and her eyes flew open. Last she remembered she’d been lying in front of the fire. Now she was in a bed. But there was only one bed in Garrick’s cabin.

  Garrick. Her head spun around and she saw a blurred form before the stove. Moments later, with her glasses firmly in place, she confirmed the identity of that form.

  It took her a minute to free herself from the cocoon of quilts and another minute to push herself up and drop her feet to the floor. In the process she was scolded by every sore muscle in her body. Gritting back a moan, she rose from the bed and limped into the bathroom.

  By the time she’d washed up and combed her hair, she was contemplating sneaking back to bed. She ached all over, she looked like hell, and from the sounds of it, the rain hadn’t let up. Going out in the storm, even in daylight, was a dismal thought.

  But she couldn’t sneak back to bed because the bed wasn’t hers. And he’d seen her get up. And she had decisions to make.

  Garrick had just set two plates of food on the small table, when she hesitantly approached. His keen glance took in her pale skin and the gingerliness of her movements. “Sit,” he commanded, refusing to be touched. He’d had his one night of pretending and resented the fact that it had left him wanting. Now morning had come, and he needed some answers.

  Leah sat—and proceeded, with no encouragement at all, to consume an indeterminate number of scrambled eggs, four rashers of bacon, two corn muffins, a large glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. She was working on a second cup, when she realized what she’d done. Peering sheepishly over the rim of the cup, she murmured, “Sorry about that. I guess I was hungry.”

  “No dinner last night?”

  “No dinner.” It must have been close to eight o’clock when she’d finally stumbled to his door. Not once had she thought of food, even when she’d passed the stove en route to the washing machine. With an intake of breath at the memory, she started to get up. “I left my clothes in the washer—”

  “They’re dry.” He’d switched them into the dryer after she’d fallen asleep. “All except the sweater. I hung it up. Don’t think it should have been washed, being cashmere.”

  He’d drawled the last with a hint of sarcasm, but Leah was feeling too self-conscious to catch it. She hadn’t had anyone tend to her in years. That Garrick should be doing it—a total stranger handling her clothes, her underthings—was disturbing. Even worse, he’d carried her to his bed, and she’d slept there with him. Granted, she’d been oblivious to it all, but in the light of day she was far from oblivious to the air of potent masculinity he projected. He looked unbelievably rugged, yet unconscionably civilized. Fresh from the shower, his hair was damp. In a hunter green turtleneck and tan cords that matched the color of his hair and beard, he was gorgeous.

  “It was probably ruined long before I put it in the washer,” she murmured breathily, then darted an awkward glance toward the window. “How long do you think the rain will last?”

  “Days.”

  She caught his gaze and forced a laugh. “Thanks.” When she saw no sign of a returning smile, her own faded. “You’re serious, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Very.”

  “But I need my car.”

  “Where is it?”

  “At Victoria’s cabin.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do I need it?” She’d have thought that would be obvious.

  “Why is
it at Victoria’s?”

  In a rush, Leah remembered how little she and Garrick had spoken the night before. “Because she was renting the cabin to me, only when I got there, I saw that it was nothing but—” She didn’t finish, because Garrick was eyeing her challengingly. That, combined with the way he was sitting—leaning far back in his chair with one hand on his thigh and the other toying with his mug—evoked an illusion of menace. At least, she hoped it was only an illusion.

  “You said that Victoria sent you to me,” he reminded her tightly.

  “That’s right.”

  “In what context?”

  The nervousness Leah was feeling caused her words to tumble out with uncharacteristic speed. “She said that if I had a problem, you’d be able to help. And I have a problem. The cabin’s burned down, my car is stuck in the mud, I have to find somewhere to stay because my apartment’s gone—”

  “Victoria sent you to stay in the cabin,” he stated, seeming to weigh the words.

  Leah didn’t like his tone. “Is there a problem with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  He didn’t blink an eye. “Victoria’s cabin burned three months ago.”

  For a minute she said nothing. Then she asked very quietly, “What?”

  “The cabin burned three months ago.”

  “That can’t be.”

  “It is.”

  If it had been three days ago, Leah might have understood. With a stretch of the imagination, she might even have believed three weeks. After all, no one was living at the cabin. To her knowledge Garrick wasn’t its caretaker. But three months? Surely someone would have been by during that time. “You’re telling me that the cabin burned three months ago and that Victoria wasn’t told?”