The wind played about her again, briefly including him in its wild dance. For an instant he heard the song, a gentle, melodious sound of love. Then it died, and Kirby collapsed sideways to the ground. He tucked his coat around her and carried her back inside.
She snuggled back under the blankets and sighed contentedly. He caressed her cheek, wondering if she'd remember her nocturnal journey in the morning. Wondered if she'd remember what the wind and her dead friend had told her—and whether she'd pass that information on to him.
He glanced at his watch. It was barely three o'clock, and he really needed to get some more sleep. But that wasn't going to happen just yet, especially if he tried to lie down beside her. Good intentions were all well and good, but right now he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anyone in his life. Time, he thought, for a shower. A very cold shower. He bent and kissed her cheek, then headed into the bathroom.
***
Kirby dreamt of warmth and desire. It wrapped around her, pressed heat against her, providing a security, a tenderness, she'd never felt before.
She sighed and turned toward it. An arm wrapped around her, pulling her close. Breath whispered against her skin, sleepy and warm. Lips sought hers, lips that were tender yet sensuous. Lips she just wanted to keep tasting forever.
Desire ached through her, and in that instant, she fully woke, realizing with shock that it was no dream. She was indeed lying in bed and kissing a man. And she was na**d to boot.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she pulled back abruptly. We couldn't have, she thought, not daring to open her eyes. Surely she would remember if she and Doyle had made love...
"I would certainly hope so," he said, his voice gravelly and sexy as hell. She opened her eyes. His face was inches from hers, blue eyes filled with mischief, warmth and desire.
"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked.
"Fine." A little on the weak side, maybe, but that was probably due to lack of food more than anything else. She touched his smooth cheek, running her finger down to his chin. "You've shaved."
He was also fully dressed and lying on top of the covers, rather than underneath. Relief ran through her, though it was touched by an odd sense of disappointment.
His sudden grin sent another shiver of desire through her.
"I thought I'd better," he said. "Didn't want to give you whisker burn, if I ever got the chance to kiss you again."
She raised an eyebrow. "What made you think you were even going to get another chance?"
"You're a woman. I'm a man. We're in a dangerous situation, and we're mutually attracted." He brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, his touch flushing warmth down to her toes. 'The odds are on my side, you know."
"Pretty damn sure of yourself, aren't you?" she muttered. Trouble was, they both knew he was right.
"Sure of myself, yes." He stared at her for a moment, blue eyes intent, thoughts suddenly troubled. "But sure of you? That I'm not."
He caught her fingers and kissed them lightly, then rose swiftly from the bed. "Breakfast?" he said, walking away.
She blinked at his abrupt departure. "Sure."
"Your bag is in the bathroom. Don't get those bandages wet if you decide to take a shower."
Bandages? She glanced down, and saw that that she was indeed wrapped in bandages, from just under her br**sts to her waist.
"Why am I wearing bandages?" she called after him.
"Long story. Get dressed, and I'll explain."
She cursed him silently, but didn't move, for the first time taking in their surroundings. If they were in a hotel, it was certainly the dustiest hotel she'd ever seen. And the furnishings were so old and worn they looked ready for the dump.
She looked up, saw the pitched roof and the strings of cobwebs trailing the length of room, and frowned. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear they were inside the old farmhouse. But that didn't make any sense. Surely it would be too dangerous. Their murderer would come here, if only to make sure that Doyle was still in her trap.
She climbed out of bed and walked across to the window, peering out. Trees swayed beyond the roof of the veranda, and on the ground to her left, a patch of black soil in a sea of yellow-green grass. Zombie remains, she thought with a shiver. They were definitely at the farm house, then.
She wrapped a blanket around herself, and headed down the stairs. Doyle looked around as she entered the living room.
"Nice outfit," he commented, eyes bright in the hazy light. "I especially like the teasing flash of thigh as you walk."
She blushed and tugged the blanket around. "Why are we still here?" He turned away, stirring the contents of a bubbling pot. "Why are you not getting dressed?"