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‘Rene, are you okay? Oh, my God, you’re bleeding.’
He watched Melody, stumbling out of her layers of clothing.
He smiled. God, how he wanted to see her naked again. How he wanted to sink into that tight wet heat and have her hold him—and keep the nightmares at bay.
But as the disjointed thoughts collided in his head, the heat in his crotch built, becoming unbearable, and he couldn’t seem to speak, couldn’t tear off his clothing, because he was too busy waltzing with the furniture now—then floating, falling, crashing onto the soft white rug, which welcomed him with open arms.
* * *
‘Oh, no…oh, no…oh, no… Rene, wake up. Please, wake up!’ Mel dropped to her knees on the rug, gripped his arm to shake him. The panic rose like a wave. A tsunami of fear, coming from nowhere to bowl her over.
They were safe. Rene had saved them both. And now he was dead.
Terror clawed at her throat, threatening to choke off what was left of her air supply as she continued to shake his long, strong body, which was laid out on the rug where he’d slid—with surprising grace—to the floor.
But then he groaned. ‘Stop. Shaking. Arm. Hurts,’ he muttered, then seemed to lapse back into sleep.
Not dead. Alive. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
She sat back on her heels, pushed the wave of panic back, to assess the damage and figure out a solution.
She’d been exhausted, wiped out, ready to sleep for ever during their endless march through the storm, which had felt like a lifetime trek but could only have been about an hour.
He’d been there like a wall in front of her. Solid, unyielding, unstoppable, giving her the strength she needed not to let the fear overwhelm her.
Now you need to return the favour.
She had to get him warm first. Then get him out of the wet clothing. A new wave rose up, still fearful, but also focused, and determined.
The chalet was clearly some luxury holiday home—closed up for the season. But while it was a lot warmer in here than outside, it wasn’t exactly balmy.
No way would she be able to figure out how to turn up the heating without leaving Rene, though, and she couldn’t do that. Then her gaze landed on the lavish stone hearth, which was a signature feature of the living area.
The fire. Light a fire. Duh.
She kicked off her boots, wrenched off the heavy ski gloves, then scrambled over to the huge fireplace. Finding kindling, lighter fuel, matches, she sent up several more thank you prayers as she built the fire in record time, dredging up the knowledge from memories of staying in a small cottage in Wales the winter after her parents’ divorce.
Good to know I learnt one useful skill during the worst Christmas of my life.
It took several attempts, but after figuring out how to work the flue she finally got the fire roaring.
She crawled back to Rene. He hadn’t budged, but the frown on his face and the grimace flattening his lips suggested he wasn’t in a coma, just trying to avoid the pain.
Grasping the edge of the rug, she used all her strength to drag him closer to the fire. The jacket, which had a rip in the arm, was soaked through. As was most of the rest of his clothing because, unlike hers, it wasn’t made for an endless trek in a freezing snowstorm.
How on earth had he survived, she wondered, and stayed strong enough to break into the house and carry her in here?
She brushed his wet hair back from his brow.
‘Rene, you idiot, why didn’t you take some of my clothing?’ she whispered, affection washing through her on another emotional tsunami. But then the thought of his lips branding hers before they’d thrown themselves into the storm turned the affection into something wilder and hotter and a lot more disturbing.
She pressed her fingers to her mouth, which, even numb from the cold, still held the imprint of that possessive kiss.
He groaned again and then began to shiver.
Stop daydreaming about a kiss that meant nothing…and get his wet clothes off.
She tugged off the leather gloves first, relieved to find his fingers chapped and red but with no signs of frostbite. It took her an age to undo the snarled laces of his boots and then pull off the wet jeans. Her own reserves of energy began to flag as she wrestled the soaked frozen denim over lean hips and the roped, hair-dusted muscles of his thighs. Again, the skin on his legs looked sore but not damaged. The jacket and sweater took even longer, but once she’d got them both off her gaze raked over him.