Not Even for Love(5)

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly. His hands were warm through the thin cotton of her sweater. Cautiously, her feet found the now invisible rungs and she eased her way down until she had gained the floor. “I’m afraid your first impressions of Lucerne will be bad ones,” she said tremulously. His hands were still firm around her waist.

“I’d say my first impressions have been delightful.” His voice was vibrant and its intensity startled her. His hands moved up almost imperceptibly until they spanned her rib cage.

“I’ll get some candles,” she said shakily. “This happens frequently, you see.” She stepped away from him quickly. “I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, no. I’m afraid of the dark,” he said. “I’m coming with you.” He hooked a thumb into a belt loop on her side, which placed his fist at the swell of her hip. “Lead the way.”

She felt her way around the shelves and racks, stumbling in the dark and ever aware of the figure looming close behind her, bumping into her every few steps.

“We have to turn right up the stairwell. It’s rather tight.”

“I’m right behind you,” he said, and placed his other hand on the opposite side of her waist.

It took them several minutes to navigate the dark stairs, for in the narrow confines of the stairwell even the lightning flashes didn’t provide them with any illumination.

“Here we are,” she said with relief when they reached the second floor. She wasn’t afraid of the darkness, or of the storm, or of being left without electricity. She was terrified of the sensations this man, and his touch, aroused in her. “Wait here. The candles are in the kitchen.”

“Hurry,” he said.

She laughed and tripped toward the drawer where she knew she would find a serviceable candle and matches. They were exactly where they should be, but she didn’t seem to be capable of striking the match. Her hands were trembling and totally useless.

“Damn!” she cursed under her breath.

“What’s the matter?” He spoke from directly behind her. She hadn’t heard his approach and dropped the matchbox in surprise.

“Did I frighten you?” he asked solicitously.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. I can’t seem to get the match struck.” It seemed imperative that some kind of light banish this darkness. It was too complete, too encapsulating, too intimate. His nearness was making her extremely nervous and edgy.

He took up the matchbox from where she had dropped it on the countertop. With one swipe across the bottom of the box the match flared to life.

“Thank you,” she murmured as she lifted the candle toward the small flame. She looked up at him and found his face unnecessarily close to hers.

“You’re welcome,” he answered. He leaned down slightly and she was held in breathless suspension when she thought he was about to kiss her. Instead, he blew softly on the match and it went out, the smoke waiting between their faces.

Was it relief or disappointment she felt? Hurriedly she turned away from him and moved toward the door that connected the tiny kitchen to the living room.

“I have other candles in here,” she said by way of explanation. Quickly, with the candle providing a small circle of light, she traversed the living room, stopping periodically to ignite a scented candle. Soon the room was bathed in a soft, fragrant glow.

“When you said you had some candles, you meant it,” he teased from the door of the kitchen when a dozen or more candles had been lit.

“They’re really for aesthetic purposes, but as you can see, sometimes they’re functional as well.”

She stood awkwardly, bare feet chastely together, hands self-consciously clasped in front of her. What now? “Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

“The electricity?”

“I have a gas stove.”

“Great. That sounds good.”

She walked toward him, taking one of the larger candles in its brass holder with her. He moved aside and she brushed past him into the kitchen.

“Don’t feel like you have to entertain me,” he said as she filled a percolator with water, “but I don’t relish roaming around that maze out there without even the benefit of streetlights.”

She smiled over her shoulder as she spooned coffee into the metal basket. “What kind of American would I be to deny aid and comfort to a fellow countryman? Where are you from, Reeves?” Reeves? Not Mr. Grant?

“I grew up in California. Went to UCLA. Started working professionally as a photographer during college.” She had lit the stove and placed the percolator on the burner. “Say, listen, would I be presuming too much if I changed clothes? I’m still rather soggy.”