Anticipation exploded through her and she sucked in a sharp breath. She stared at him, caught between passion and self-preservation. He was dead serious. She scrambled off the bed, snatched up her clothes, and fled.
* * * *
Damien fell back on the bed, his chest heaving with every ragged breath. He had given hundreds of massages, both therapeutic and sensual, but never experienced anything so erotic.
His heart still pounded in his ears. The blood rushed through his veins. Sliding his hands all over her nearly naked body had sorely tested his self-control and left him painfully aroused. He had tried to stay clinically detached but all that soft smooth skin under his hands had stirred a raging fire in him.
He scowled on a flood of disgust and frustration. No woman had ever gotten so far under his skin. Not even his ex-wife stirred him so much. Why Laurie Crawford? Why now? What was it about her that drew him? Sure, she was gorgeous. But he’d had gorgeous women in his bed.
What made her different? Why did she tie his gut into knots of pure lust?
He glared at the ceiling. Maybe it was the fact that he had not fucked her yet. He had to force himself to think of her in crude terms before he found himself caught up in things he never allowed himself to want.
“Damn her,” he muttered as he left the bed and stalked across the room. He slapped his hand on the light switch and plunged the room into darkness. The stove grate squealed as he yanked it open. He stoked the fire, the flames spitting sparks as he closed the grate. But even the fire did little to soften to black of night or his mood. Heavy clouds hid the moon so he didn’t even see shadows.
But he remembered the seductive picture she had made in his bed. All of that dark brown hair spread over his pillow, like strands of silk. His pillow still carried the faint hint of strawberry mixed with something else, something uniquely Laurie.
Again painfully aroused, he jerked onto his back and ground the back of his head into the pillow. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly, deeply, evenly, until he finally slept, his dreams full of darkly sensual images.
ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening
41
Chapter Five
Over the rest of the week, they settled into a simple but intense routine. Laurie dragged herself out of bed every morning, gulped several cups of coffee for breakfast, and struggled to ignore her growing feelings for Damien. Mornings were spent target shooting. She concentrated on her aim rather than Damien and soon became a crack shot.
Afternoon martial arts sessions, however, were infinitely more difficult. They required physical contact, which tested her powers of concentration to the limits. Damien’s touch, no matter how impersonal, distracted her. When his arms closed around her, she struggled to remember what she was supposed to do. When he had her on the ground, she looked into his implacable eyes and wished he was making love to her instead of teaching her to break holds.
As if the days weren’t hard enough, the nights drove her insane. While Stacy was awake, Laurie played with her or read at the table. Damien often sprawled on the sofa bed, ostensibly reading. She often caught his enigmatic gaze on her and hastily looked away.
Once Stacy was in bed, Laurie grew restless. Nothing she read penetrated the fog in her brain. More often than not, she found herself staring at Damien as her mind conjured erotic fantasies. She dreamed of him and woke every morning craving him.
This particular morning, six days after their arrival in the woods, was no different. She woke to early daylight with Damien in her mind and in her heart. She dressed quickly but lingered to stare uncertainly out the window. Dark clouds obscured the sun and she sighed.
When the aroma of strong black coffee drifted up to the loft, her mouth watered and she headed downstairs. Damien sat at the end of the table. Steam rose from a mug in front of him. He stared at her, his face blank, as she poured a cup and sat across from him. Alarm bells rang in her head. She had not seen that carefully blank expression on his face since their first night in the cabin.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded, tightening her fingers around the handle of the mug.
She studied him carefully through narrowed eyes, taking in every nuance of his demeanor. He was tense, alert, but that was not unusual. But there was an air of urgency about him, of secrecy that confused her. His gaze bored into her and she knew.
“They found him, didn’t they? They found my father.” Her words barely above a whisper, she continued to stare at him. Hope mingled with relief. Maybe now she could take Stacy home.
“Yes,” he replied tonelessly. “He’s still in Mexico, still with the terrorists. Now we can take him.”