Longest Night (12 page)

A distant part of his mind wondered what had brought this on. Cecily didn't strike Ian as the intimate type. She hadn't wanted to sleep in his arms and hadn't offered a morning kiss, leaving him to wonder if last night had been a one-night anomaly. Now, though, he found himself rethinking that. Whatever brought on this moment of gentleness, he could get used to it.

Then, realizing his idle fantasies had strayed into dangerous territory, he muttered, “Thank you,” and got up out of the chair, letting the burn in his back and neck distract him. He was in no position to think about things like “relationship” or “long-term” or anything at all beyond the end of winter, when the last of the aching emptiness of his addiction was under control. And then he'd go back to Manhattan and Cecily would stay here.

Best to look at this as a vacation, Ian reminded himself. Vacations ended, leaving fond memories to cling to when everyday life became too boring or stressful.

He avoided looking back at Cecily and instead went into the bathroom to rinse away the last of the shaving foam. She kept a glass jar of moisturizer on the bathroom shelf, a natural blend made locally in Pinelake, or so she'd said. Ian opened the jar and used a finger to scoop out the thick lotion. He rubbed it between his palms and smoothed it over his face and neck, remembering the touch of her gentle, strong hands on his skin.

The door opened. “Ian, there's lotion—” Cecily cut off and met his eyes in the mirror, mouth quirking up in a faint smile. “You found it.”

“Thank you,” he said, and he didn't mean the moisturizer. “I never put in this much effort.”

She pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped closer. “You should.”

He studied her in the mirror; firelight suited her better than electric. It brought out rich red-gold highlights in her hair and gave warmth to her pale, freckled skin. He permitted himself to stare, thinking of how Manhattan's electric night would turn her hair to deep mahogany, how she would glow under the bright Miami sunlight, how the midnight-blue ocean would bring out the rich green of her eyes.

She took another step as though drawn forward, lips parted, and it was as natural as breathing for him to turn and lift a hand to her soft cheek, tipping her face up to meet his kiss. The light touch of her lips was tentative and fragile, but he resisted the impulse to pull her close. He wanted this to be on her terms.

October 28

Ian lay on the sofa, staring up at the beams supporting the attic floor, idly running his fingers over his jaw. Cecily's hands had been absolutely steady as she held the razor. He thought back to the video and the bloodstains on her uniform, and he pictured the scar on her shoulder. He felt queasy thinking of how long she had been held captive before her rescue.

Cecily had gone out fishing for tonight's dinner, an activity Ian had no desire to share. To fend off the boredom that threatened, he rolled off the sofa and went to the desk. He'd already checked his email, so he left the power off and turned his attention instead to the typed pages on the corner. She had made no effort to hide them, so he didn't hesitate to pick up the stack, turn it over, and start reading.

The fantasy novel was elegantly written but transparent, the plot devoid of complexities that would alienate young readers. (Ian distinctly recalled his frustration with such simplistic plots in the early days of school, when he'd been more interested in sports than completing his homework, because school had been tedious and unchallenging.)

At the bottom of the stack was the second book, darker and more ominous in tone than the fantasy novel. The story—less a proper manuscript and more a very detailed summary with bullet point outlines and notes—was set during the Cold War. The main character was a U.S. Air Force pilot, not a Marine, but there were similarities nonetheless. The pilot was shot down in contested airspace north of Japan, captured, and handed over to the KGB for interrogation. A few early pages, labeled
REV2
, detailed a parallel plotline about a special ops team being mobilized to rescue the main character and had notes about a possible KGB traitor who would help with the escape, but nothing had been done with those story arcs.

Ian restored the pages to the stack and abandoned the desk to think. He set up and tuned his guitar absently, wondering if Cecily's writing was a good thing or not. It was clear that her past experiences had left deep scars on her psyche as well as her body, but writing seemed just as pointless as group therapy. If she'd really been trying to write this story for years and had only made it to thirty-odd pages, clearly this form of therapy wasn't working for her.

He lost himself in playing and thinking about Cecily until he took a deep breath, and his nose caught a distinctly wet, fishy odor. He opened his eyes and saw that she had returned at some point during his distracted playing but had been too polite to interrupt.

“That was beautiful,” she said from her seat at the desk.

Ian smiled and looked her over, noting the dark spots of mud on her jeans and two fresh scratches on her right hand. “You were successful.”

“We won't starve,” Cecily agreed, grinning. She rose, looking even shorter in her socks; apparently she'd left her waterproof boots elsewhere. “I'm going to have a shower. I didn't want the water heater rattling to interrupt your playing.”

“I can scrub your back, if you'd like,” Ian proposed, letting his voice go deep and inviting. He knew Cecily would refuse; what he didn't know was
how
.

She tensed, but not as much as she might have, if she were actually upset by the offer. “Thanks, but even I don't want to be in there with me at the moment,” she said with a quick smile, wrinkling her nose.

As Cecily went into the bedroom, Ian sat back down and picked up his guitar. He idly ran his fingers over the strings, thinking. She had liked the idea enough to consider it, despite her deep-seated need to hide her scars. Slow steps, he decided, setting himself the private goal of seeing the full extent of her body by the end of the week—by her invitation.

***

The engine rumble of Marguerite's quad shattered the silence that filled the cabin, rousing Cecily from her doze. Ian was in the bedroom, probably locked away with a book or napping, so Cecily took it upon herself to go out front and greet her.

Mags pulled off her helmet and dismounted, grinning cheerfully. “Hi! Not too early, am I?” she asked, unhooking the bungee cords holding a bag to the back of the quad's seat.

“Not at all.” Cecily jogged out into the cold and took the bag with one hand, giving Mags a hug with her free arm. “How was the trip?”

“Be careful. I saw this”—Mags tugged off a glove with her teeth and stuck her bare hand into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out a thin bundle of cinnamon-brown fur—“on that stand of pines by the river, the one where I spotted the beavers that one time.”

Cecily nodded, remembering the spot from photographs. “Black bear or grizzly?” she asked worriedly. Either one might have brown fur, contrary to the name, but their behavioral patterns were very different.

“I couldn't tell,” Mags admitted.

“Want me to ride back with you tonight?” Cecily offered. No matter how enticing Ian's company was—assuming he was still interested—she didn't like the idea of taking chances with Marguerite's safety.

Mags gave a shy smile and shrugged, leading the way up the front steps to the cabin. Cecily knew Mags wanted to play brave and refuse, but she was sensible enough to instead say, “Maybe.” They both knew Cecily was a much better shot than Mags.

Ian was out of the bedroom, now dressed in one of his suits from last week and a charming smile. “Good to see you again, Marguerite,” he said, offering his hand.

“Oh, hi,” she answered, clasping his hand as her cheeks went pink. She looked down at herself as she shrugged out of her parka, revealing a fleece sweatshirt and jeans. “Look at you. I feel all underdressed now,” she told Ian.

Cecily put an arm around Marguerite's shoulders and stage-whispered, “I lied and told him we were going to a fancy dinner in Edmonton, just so he'd dress up.” Mags laughed, and Ian's smile turned genuine, which Cecily counted as two small victories.

“Well, we can pretend,” Mags said, gesturing to the bag in Cecily's hands. She bent down to take off her boots. “I made a salad with the last of the fresh vegetables.”

“I'll start dinner,” Cecily said. She glanced at Ian's guitar, uncertain if he'd take offense at a request to play for Marguerite. He'd never precisely offered to play for Cecily; he'd just done it.

Before Cecily could think of what to say, Ian turned and strode away from them to go open the guitar case. “Do you like the classics, Marguerite?”

Her expression turned pleased. “Yes. You play? Really?” She circled around the couch and sat, looking adoringly up at Ian. Cecily couldn't blame her.

“I do.” Ian must have been planning this, because he didn't bother to tune the strings. He just ducked under the guitar strap. Grinning, Cecily leaned against the kitchen archway, watching as he touched the strings, playing a flourish of notes that sounded almost like classical Spanish guitar, until he broke into a familiar song.

“I know that one!” Cecily exclaimed, recognizing the first notes of “Limelight” by Rush. Then she snapped her mouth shut, giving Ian a silent, apologetic smile. He ignored the interruption and kept playing, though she saw the subtle tension in his body as he tried not to laugh aloud.

Relieved that the afternoon had started out so well, Cecily took the salad into the kitchen and got started on dinner, listening as Ian played through the highlights of Rush, The Smiths, and The Cure, finishing with Queen by the time the pan-fried trout was ready.

***

Growing up, Ian had developed a reputation for being terrible company at the dinner table. He hated family dinners with awful food and even worse conversation. As the eldest of the three siblings, Preston had taken his role seriously and learned to deal with the adults at a young age. Ian had gone the other way, after learning that sulking and mouthing off would get him exiled from the table. All he needed to do was to strategically time his bad behavior to happen after he'd eaten enough to satisfy his hunger—and reconnoitering the kitchen to see what the night's dessert was.

Somewhere along the line, though, they'd switched roles. Preston had adopted Ian's abrasive, aggressive demeanor, and Ian had learned how to smoothly join and even control a conversation. It had surprised more than one relative or family friend who only visited occasionally, though it shouldn't have. Ian was a Fairchild; he hadn't been raised by wolves, after all.

Once Ian had joined Manhattan society, he'd learned that charm was as much a weapon as it was a lure. Now, he had no qualms at all about enchanting both women. All through dinner, he engaged Marguerite in conversation and subtly drew Cecily back any time she grew too quiet.

The close quarters helped. The table in the kitchen was built for two, and Cecily brought the desk chair in from the living room for herself. Their proximity meant that they were all bumping feet and knees under the table, so Ian had the perfect excuse to press his leg against hers. The touch seemed to soothe her.

It also helped that Marguerite wasn't tediously boring. Granted, compared to Ian's clients and business associates, she was easy to read, without a hint of deception in her personality. She also proved to be intelligent, especially when Ian asked questions about her field of expertise. He didn't know a damned thing about the ecosystems of northern wilderness rivers, but he'd been a fairly good science student and could figure out what questions to ask.

The trout proved to be surprisingly good. When they finished the last few scraps, Cecily asked, “Coffee and dessert?”

“Dessert?” Marguerite gave her a surprised smile. “Did you two figure out how to use the oven for baking?”

Ian waved a hand in Cecily's direction. “This is all Cecily's idea.”

“Wonderful disclaimer there, thanks,” Cecily drawled, rolling her chair back from the table. She flashed Ian a quick grin. “For that, you get to clear the table while I set up the living room.”

“I'll help,” Marguerite offered at once, despite being a guest. Then again, Cecily had done the washing-up at Marguerite's house, so perhaps this was customary between them.

Having someone to assist with the washing and drying cut the time substantially, but Ian missed his dishwasher—and his maid service—all the same. When they finished most of the dishes, he suggested, “Why don't you make coffee while I finish the pans?”

“Okay. No soap,” Marguerite warned as she went to the pantry.

Ian laughed and poured a bit of coarse salt into the cast iron skillet. “I learned that the hard way,” he admitted, scrubbing the salt in the seasoned pan to loosen up any burnt-on bits of trout. Cecily had stopped him from pouring soap into the pan and explained that soap would destroy the seasoning. He cleaned and dried the pan, and then went out to the living room.

Cecily was sitting on the floor by the hearth, surrounded by bags and boxes and partially unwrapped chocolate bars. She beckoned for Ian to join her and ripped open the first plastic bag. “You have roasted marshmallows, haven't you?”

“Intentionally or because I lit something else on fire?” he asked a bit evasively as he sat beside Cecily, careful not to crowd her. His back twinged, and he took the bottle of ibuprofen out of his jacket pocket.

She glanced at the bottle, a little frown creasing her brow. Then she looked up at Ian suspiciously and said, “There's a story there.”

“It wasn't
my
dorm,” he protested innocently. He shook out two ibuprofen, quickly pocketed the bottle, and then swallowed the pills.

Cecily grinned. “Now I have to hear it, some time. But first, here.” She took a marshmallow from the bag and impaled it on a long metal skewer. “Hold this in the fire. Not too close—you want it melted and a little crispy, but not solid black, unless that's what you like.”

“This is more like science than cooking,” he said, thinking that this was definitely more appealing than his teenage nights of shivering around an insufficient campfire, watching marshmallows fall off crooked sticks.

Cecily shifted unnecessarily closer and reached for one of the chocolate bars. “Feel free to experiment,” she said quietly, and judging by her inviting smile, she was no longer talking about dessert.

Ian met her eyes and hid a triumphant grin when he saw nothing but interest there—no wariness or reticence at all. He lifted a hand to Cecily's face, tracing his thumb over the path where he'd set a line of kisses last night, and her eyes closed in obvious memory. He pressed a finger over the pulse in her throat, marking the rapid acceleration with satisfaction.

“If you have any suggestions on where you'd like me to start…” Ian hinted quietly, leaning closer to replace the finger on her pulse with his lips.

Cecily's hand slid over his leg, fingers tightening. “Ian,” she protested tightly. “Marguerite's right—”

“Making coffee,” he interrupted, though Cecily's protest didn't go silent until Ian nipped her throat, making her gasp. “But there's no need to rush,” he lied, leaning closer so he could brush his lips over her ear. “We have time for any experiments you'd like to try.”

Cecily's soft curse was lost under a delicate cough from the kitchen, followed by Marguerite saying, “Uh, fire.”

Cecily jerked away from Ian, face flushed with embarrassment. Then she laughed a bit raggedly and gestured to the fireplace, where the marshmallow had reached critical temperature and was now blazing.

Ian laughed and tried to sound at least a little serious as he said, “It's nouvelle cuisine. Marshmallows flambées.” Before he could say anything more, the marshmallow finally lost all structural integrity, liquefied, and splashed into the flames.

Smiling, Cecily leaned over and took the skewer out of his hand. She gave him a soft kiss on the cheek and said, “Let's stick with s'mores.”

***

From a practical standpoint, s'mores had been a successful choice for dessert—the perfect solution for the limitations imposed by Cecily's absolute lack of ability to use a wood-burning oven for anything but lighting things on fire. In fact, she was already planning on going back to Pinelake at least once more before the snow got too heavy in hopes that the store had restocked, just so she could buy out every marshmallow and chocolate bar. She looked forward to watching Ian lick his fingers clean every damned night.