Longest Night (22 page)

November 20

“You can't keep secrets from me,” Ian said as soon as he circled the tail of the aircraft to Cecily's side. Cold wind swept across the airstrip behind the cabin and tugged at the hood of his parka. A painful chill settled into every inch of exposed skin. He sniffled and cupped his hands in front of his face, blowing on them to try and trap warm air.

“Oh, I'd say I can,” she teased as she twisted around in the pilot's seat. She maneuvered a large canvas bundle to the passenger seat, and then lifted the cardboard box tucked into a corner of the cargo space. The mysterious packages had been the sole purpose of their trip to Pinelake. He didn't even know where she'd gotten them. She'd left him at the airport trailer while she went to do her shopping. Borrowing Mark's landline to call Preston didn't make up for not knowing where she'd gone.

To his infinite irritation, the box had been covered with butcher paper and securely closed with twine. Carefully, she handed it out to him. He gave it an experimental shake, but it was too well-padded to have any characteristic rattle or shifting weight. The bundle would have been much easier to identify, if he could just touch it. It was almost three feet across, with irregular lumps formed by layers of canvas and more twine.

“Get that inside before you freeze,” she told him. “And if you open it, no sex for a week.”

“Cecily—”

“No, make that
two
weeks
,” she threatened, waving him clear of the plane. She slammed her door and taxied the plane across the yard, toward the hangar.

Muttering under his breath, Ian carried the carton into the house and set it on the kitchen table. The package was small enough that it could have been delivered by regular post, though there were no shipping labels. There was no way he could get the twine unknotted, unfold the butcher paper, peek inside, and then put everything back before she was finished stowing the plane in the hangar.

Knowing her, she'd follow through with her threat, too. She wasn't the type to back down, once her mind was set on a course of action.

“Damn,” he muttered, abandoning the box. He tossed his gloves on the table and went to the stove, building up the fire. They both needed something hot to drink.

By the time he had coffee brewed, Cecily was back inside. She put the canvas-wrapped bundle on the table beside the box and grinned at him. Then she pulled off her parka and draped it over the back of a chair. “Thanks,” she said gratefully as she took the mug he offered.

“
Now
will you tell me what's in there?” he demanded, circling around behind her. He pressed an encouraging kiss to the back of her neck, brushing aside the strands of hair that were starting to grow in.

“Why should—” The word
I
trailed off into a moan as he closed his teeth on a lock of her hair and pulled sharply. “Fuck,” she whispered, shivering back against him.

“Box first,” he insisted, trying not to sound too smug.

She decided to cheat in retaliation, pushing back against him. She rose up on her toes, grinding her ass against him as if to suggest Ian forget all about the damned secret packages, because nothing in there could be better than the woman standing between him and it. He put his coffee safely on the table to free his hands so he could tug at the bottom of her old USMC sweatshirt. Happy to go along with the change of plans, she lifted her arms and turned as he got rid of the offending layer of heavy fabric.

“Box first, huh? Sure about that?” she asked, lowering her arms to circle his neck.

The sound he made as he ducked to kiss her was both a purr of satisfaction and a frustrated growl. He licked and nibbled at her lips until she was panting against him, fingers clenched in the back of his shirt, tugging the fabric out of his jeans.

“Show me,” he whispered in the low, seductive tones he knew she couldn't refuse.

“No.” She took a nip of her own, teeth closing on his bottom lip hard enough to make his whole body tingle.

“Stubborn,” he complained, backing reluctantly away.

She grinned and said, “I have to be, to put up with you.” Deliberately, she turned back and picked up her coffee again.

His huff of irritation wasn't very convincing. He wrapped his arms around her body and rested his head on her shoulder. “Then will you tell me what's in there?” he asked, flicking one finger in the direction of the canvas bundle.

“Nope.” She tipped her head back and kissed his jaw. “We'd be warmer if you went and built up the other fires. And if we were warmer, I could take off more than just my sweatshirt.”

Smugly, he leaned forward against her and pressed kisses to the back of her neck. “Or I could do this,” he murmured, licking the curve of her ear.

She shivered. This time, she put the coffee down hard enough to splash some out. “You're cheating.”

“I am,” he agreed, nipping at her earlobe. “You could show me what's in the box, or you could distract me. Your choice.”

Shaking droplets of coffee off her fingers, she turned back to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Distraction it is,” she said, and lifted up onto her toes to kiss him.

***

Surprising Ian was nearly impossible, but Cecily wasn't one to let “impossible” stop her from trying. She'd used the radio in the tiny attic to contact Mark and Marguerite, enlisting both in her plan. They'd cooperated enthusiastically, handling the purchasing and packaging, and Mark had kept Ian distracted at the airfield while Cecily picked up the surprises. Now, she just had to distract Ian until tomorrow.

Most nights, while dinner fried or simmered (or in one memorable case caught fire), Cecily sat down at the typewriter and wrote, keys out of sync with the rhythm of his guitar. She was finally back on schedule and had sent the first few chapters of her new novel to her editor. Tonight, though, she was too twisted up with anxiety to concentrate despite the soothing music.

Had this all been a mistake? Ian could be sensual and caring and sweet—and abrasive as hell, impatient, and childish. But he
wasn't
romantic, not by any stretch. She could barely imagine him signing an office birthday card much less thinking in terms of anniversaries. Certainly not anything as trivial as one month.

God, it was like Cecily was back in eighth grade, trying to work up the nerve to get Steve Matheson behind his dad's boathouse so she could try and kiss him.

She finally surrendered and turned away from the typewriter to watch him play. The light of the oil lamp was too harsh on his pale skin, so she turned the flame down until the only illumination was the warmer glow of the fireplace. Without pausing his playing, he opened his eyes and looked at her through his lashes.

Absolutely captivated, she met his gaze, making no attempt at all to conceal her thoughts or feelings. The words—those three little words—had yet to make their appearance, but she'd given up trying to control or hide how she felt. “
Trust
me
,” he had said, and she'd given him that trust, with equal parts excitement and terror.

She could believe, almost completely, that they would find a way to do this…
this
. Whether they spent next winter here at the cabin or made it to Manhattan by spring, they would be together, and her whole body ached with the intensity of her emotions.

His hands stilled on the strings, and he frowned at her. “What's wrong?”

Panic spiked through her, nothing to do with the war and everything to do with the unexpected, possibly irrational fear that he knew exactly what she was thinking and wanted nothing more to do with her. Sex was one thing; love was entirely different. And Ian had never said that word to her. Cecily
thought
they'd both been circling that declaration, awkward and tentative, but what if it had been her imagination? What if those three words never even entered his mind? There was a hell of a difference between “I'll never be bored of you” and “I love you,” after all.

“Cecily,” he snapped, his tone more worried than harsh. He set the guitar on the sofa and rose, eyes fixed not on her face but on the right side of her chest. “Are you in pain?”

She looked down, realized that she was rubbing the gunshot scar, and quickly curled her hand into a fist and dropped it to her side. “I'm fine.”

“You're a terrible liar,” he scoffed, not for the first time. He knelt down in front of her, touching the exact spot where she'd been rubbing. “Tell me.”

She avoided his too-sharp eyes and looked at the fire instead. “I'm fine. Really.”

He made an unsatisfied sort of sound. “Please?” he asked, and it was his turn to look away, eyes fixed to her shirt. “It's important, whatever it is. I was trying to help you write, and it didn't work. Why not?”

Confused, she turned back and lifted a hand to brush her fingers through his long, soft hair. “You were?”

“I don't just play random music like an iPod on shuffle.” He pressed into her touch and smiled. “There are certain songs that help you focus when you're writing.”

She smiled, some of her fears receding. Maybe he hadn't said it, but he
behaved
as if he cared for her, and that was what counted. Wasn't it?

She tugged on his hair, encouraging him to kneel up for a kiss, soft and sweet. “You really are wonderful. I hadn't noticed—the thing with the music, I mean.”

“You weren't meant to notice. It's a technique I use when interviewing clients and witnesses.” He grinned and said, “Now you'll be conscious of it, and you'll try to analyze your writing based on my playing. That might invalidate my efforts completely.”

Laughing now, she kissed him again. “Thank you.”

Catlike, he knelt back down and twisted sideways so he could lean his shoulder against the seat between her legs. He tipped his head, resting it on her thigh, and said, “You still haven't told me why it wasn't working tonight.”

She didn't answer right away. She combed her fingers through his hair and thought about the packages in the cellar and finally said, “Tomorrow it'll be one month since we first met.”

Ian turned just enough to look up at Cecily without interrupting the petting. “Is that all? It feels like forever.”

“Sorry if I'm boring you,” she snapped, though she immediately regretted her tone.

With an irritated huff, he twisted away and rose, catching her hand to pull her to her feet. “Stop making assumptions—especially incorrect ones. I told you, I could never be bored of you,” he insisted. His coldly logical tone was at odds with the gentle way he wrapped his arms around her body to hold her close.

She sighed and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “I never thought I'd have anyone for a single day, much less a month. It's…”

“Important.”

“Yes.”

“Then it is to me, as well,” he said, his deep voice taking on a sly edge. His hands slid down her back, fingers pressing to either side of her spine, catching on her belt before dropping lower. He dipped his head and pressed hot, openmouthed kisses to her throat. When he nipped sharply at her jaw, her knees almost buckled. “I believe a celebration is traditional in Manhattan. Does the same apply to Canada?”

“You talk too much,” she complained.

“Not tonight,” he purred against her skin, clipping the last
t
sound with another bite. “We should save our energy to properly celebrate tomorrow. If we're going to celebrate tonight, then you'll need to get those packages out of the basement so we can do this properly.”

Oh, fucking hell
, Cecily thought. She'd expected—feared—that he would be contemptuous of a little one-month-anniversary surprise, disdaining as too feminine or some quaint country custom. She'd never imagined that he'd put that brilliant, absolutely evil brain of his behind the idea and come up with something far worse than a couple of surprise packages picked up in town.

“Tonight. Canadian tradition,” she lied. “Celebrate tonight, gifts tomorrow. Like Christmas.”

He laughed and licked and blew gently, freezing the warmth right out of her throat as chills shivered deliciously up and down her spine. “Liar.”

“It is. Historical basis,” she said, shivering again as he nipped her earlobe. “You know. In case we freeze to death before the actual date. Can't die without celebrating.”

Ian's breathing turned into snorts of laughter that he failed to completely muffle against her shirt. “Forget everything I've ever said about lying to me,” he invited, grinning so hard that she could hear it in his voice. “Your lies are ridiculously entertaining. Keep trying.”

“Entertaining? You want entertaining?” she growled in mock-anger. She backed away just enough to get a hand down between their bodies, fingers teasing over his jeans.

To her surprise, he took one long step back. His blue-gray eyes had gone dark with lust; he grinned at her and tossed his hair back, saying innocently, “I thought we were saving that for our anniversary, remember?”

“We? I didn't agree to any ‘we' in that,” she complained.

His innocent act was no longer even remotely convincing. “Oh? Well, I suppose we could celebrate early. Need help carrying the packages?”

Two could play at that game. Determined not to let him win, she gave him an icy smile. “Right.” She deliberately walked to the couch and settled at one end. “Tomorrow it is, then. You can go back to your playing,” she added sweetly, gesturing at the abandoned guitar.

His eyes narrowed. He made a thoughtful, frustrated sound and then picked up the guitar. He set it on the floor and took his place on the far side of the sofa. The firelight gave a devilish gleam to his eyes, shadow filling the hollows beneath his sharp cheekbones, highlighting the gloss of his lower lip as his tongue swept over it. The bastard was absolutely gorgeous and knew it.