Longest Night (23 page)

Twelve
hours
, she thought, letting her eyes sweep over his body. The thick cable-knit sweater added minimal bulk to his lean frame, and his tight blue jeans hid almost nothing that her imagination couldn't fill in with toe-curling accuracy. He wasn't just sitting; he was
posed
, fully aware of how the light played over him and the angle at which she sat.

Ian was an arrogant, clever bastard, but Cecily was determined. She hadn't made all her careful plans just to have them undone by lust. If he wanted sex tonight, she was fine with that. More than fine. But the surprise packages were staying in the cellar, no matter what persuasion he attempted. She'd just have to keep him distracted and off-balance.

There was only one way she was going to make it through until tomorrow, and that was by playing dirty.
Time
to
cheat
, she decided and unbuckled her belt.

***

The subtle metallic rattle and leathery rasp of Cecily's belt was a familiar sound, one that never failed to rouse Ian's interest in a Pavlovian response based entirely on what inevitably followed. He glanced to the side before he realized he'd moved, ruining the attempt to capture her interest with his profile. She had her belt undone, and now her fingers, strong and sure, worked to unbutton the waistband of her jeans.

His brain shut down like a computer program locking up, error messages flashing on screen. They were on the couch, not in bed, and while they'd kissed and very rarely cuddled and once she had gone to her knees and given him a truly breathtaking blow job on the couch, the sight of her stripping in the living room was new, outside all previously established behavior patterns.

The sound of her zipper was deafening.

He knew she was trying to provoke him. He knew he should turn away and look back toward the fire, summoning up an air of lofty disdain. He tried to focus on the puzzle of what was in the packages, but there was no hope for it. He could barely even remember what they'd looked like, much less speculate on the contents.

Then Cecily sat forward to pull off her shirt, and he wondered if he was going to lose this battle after all. She took off not just her sweatshirt but her T-shirt, leaving her in a plain cotton bra that was more alluring than any scrap of lace and satin had ever been. The firelight touched her scars with highlights and shadow, and he couldn't help but stare. She'd been less self-conscious about her scars—just in time for the snowy season to bear down on the cabin with relentless force, driving them both to pile on layers of warm clothing.

She lifted her hips just enough to push her jeans down past her hips. They fell to the floor, followed a moment later by her heavy wool socks.

The cabin was silent, save for the soft crackle of the fire. He didn't move, didn't make a sound, irrationally thinking that if he did, she might get dressed and leave.

Then she turned sideways to lean against the arm of the sofa, reaching back to arrange the throw pillows more comfortably. She put her right foot on the cushion and slid it forward until her bare toes just touched his thigh. Her left foot hung comfortably down, touching the floor, and her legs were spread invitingly wide.

She reached down, letting her right hand rest on her own thigh, fingers curling slowly over her skin with a soft touch he could all too easily imagine. Almost casually, she moved her hand up until her fingers were just barely resting along the edge of her white cotton panties.

“Since you're not doing anything, care to build up the fire?” she suggested casually, toying with the edge of the panties where the threads were just beginning to fray.

His first instinct was to refuse; he wasn't about to be complicit in her plan to break his resolve. If she wanted sex, all she had to do was to show him what was in the packages hidden away in the cellar.

But only on the surface was this about sex or the mysterious packages they'd picked up in Pinelake. Beneath it was her desire to celebrate their meeting. The cardboard box and the canvas-wrapped bundle were surprises. Gifts. While all gifts came with costs that far outweighed their value, in Ian's experience, he suspected that she would once again prove the exception. She hadn't arranged this surprise with an ulterior motive. There was nothing of his that she couldn't have, simply by asking.

She could have ended this all by giving in, either graciously or in a fit of ill-temper. She could have stormed off, slammed the bedroom door, and refused to have anything to do with him until her self-appointed deadline of Anniversary Day had dawned. Instead, she'd taken the one route that he hadn't predicted: a playful escalation of the conflict, done not out of malice but affection.

Ian was completely disarmed.

He rose, moved the guitar aside, and spent a few moments rearranging the logs already on the fire. Conscious of how her scars ached in the cold, he took his time, even though all he wanted was to go back to the sofa. In a month, he'd become adept not just at keeping fires alive but at learning how to stack the logs to reflect more heat into the room. When he was finally satisfied by the warmth, he sat back down and turned sideways, making no attempt to hide his interest.

Cecily's smile went from sly to genuine. “Thanks,” she said, sliding her right foot forward another inch, tucking her toes under his leg. He reached down and rested his hand on her ankle, only to have her pull her foot back with a scolding look. Then the sly smile reappeared. “Thought you were too distracted by your surprise?”

Never
boring
, he thought, hiding his affectionate smile. He faked an irritated huff and deliberately draped his arm across the back of the sofa to remove the temptation to reach for her again.

“By all means, feel free to make yourself comfortable,” he said dryly.

She grinned, shifting down a bit more. With her right leg bent, foot flat on the cushion, her hips were canted invitingly up. One fingertip slipped beneath the elastic. Then one more, disappearing under soft cotton that shifted as she deliberately brushed her fingers over the soft, dark red curls shadowed against her panties.

Refusing to be baited, Cecily asked, “Are you going to make me do this alone?”

Ian loved games, especially clever, intelligent, engaging games. His gaming board was the office, the courtroom, even the bars and nightclubs where he socialized with his colleagues and competitors. Once engaged, he had a reputation for being absolutely cutthroat. He played not only to win but to destroy the competition, using any means necessary.

But this game, he cheerfully threw after only a token show of resistance. Pushing all thoughts of the box aside, he lowered his hand to her thigh, feeling the strong, sleek muscle under soft skin. “No.”

She gave him a stern look softened by the heat in her eyes. “The packages stay in the cellar.”

“Take those off,” he countered, glancing at her bra and panties.

“Only if you agree. No stopping in the middle to renegotiate. No sneaking downstairs after I'm asleep. I expect you to play fair.”

“I never play fair.”

“You will, with me.”

Despite all of his practice at theatrics, his sigh didn't come close to sounding genuine. “You're very stubborn,” he complained, lowering his head to press a kiss to her knee. “Fine. I agree.”

Cecily didn't fall for his irritated act. Laughing, she combed her fingers through his hair. Her voice was full of amused affection. “I'll just have to keep you from getting bored.”

Ian smiled, pressing up into her touch, and met her gaze. Warmth filled him, not only from desire but from the powerful love that stole his breath. He ducked to kiss her knee again and closed his eyes, surrendering to her game. “Please do.”

***

November 21

The next morning, Ian awoke alone, which was nothing unusual. Cecily rose before him most days and did her best to sneak out courteously without waking him, no matter how often he'd tried to explain that he didn't need that much rest. Sleep was just a remnant habit formed during the mind-rotting boredom of his recovery in the hospital, physical therapy, and rehab.

Knowing there was only minimal chance of luring her back to bed this early, he slid out from under the blankets and dressed in warm layers. The smell of coffee lured him to the kitchen by way of the bathroom, where he hurried to take care of the necessities. Warm tingling filled him, body and mind, as though he were still caught up in last night's sexual high. Keeping the same partner for more than a few weeks at a time had always been boring, but not Cecily. Not even after this long…

One
month
, he remembered as his sleepy mind finally woke for him to recall the surprise packages. He finished brushing his teeth and threw open the door to the kitchen, taking note of the relevant details: Cecily, still wearing her usual morning outfit of sweats and a bathrobe; smell of ham and coffee, sizzling sound of pancakes; electric lights on, rather than the oil lamp she usually preferred.
Cardboard
box
and
canvas
bundle
on
the
table
.

It took all of his self-restraint to go to her rather than the packages. When she turned to look at him over one shoulder, mouth quirked up in a grin, he threaded his fingers into her short red hair, pulled her head back, and kissed her. The tingling warmth of well-being alchemized into a rush of pure, fiery love that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with
Cecily
, and all he wanted to do was to keep her close and never let her go.

He finally did, though. He relaxed his fingers to comb through her hair as he looked down into deep brown eyes, smiling at how they'd gone wide. With a lazy, satisfied grin, she invited, “Tell me what brought that on, so I can do it every morning.”

Ian laughed and nipped at her lip, casting a glance at the skillet. “You burnt breakfast.”

“I'll never undercook pancakes again,” she promised.

He rolled his eyes, let her go with one last kiss, and surrendered to his curiosity. He left her to burn breakfast all she wanted and walked a slow circle around the table, studying the packages. Last night's urgency had given way to an unhurried sense of curiosity.

“Your presents are
in
the packages,” she said, sounding both puzzled and amused. The frying pan sizzled as she scraped the last of the pancake batter into the pool of oil. “You can keep the box, too, if you want…”

With another laugh, he decided to start with the irregular package first. He wondered how she'd managed to arrange this sort of surprise. He'd been with her almost every minute of the last month. Someone must have helped her. Mark, at the airfield, definitely. Possibly Marguerite, too.

He tugged at the twine and unfolded layers of canvas and crumpled newspaper, revealing a pale, sharp tine. Antlers.

He pulled away the rest of the packing material. The antlers were mounted to a small wood plaque, meant to be hung on a wall.

“This was from your stag. The one you hunted,” he said as he counted the tines. But she didn't take trophies. She'd once mentioned that she usually traded everything away for food or supplies she'd need to get through the harsh winters.

“It is.”

“But—”

“I want you to have it,” she said, a hint of uncertainty slipping into her voice. “If you want. It won't be easy to get back home, and Manhattan—”

He turned, one hand resting on the antlers, and touched her mouth with his fingertips. “Yes,” he said, barely talking about the antlers at all. He watched her pleased smile reappear, and he answered with a smile of his own. “I know just where to hang them,” he said, thinking of a place of honor in his living room, currently occupied by a trendy piece of modern art that he'd bought as an investment.

She smiled, eyes bright, and ducked to kiss his fingertips. “Breakfast is getting cold.”

“I thought you burnt it,” he said innocently.

Laughing, she smacked his arm and turned back to the stove. “Hurry up, or you starve this morning.”

He grinned and dug into the box, tossing aside the twine and butcher paper. A bright, silvery gleam caught his eye, and he lifted out a pie wrapped in foil and plastic wrap.

“That's for dessert tonight.” She took the pie out of his hands and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “There's more in there.”

The lure of “more” made him look back down into the box, where he found another layer of butcher paper. He pulled it out and found a small, narrow cardboard package in the corner. He lifted it out, surprised at the weight.

The box was wrapped in more butcher paper. Ian ripped it free, and the lid came loose, revealing turquoise tissue paper. Inside was a matte black knife with bright steel hardware, the grip textured and notched in the front. One side had a metal belt clip. He pressed the safety button and eased the blade out of the grip. The mechanism was stiff. The blade was slick with oil, and it locked firmly into place at full extension.

She nudged him aside and set down two breakfast plates, nervously asking, “Is it all right? After you helped with the deer, I didn't know if—”

After carefully setting the knife down, he wrapped a free arm around her body, pulling her close. He captured her gasp with a kiss that said all the words he couldn't force past the tightness in his chest.

“It's perfect,” he whispered as the kiss ended. He leaned his forehead against hers, loving the feel of sleep-mussed, soft hair against his skin. “You're perfect.”

Cecily pulled him close, strong arms around his waist, and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “Happy anniversary, Ian.”

December 20

“Got an email from Preston. He sends his regards,” Ian called from the front room of the cabin.

Cecily sat up, back aching from being hunched over the kitchen table. She'd been editing for hours, ever since they'd finished lunch. She put down the pen she'd been chewing and rose stiffly. She hated editing by hand, but it was part of her process. Write on the typewriter, transcribe to the computer, email to her editor. When she got the manuscript back, she'd print it out in Pinelake so she could edit by hand. Then she'd transcribe everything back to her computer, doing another pass as she typed.

“How is he?” she asked as she went to the living room archway.

Ian sat at the desk in front of his laptop. He looked back over his shoulder and said, “He's asking if I want to come home for the holidays.”

No
.

She felt panic rise up in her chest. Her fingers scratched over the riverstone archway as she fought to breathe. She wasn't ready. She didn't want him to leave without her, but
she
wasn't ready
. They were supposed to have more time. Tomorrow was their two-month anniversary. Two months was
nothing
after seven years.

She heard the rattle of the desk chair. Then long, cool fingers closed around her hands. She took deep breaths and tried to ground herself in the present, telling herself that she was safe and Ian was here, and that was all that mattered for now. Distantly, she felt him leading her through the living room before giving her a little push toward the sofa.

Realizing just how shaky her legs were, she sat and tried to relax her death grip on his hands. He sat down beside her and quietly said, “I'm not going anywhere, remember? Not without you.”

Her heart thudded into her ribs, but she pushed away the reminder. She let go of his hands and said, “You'll have to, though, one day. If you—”

“
Don't.
”

Ian's arms came up to circle her body tightly, and it was a measure of how far she'd come—how much she trusted him—that the panic was barely a whisper in the back of her mind. She let out a shaky exhale and got one leg over his, holding him more tightly. They both shifted and leaned back into the cushions until they couldn't get any closer together.

“Whatever you decide, I'll be right there with you,” he said, stroking his hand down her back. “I came this far for you. I'm not leaving you.”

“You came to get away from Manhattan,” she said with a little smile. She lifted her head from his chest, and warmth curled through her at the way he smiled back at her. “You didn't even know I existed until you first saw my death trap of a plane.”

“Either way, I found you, and now you're stuck with me.” He kissed her forehead and dragged his fingers up her spine to tease at her nape, making her shiver. “But I think you might be more ready than you think.”

“What?”

“Hear me out.” He turned slightly, so they were sitting sideways on the couch, facing each other. His hand slid from her nape to her shoulder and down her arm. “We're humans—creatures of habit. It could be that you're wary of leaving simply because you're
used
to
being that way. It's a pattern of behavior you've created.”

“Is this something you learned from your addiction counseling?”

“No. Well, yes. Sort of.” He gave her a wry smile. “What I actually learned was that even the experts don't have all the answers, and what works for one person won't necessarily work for another. But look at me. All the programs helped, sort of, until I returned to work. Then I was right back at it again.”

She frowned, sitting up a bit. “What happens when you go back this time?”

“I'm not worried about it,” he said reassuringly. “The circumstances are completely different. I've had time to physically recover, which was half the problem. The painkillers were masking what I was doing to my body before I was fully healed.” His grin flashed to life as he added, “I plan on being able to keep up with you on your morning jog by summer.”

She couldn't help but answer with her own grin. “It'd be nice to have company,” she admitted. “But—”

“But,” he cut in, “I had
habits
. Going to work too early, staying too late, ignoring when my body needed rest. Once I broke those habits by changing the circumstances—by leaving the city—everything changed.”

“And you think my”—she faltered, unable to articulate her fear—“
this
is because…what? I've made isolation my habit?” It sounded ridiculous.

“Exactly.” He brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “For me, it meant walking out of rehab early. It meant
not
going back to what I was used to. The city. My job. My apartment. It meant coming here, somewhere completely new, somewhere I had no chance to fall back into that habit. Break the habit, Cecily.”

The warmth of Ian's touch disappeared under a cold chill at the thought. Her cabin was safe. No one came here. She wasn't in danger of being hurt—of hurting someone else.

But safety was a trap. Safety meant isolation. Not being with Ian.

To live—to love—meant taking a risk, and the woman she'd once been had never backed away from a risk.

“All right,” she said, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. When Ian's eyes lit up, she couldn't help but smile and repeat, “All right. Let's give it a shot.”

***

Cecily wasn't one to wait. Once a decision was made, she acted immediately. No dithering, no backpedaling. She got up to start packing, pausing only long enough to put a pot of leftover stew on the stove to reheat. Then she went back to tearing through the living room, bedroom, and bathroom, occasionally throwing things onto the bed.

For Ian, packing was easy. He folded a mix of dress clothes and winter clothes into his one suitcase, packed away his laptop, and was done in under an hour. After he moved his carry-on into the kitchen, he went into the bedroom, where he found her crouched in front of the open gun safe. The drawer was open, and she had a stack of file papers on the floor beside her.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I can't bring these to New York”—she gestured at the guns with one hand, never looking up from the papers—“and I can't just leave them here.”

“Preston can help. He'd probably be willing to—” He cut off, realizing that while Preston would probably be happy to buy the whole collection, Cecily might not want to sell them. “You can probably store them in Virginia.”

“And how do I
get
them there, from here? Do you know international firearms laws?” she snapped, firing a quick glare his way. “I'd probably have to find a licensed dealer to take delivery in Virginia.”

Surprised by her sharp tone, Ian said, “I can find out—”

“Right.” She nodded, swept up the papers, and stood. A hard kick closed the drawer, and then she slammed the safe door shut, engaging the lock. The papers went onto the bed.

Somewhat taken aback, Ian went into the living room and sat down. He was tempted to use her laptop, which was still out, but hers was intolerably slow. Maybe he could talk her into leaving it here so he could buy her a new one. If nothing else, it would save on luggage space.

He got out his own laptop instead. By the time he'd sent off an email to Preston, Cecily was in the living room, back to searching the papers she'd taken from the gun safe. Ian considered asking what she was doing, but her frown of deep concentration changed his mind. Instead, he decided to book plane tickets. Meanwhile, Cecily found whatever she was looking for and headed for the kitchen. The basement door creaked open, and Ian turned to look over his shoulder, listening as Cecily went downstairs.

Flights could be problematic. Assuming they were leaving tomorrow morning and not tonight, they'd get to Little Prairie by midday. They
might
make it to Calgary by nightfall, but the weather made scheduling unpredictable, and Little Prairie wasn't exactly JFK. Ian could all too easily imagine the airport closing down because the cows across the road got loose when high winds blew down their fence. Better to book a hotel room in Calgary and plan to fly out the next morning.

“If you're showering, do it now,” Cecily said out of nowhere, her voice uncharacteristically tense.

Startled, Ian spun the chair around. Dust muted the colors in her fiery hair and turned her navy blue sweater to dark gray. “What?”

“I have to drain the pipes.” She let out a huff and looked around. “Shit. I have to purge the gas lines.” She crossed the living room and snatched her parka from the hook by the front door, only to stop again. “
Shit
. And I have to deal with the generator. And all the meat.”

Ian stood, taking note of the tightness around her eyes, the sharp edge in her voice. She wasn't panicking, though; this wasn't a potential PTSD blackout.

“How can I help?”

“You can't.” She snapped and glared at him for one brief, fierce instant before she turned away. “Okay, no. Sorry. There's too much to do. I can't do this.”

Disappointment hit Ian like a punch, but he hid it. “Cecily, you're getting caught up in details that—”

“I'm
not
.” She took a deep breath and shook her head, scattering dust from her hair. “There's too much to do, Ian. I can't just…pick up and leave.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was just making excuses, but he caught himself. Instead, he went to her and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. She stared up at him as if braced for a fight.

Calmly, he said, “Okay. Then we don't go. What do you need?”

Her shoulders relaxed. “I'm not saying no. But I need time.”

“Cecily—”

“This isn't about habits,” she interrupted. She shook her head, and dusty hair wisped over her eyes. “I just need a plan.”

Ian nodded, lifting a hand to brush the hair back out of her face. “Okay. Let's come up with a plan.”

She smiled wryly and asked, “When's the last time you had to winterize a cabin in the middle of December while still living in it?”

He laughed and rubbed a finger over her nose, cleaning off a spot of dust. “Never. But I'm very good at taking notes and scheduling. You talk; I'll type.”

***

By the time the to-do list was complete, they were both hiding yawns. “We're done,” Ian said, flexing hands that ached from the chill that had fallen. The fire had died to embers.

“There's so much to do,” Cecily said, raking her hands through her hair. “We won't make it back by Christmas. You can go. I'll meet—”

“Don't finish that sentence,” he warned, giving her a smile. “I'm happy to spend Christmas here with you, draining pipes or boarding up windows.”

“You really are crazy, aren't you?” she muttered, smiling back at him. Then her eyes went to the laptop, and she thoughtfully said, “I should go over the list one more time.”

“I've seen my brother do this, and even he admits there comes a time when you have to stop refining the plan and just execute it. And the middle of the night isn't the time for either one.”

She drew a breath to protest but apparently thought better of it. “He's right. You're right.” She got up off the sofa and raised her arms, turning the motion into a full-body stretch. Ian couldn't help but smile and think just how lucky he truly was that she'd chosen
him
, of all people. When she lowered her arms, she met his eyes and gave him a curious little smile. “Let me just put everything away, or we'll be eating paper for breakfast.” She brushed a kiss against his forehead and headed for the kitchen.

He got up from the computer desk, back aching. For once, it wasn't psychosomatic, and he felt no guilt in taking a couple of ibuprofen before he went to shut down his computer and the satellite modem. He'd been trying to wean himself off the pills, thinking that if he could do without even over-the-counter painkillers here, in the cold and damp, he'd be just fine in Manhattan. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that the morning exercises and gentle stretches seemed to be helping, too.

He went into the bedroom and built up the fire, listening as Cecily finished up in the kitchen and went into the bathroom. Once the fire was going strong, he stripped and got under the blankets. The sheets were like ice, and he curled up to try and warm the bed with body heat. If she wasn't ready to leave for good, maybe they could go somewhere for a vacation. Someplace with central heat. He could call Preston's travel desk and find an isolated cabin with proper heating, electricity, and amenities. Hell, he'd charter a damned plane to fly them directly, so Cecily wouldn't have to put up with being locked in a metal tube full of idiots for hours.

When she came out of the bathroom, she sat on the edge of the bed and set her gun on the nightstand. She stripped without hesitation and got under the blankets, avoiding his eyes. Usually, she curled up against his side, but this time, she lay down on her back and folded her arms under her pillow.

“You should know,” she began quietly.

He rolled onto his side and rested his head beside hers, a careful inch between them. “Whatever it is, I probably already do.”

She exhaled, a sound that might have been humor or irritation; it was too soft to decipher. “I need to say it.”

“You don't have to say anything you don't want to.”

“I do, though, don't I?” She sighed, and he slid his hand onto her chest, between her breasts, to feel her heartbeat. She covered his hand with her own, stroking down to his wrist and back to his knuckles. “I've wasted seven years of my life here, Ian. I'm not going to waste seven more years—of
both
our lives.”