Longest Night (25 page)

Cecily's confusion melted away into understanding. “Yes.” She brushed her fingers over his face, staring at him affectionately. “At first, it was there, but it didn't… I don't know. It didn't feel right to say it. And then, it was as if we both knew it.”

“And now, you're ready.” He leaned down to kiss her again, finally taking his time, thinking that he'd have to find ways to encourage her to say it more often.

She grinned and put one foot up on the bed. Then, with a single strong push of her leg, she shoved him over onto his back so she could roll on top of him. When she leaned down, her hair tickled his face. “It's too bad I'm so damned tired,” she said, combing her fingers through his hair. “This is our last night together in Canada, at least for a while. We should celebrate.”

All but purring with contentment inside, he asked, “Are you afraid of flying? Of someone else piloting, I mean. You were tense on the flight here from Pinelake.”

She laughed. “I was tense because I kept thinking I'd forgotten something. No, Ian. Not afraid of flying.”

His smile turned wicked. “In that case… It's a charter flight. We're the only passengers. If we can find some basic hand tools, I'm certain we can get the seats to fully recline.”

Immediately, her eyes went sharp. “You are
not
taking our aircraft apart while we're flying in it,” she scolded.

“But—”

“The rest of my life is going to be me stopping you from doing something dangerous bordering on suicidal, isn't it?”

“My mother always said I needed a caretaker,” he said, lifting his hands to cup her face. He traced her freckles with his thumbs and looked up into her eyes, amazed at how very much in love with her he was. “Do you mind?”

With a delighted smile, Cecily shook her head. “At least I'll never be bored.”

December 31

“Welcome home,” Ian said as he unlocked the door and stepped inside to the sound of beeping. He pushed his wheeled suitcase aside and set down his guitar case. Cecily followed him inside, shoulders tense under the straps of the rucksack that had served as a carry-on bag. They'd shipped the rest of their luggage, including the antlers he'd refused to leave behind.

He closed the door and disarmed the alarm system, saying, “The code is 1013, then press Disarm.”

“Thanks.” She gave him a slight, fake smile and walked past him, through the foyer.

He followed, watching the tight line of her shoulders as she set down her rucksack. His own back was strained from hours of sitting on the plane and in the taxi from Newark Airport, but Cecily's tension was because of the trip itself—the crowds that had become unfamiliar after seven years of living in isolation.

“It's bigger than I expected,” she said, walking forward in slow, cautious steps. She paused and glanced left into the kitchen, then right into the powder room, before continuing into the living room. “Is someone here? It's clean.”

“Preston sometimes stays here. Otherwise, I have a service that usually cleans twice a week.” He left his own luggage by the door, though he carried the old, battered guitar into the living room after her. “If you're hungry, I had them stock the fridge with the basics. Or I can get you something to drink.”

“I'm okay, thanks,” she answered distantly. Her attention wasn't on the sleek, stylish decor but the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Hudson River. The room was roughly square, with a small notch cut out of the far corner for a balcony just large enough for a small table and two lounge chairs.

She was still tense. Disappointed, Ian went to the couch and set down his guitar, thinking he might as well risk breaking the strings by playing it so soon after travel. His music helped her to relax, and he wanted her to be comfortable in his apartment. Their apartment.

Of course, it was nothing like her own cabin. Ian's apartment was built for company—anything from one-night stands to small dinner parties. The sofas were thickly cushioned black leather arranged on two sides of a luxurious shag carpet in a dusty olive green. The dining table had chairs at the ends and benches on either side. Two stools offered informal seating at the breakfast bar.

Only when he turned back to face her did he realize that she was still focused on the windows. Ian was so used to them that he rarely bothered closing the curtains in here and only closed the sheers in his bedroom. But Cecily was so private…

“Sorry. Here,” he said, going right for the coffee table. There were two remote controls there—one for the entertainment unit, one for the household. He picked up the household remote, and with the press of a button, the blinds on the west-facing window began to descend. “Everything's automated. There are a couple of remotes floating around. I usually keep one in here and one in the bedroom.”

“That's…” Cecily trailed off and gave him a smile that seemed easier. When he touched another button, turning the overhead lights to a dim glow, she looked up and gave a little laugh.

“Convenient?” he asked, walking over to her.

She tipped her head down enough to meet his eyes and rested her hands on his hips. “I was going to say lazy.”

“I'm not lazy,” he lied. He tossed the remote on the couch so he could wrap his arms around her. “I work hard for this lifestyle.”

“Maid service twice a week, remote control blinds and lights?” she challenged. “Which part of the ‘work' do you do?”

“The lawyer part,” he teased, leaning down for a kiss.

But she turned away, smile fading, and wormed free of his arms. She took a few steps across the deep shag carpet and looked around. Her shoulders went tight again as she shoved her hands into her pockets. She still hadn't removed her parka; the waterproof shell rustled loudly in the silence.

“Your job.” She looked down, scuffing her boot on the carpet, and shook her head. “I knew you lived well, but I didn't imagine… Ian, what am
I
supposed to do here?”

Ian's gut went tight. “You're a writer. We can build you an office, maybe overlooking—” He cut off, looking at the window that looked out toward the river, a window that was now covered.

He swallowed, wondering what he was supposed to say now. Cecily was a writer, yes, but at the cabin, she had always been busy with the day-to-day need to survive. Firewood, food, repairs—all the critical things necessary to live in such an inhospitable environment. She needed to be busy. Useful. And here, she probably couldn't even afford to pay a tenth of the monthly bills, much less split expenses fifty-fifty.

She turned back to face him, hazel eyes dark with worry. “What am I doing here? I don't belong—”

“Don't,” he interrupted. He went to her and put his hands on her shoulders, feeling the tension in her strong muscles. “Small steps, remember? You get a desk. You hook up your laptop. You write. Maybe go for a jog in Central Park one morning.” He slid his hands up to cup her face, gentling his fingers over her soft skin. “And you give
us
a chance.”

She closed her eyes, leaning into his hands. “I know. I'm sorry.”

“And don't apologize.” A touch under her jaw got her to look back up at him. “Do you think I want to go back to the office? To the courtroom? The hours suck. The stress of building a case, of dealing with clients and the DA and the damned press…assuming they remember who I am.”

She exhaled warm breath over his hands. “You're not exactly forgettable.” She straightened her back and looked around without breaking free of his gentle hold. “It really is nice. Not exactly my style.”

“Your
style
involves freezing to death,” he said with a smile. “And denying yourself.”

“Denying myself?”

“Mmm. Living without life's little luxuries. Which reminds me, I have one last surprise for you.”

Her eyes lit up with interest. “You do?”

“Give me ten minutes. Then I'll show you.” He leaned in to brush his lips over hers and tugged at the coat she still wore. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Ten minutes,” she agreed and took off her coat.

***

Cecily sank an inch deeper into the bathtub, opening her eyes just enough to see Ian leaning against the vanity. “I am never leaving this tub,” she all but purred, lifting a handful of bubbles from the water's surface. For seven years, the closest she'd come to a bathtub had been midsummer swimming in the river by the cabin.

Grinning, Ian knelt down on the bath mat and reached out to comb his fingers through her damp hair. “I can get one of those bathtub trays for your laptop. You can write in here. I'll bring you snacks.”

“I knew there was a reason I love you.”

His touch went still, and she opened her eyes to look at him. Softly, he said, “I'll never get tired of you saying that.”

She felt a blush creep up her face and hoped he'd blame it on the hot water. He'd covered every surface with candles, filling the room with flickering light that reminded her of her cabin. “Manipulative bastard,” she accused fondly, turning her head to kiss his forearm.

His brows shot up toward his hairline. “What did I do?”

She laughed softly. “Just…you, with your candles.” She turned, sending a wave of bubbles over the lip of the tub.

“Hey! Watch it,” he protested with a laugh, swiping some of the bubbles back at her with his free hand. “What did I do?”

“Candles. Oil lamps and fireplaces, just like in the cabin.” She sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. Bubbles trailed down her forehead, and Ian caught them with his fingertips, brushing over her eyebrow.

“Your hair,” he said, moving his fingers to catch at the strands that fell back against her cheek. “Firelight brings out all these shades of gold and auburn. It's like…a little bit of you shining through.”

She laughed again, throwing bubbles back at him, embarrassed at his extravagant words. “That's awful.”

“I'm allowed to get poetic once in a while. It impresses juries.” He leaned in and kissed her without a care for how his shirt got soaked. The kiss warmed her more than the bath, sending tingles through her body. As she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, he pulled back enough to ask, “It didn't impress you?”

“Not quite,” she teased. “You'll have to try harder.”

“Let's see about that.” He ran his fingers down between her breasts, bubbles tickling her skin until his hand dipped into the water. She felt her body relax under his touch, and she smiled, thinking the bathtub was big enough for two.

“Were you going to join me?” she invited hopefully.

“Mmm, not this time. I'm not done with the surprises.” His eyes lit up with a mischievous grin. “You relax. I'll lay out your clothes on the bed, if you don't mind?”

“My clothes—” Her face went hot as her imagination supplied images of lace and satin, things he couldn't have bought en route from Canada. Oh, God, had he had his PA go shopping for lingerie for her? She'd strangle him—if she didn't die of embarrassment first.

“Trust me.” He kissed the tip of her nose and got quickly out of reach. He was gone before she could demand answers.

She sank back into the tub with a groan, but the hot water and bubbles soothed her irritation. Ian was smart and caring. He knew how much she treasured her privacy. Maybe he'd ordered something online or over the phone, without involving anyone Cecily would ever have to meet.

So she allowed herself to relax and enjoy the bath until the water grew tepid. When she got out, she picked up one of the towels and found it warm to the touch. Leave it to Ian to have a heated towel rack in Manhattan. Laughing, she pulled the drain plug, dried off, and went into the bedroom.

To her surprise, instead of anything lacy or frilly, she found blue jeans, boots, and shirts meant to be layered. The bedroom door was closed, with a sticky note above the knob. Curious, she went to read it.

When you're dressed, follow the trail to your surprise.

Delighted, she dressed quickly, trying to guess what he had in mind. He'd picked warm wool socks and a flannel shirt under a thick sweater. A late dinner on the balcony? She could probably manage that, even if the huge floor-to-ceiling windows were going to take some adjustment.

In the living room, she found no trace of Ian; instead, she found her parka and scarf arrayed on a chair near the door, along with another sticky note.

Come out to the hallway. Don't worry about setting the alarm. The door will lock automatically.

Maybe they were going out somewhere. A hint of trepidation crept through her, but she dressed warmly, zipped up the parka, and went out into the hall.

There, she found another sticky note, this one on the emergency door at the end of the hall. The sign on the door warned that it was protected by an alarm, but the door was open, just a crack.

Come upstairs. Hide the note. Don't let the door lock, or it will get very cold before morning.

“Sneaky bastard,” she muttered, grinning now, and pushed the door open. He'd crammed the latch full of crumpled paper held in place with a strip of duct tape, like a college student holding an illicit party in the dorm rooms.

Laughing, she went up the stairs two at a time, following the signs to the roof. She pushed the door open and saw the city, alive with lights, interrupted only by the darkness of the river on one side.

A flashlight guided her to where Ian, bundled warmly in his Canadian outerwear, had set up a picnic on a blanket. The wind stole Cecily's laughter; Ian stole her breath with a kiss.

“You're mad,” she accused, tears filling her eyes. She could barely see him in the darkness, but she knew he was grinning proudly down at her.

“Which makes you equally mad, since you're here with me,” he said, guiding her down to the blanket. “Are you warm enough? No, scratch that. You lived in the wilderness; you're fine.”

“Yes, I am, thanks for asking,” she said, nudging his shoulder. “I take it we're not supposed to be up here?”

“I would never admit to knowing how to pick locks,” he declared. He turned the flashlight to shine into a brown paper grocery bag. “Sorry I didn't have time to arrange a proper picnic. The closest I could get to a picnic basket was this or shoe boxes.”

“Looks like you'll have to owe me.” She leaned against him, peering into the bag. She could see a bottle inside, and she heard the crinkling of wrappers. “Maybe the next one should be in summer.”

“Only if it's somewhere other than the roof. It probably gets hot as hell up here. Aha! Not broken,” he said, putting down the flashlight so he could take out two fine champagne glasses wrapped in paper towels. He shoved the paper towels back into the bag and offered her the glasses.

Happiness filled her all the way down to her toes at how utterly ridiculous and charming this all was. “Are we having champagne and potato chips for dinner?”

He froze.

“Oh, my God. We are.”

“Pretzels, actually.” In the darkness, she could just barely make out his sheepish grin. “The potato chips were stale.”

She laughed as he opened the bottle of champagne. “You're insane—
Careful!
” she yelped when he filled one glass to overflowing.

“Sorry,” he said, clearly lying, and set the bottle down. Instead of taking the glass, he lifted her hand and ducked his head, licking slowly, sensuously over her fingers. The heat of his mouth sent shivers through her, and she leaned down to steal a champagne-flavored kiss from his lips.

“Careful,” she whispered as the kiss broke.

“The night's not done.” He filled the other glass without spilling any champagne, put the bottle aside, and took one of the glasses. “To you, Captain Cecily Knight, the strongest, most amazing woman I've ever met.”