Longest Night (8 page)

But when Ian's free hand brushed against her right hip, too close to her gun, she twisted away violently enough that she bumped into the stove, rattling the kettle—not because she didn't want that touch, but because she
did
.

Her tension should've been Ian's cue to back off, but he didn't. He stepped closer, looking down at Cecily with almost predatory interest. “You don't think I'll hurt you,” he said speculatively, and though the phrasing was ominous, it didn't come out as a threat. He studied her face as he spoke softly, curiously. “You're not in a relationship.”

“Not looking for one,” Cecily said, forcing herself to breathe steadily. The stove was hot at her back, so she sidestepped, breathing easier when she was out in the open space near the back door.

“Neither am I,” Ian pointed out reasonably.

Before he could make an offer that would possibly be too tempting for Cecily to resist, she interrupted, “Good. Settled, then. If you wouldn't mind starting dinner, I want a quick shower.”

Uncertainty flickered across Ian's expression. He didn't take the single step that would bring him close again. “All right. I'm—”

“Thanks,” she cut in again and retreated to get a change of clothes. She couldn't bear to have him apologize for offering her something she really did want but wouldn't allow herself to take.

Once she was in the bedroom, she let herself lean against the wall by the closet. Exhaling sharply, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about the way Ian's voice had made her shiver. Maybe if they both let this drop, they could go back to the comfortable, distant,
safe
friendship they'd developed. She wasn't ready for a relationship with anyone—especially not a high-profile Manhattan lawyer who'd go home in a couple of months, while Cecily tried to go back to the way things had been before she'd ever heard his name.

October 27

As Ian followed Cecily into the trees the next morning, he couldn't help but glance at the shotgun slung over her shoulder. They weren't skeet shooting, and a shotgun wasn't a weapon for casual target practice, so why did she have it with her now? Of course, he also didn't know why they were going out into the woods for a lesson in shooting, rather than using the makeshift firing range on the airstrip out back. Perhaps her heavier weaponry was in case of bear attack.

The thought made his skin crawl. He'd rather face down a hundred of Manhattan's worst criminals than meet a single bear in the wild. It was all well and good for Cecily to be so competent and comfortable out here in the silent forest, but what the hell was he doing here?

He looked over at Cecily, appreciating the way the cold brought color to her cheeks. With the sun mostly hidden, he was able to wear his regular glasses, rather than his sunglasses. The wisps of hair showing from under her dark knitted cap were a bright contrast, and he found himself regretting her choice of wearing dark sunglasses that hid her eyes.

“Where are we going?” he asked softly. The cloudy forest seemed to encourage quiet conversation.

“Thought I'd show you some of the property.” She flashed him a quick smile that seemed genuine, though he had difficulty reading the nuances of her expression. “I promise, no fishing,” she added with a laugh.

Last night had been tense and awkward. Ian had cooked dinner, and Cecily had made coffee. Instead of eating at the table, they'd taken their plates and mugs into the living room, where Cecily lost herself in her writing. Finally, he'd gone to bed—frustratingly alone—and had stared up into the darkness, listening as her typing finally achieved a quick, steady rhythm that lulled him into a doze.

At some point, Cecily must have slept, though she'd been awake and cooking breakfast when the dreary gray light of dawn came through the windows and woke him. She walked with easy, casual confidence, showing none of the wariness she'd demonstrated in Pinelake. To her, the unknown predators in the forest were no threat, Ian thought. Rather, she perceived
people
as a threat, though he had yet to tease out precisely why.

The rucksack Ian wore over his new parka was a heavy, unfamiliar weight. Cecily had insisted they both carry emergency supplies, though she'd also warned him not to stray too far from her side.

Not that Ian planned on letting her get away from him that easily. After last night, he was
more
interested in her, not less, but she seemed to have gone the opposite way. She was friendly and courteous, but she'd reverted to the polite, quiet distance of their first days together.

That thought naturally made him recall the life he'd left behind in Manhattan, and he stopped, feeling the cold air nip at his skin and bite at his throat as he breathed. His eyes went to Cecily's back as he realized he'd be going back alone.

To his surprise, he found he didn't want that. Oh, he desperately wanted to get back to Manhattan. He'd already been away for far too long. He needed the comfort and intellectual challenge of his old life more deeply than he craved painkillers to ease the ache in his back.

He closed his eyes, immersing himself in the sense-memory of the smell and sound and sight of a thousand windows looking out into the Manhattan night, every one of them hiding the possibility of mystery and intrigue, danger and pleasure, and he realized at that moment that he didn't just want to go back. He wanted Cecily to go back with him. He wanted to see how she, after years of self-imposed isolation, would react to his city.

Forget the tourist destinations and arts and culture. Ian would take her to the hidden city underneath the public veneer. He'd show her the buildings lost in time and the forgotten streets and unknown restaurants. They'd dine at the tiny cafes with no menus, where no one spoke English, and they'd watch the street performers and visit the hidden parks where nature flourished in the shadow of old brownstones. He'd take her into his world of nightclubs and private parties—and
that
was an image that nearly overloaded his imagination, Cecily not in some little black dress but in tight designer jeans and a silk shirt, maybe in deep forest green to complement her hair.

Cecily's sigh scattered the distracting thoughts. He opened his eyes, glad that he'd bought a parka that hung well past his hips, hiding the evidence of his unintended arousal. He saw her standing a careful eight feet away. Her gloved hands were shoved into her pockets.

“Look, I know this must be…uncomfortable,” she said apologetically. She was turned to face him, but he had the impression that her gaze was averted, hidden behind the sunglasses. “Why don't we just go back? I can take you to Mags's house on the quad. The snow's not too deep. It's safe enough.”

So much for a manufactured excuse to bridge the distance between them. Now he physically crossed that distance, watching the way Cecily tensed, not to attack or defend but to back away. But she didn't actually move, which was encouraging, and he didn't stop until he was only a foot away, close enough that their winter-fogged breath mingled in a pale cloud between them.

“Much as I look forward to returning to Manhattan, I have no interest in doing so now. And I have no desire to spend any significant time with your neighbor,” he said, letting his voice pitch low and smooth.

Cecily shifted her weight, and Ian caught her sleeve, silently cursing the bulky jackets and gloves that separated them both. At the touch, she went still, saying, “Ian—”

“Cecily,” he interrupted quietly. He wanted to pull away her sunglasses, but he sensed that she needed that little artificial shield. If Ian pushed too hard, she would shut down completely, and he might never get another chance at her. Even this might be too much, but Ian had to try.

Lightly holding her sleeve, he raised his free hand and used his teeth to tug off the glove. Her head turned sharply to watch the path of the glove as Ian tossed it aside. Cold air bit at his fingers, but he didn't care. He set his fingertips to her face, for an instant feeling the icy skin of her jaw before she flinched away.

“Cecily,” Ian repeated quietly, soothingly, and touched again. This time, she didn't pull back. She parted her lips and inhaled quietly. The motion drew his gaze down, and he saw no reason at all not to chase that breath.

Tight with tension, her lips tasted of cold and snow. Subtle, burning points of contact connected them skin-to-skin—Ian's fingertips on her face, his thumb on the thinner flesh over her cheekbone, their lips touching lightly. The kiss was barely more than the air they shared for one breath, two. Her exhale shuddered against his mouth.

Encouraged, he licked at Cecily's cold, chapped lips, gently pressing with his fingertips. She shifted, her lips parting just enough for his tongue to flick across her teeth. Her inhale was sharper now, and her hand pressed against his side, not to pull him close or push him away but to simply touch. Her mouth opened further, and the brush of her tongue—just the tip—crackled through him like lightning.

Then Cecily did move, shifting a half step closer and standing taller, swiping her tongue across his before it pushed into his mouth, bringing with it heat and nerve-snapping tension and fierce desire. Their noses bumped, nostrils flared as they both tried to breathe without losing their connection. Ian's hand on her sleeve turned into a fist as her hand slid to his back, and it was maddening that he couldn't feel her body through the ridiculous layers of down-stuffed Gore-Tex and wool and far too much clothing.

It was Cecily who finally broke the kiss. Her hand fell from his body, and she stepped back with a deep breath as though to steady herself. She licked her lips, an action he mirrored, wanting to capture the lingering taste of her mouth before the cold stole it away. He felt her absence like a bone-deep ache that made him shiver. The tension was returning to her posture, though, just enough to warn him to tread carefully or risk chasing her away.

For a moment, they stood in the silent, snowy forest, breathing out of rhythm but equally deeply. He wondered if the cold felt like fire in Cecily's lungs the way it did in his own. He wondered if her body tingled painfully at the absence of touch or if she could still feel the impression of his lips against her own.

Cecily broke the silence as well, boots crunching through the light snow and into the fallen leaves beneath. She bent to retrieve his cast-off glove, her free hand automatically dropping to steady the shotgun at her side.

“Idiot. Do you want frostbite? Put that back on,” she said as she offered the glove to him, a strange affection in her voice. He couldn't see her eyes, but he imagined the way they were bright with humor.

Ian took the glove with a laugh and put it on as he fell in beside Cecily, both of them walking again. Neither of them mentioned the kiss, and there was no attempt to hold hands or touch, but the distance between them had disappeared, which was good enough for now.

***

Kissing Ian Fairchild—kissing
anyone
, in fact—was a spectacularly bad idea. Without even trying, Cecily could think of fifteen or twenty reasons not to have a repeat, much as she wanted one.

It was just a kiss. No big deal. At least, at one point in Cecily's life, it wouldn't have been. Back in school, she'd never had any trouble dating. Even in the Corps, she'd managed to find company—not with her own troops, of course, but at various bases or while she was back in the States on leave. But now, she knew better. She liked him too much to give him up as a friend.

But she wanted it. Desperately. After all these years, she thought she'd trained herself out of craving intimacy and closeness, whether it was the rush of sex or the sweet laziness of cuddling with a loved one. She'd convinced herself that she didn't need that anymore, and she'd been so successful that she'd grown cocky. That was the only explanation. False confidence had made her vulnerable, and now he had slipped past her guard and under her skin, and there was no way in hell that she'd be able to say no.

As it turned out, he already knew how to shoot (though not as well as he kissed, a treacherous corner of Cecily's mind supplied), so she was able to give him a couple of tips to improve his aim and then lean back against a tree, watching him and trying not to overthink the situation.

Once Ian seemed to get bored with target shooting, she challenged him to lead the way back, thinking it best if he started learning his way around the forest in case he got lost. To Cecily's surprise, he didn't try to backtrack. Instead, he looked thoughtfully into the distance for a moment before he started walking. She followed, trying not to give any hints, lazily keeping an eye on their surroundings. Bears weren't usually a problem at this season, but an encounter with wolves or coyotes could be disquieting. She also kept an eye out for game animals, especially rabbits, so she kept some of her attention on the low brush near small clearings.

She was pleased to see that he didn't hesitate, though she couldn't help but wonder how a city boy knew how to navigate the woods. Once they were in sight of the cabin, she gave in to her curiosity and asked, “All right, how'd you do it?”

Ian turned and nodded at the position of the sun, barely more than a bright spot in the thick cloud cover. “Position of the sun, contour of the ground, sound of the river. I rarely get lost, especially not in an open area without many obstacles to my path.” Then, grinning, he added, “Except in Boston. The streets there are laid out like someone dumped spaghetti onto a map.”

Cecily laughed. “I'm impressed. You said yourself you're not the outdoorsy type.”

“Neither are you.”

The truth of that hit a little too close to home. For Cecily, camping had always been a fun diversion or part of a mission, not something she'd ever thought to turn into a lifestyle. More sharply than she should have, she said, “You
have
noticed where I live, right? I've been here for…six years now? Almost seven.” A bit of bleak amazement crept into her thoughts at that. On December 31, it would be seven years.

Seven years, and she hadn't expected to live out even one. Hell, sometimes she thought she'd chosen to move out to the wilds to save someone the trouble of cleaning up her body after she finally got sick of the nightmares. Seven years of surviving—not really living—weighed heavily against a lifetime built in small, happy pieces, from childhood to school to the terrible exhilaration of war. She struggled against the weight pressing down on her chest, the hot tension knotting up her throat, the pressure behind her eyes, until her mind lost the battle against her body and she was able to take a breath.

When she exhaled unsteadily, she realized he was still watching her. “Sorry, planning the dinner menu for tomorrow,” she lied clumsily. She'd never been a particularly good liar—not when honesty had served her well through most of her years—and he didn't miss
anything
.

Now, his blue eyes sharpened, fixed intently on Cecily's face as though he knew every thought slithering around in her fucked-up mind. Panic seized her all over again, but this time, she channeled it into motion. She might have said something—
Let's get inside
, perhaps, or something about the cold—but she had no idea what. She pushed past him and headed with brisk steps for the cabin's front door, forcing herself to think only as far ahead as the next hour: build up the fires, set up dinner, clean the guns. Everything else would have to wait.

***

Dinner was sausages made by the Tuckers, a family of butchers and taxidermists in Pinelake. Last winter, Cecily had shot a bear not too far away and had managed to get it to the quad and into town before the meat could go rancid. The Tuckers had butchered it and traded half the meat and the pelt for sausages, burgers, steaks, and roasts enough to fill her deep freezer. She served the sausages with beans that had been soaking since yesterday and pan-fried corn bread made with the morning's bacon drippings.