The Mighty Quinns: Rourke
Kate Hoffmann
Fiercely independent Annie MacIntosh enjoys being on her own, until she meets gorgeous Rourke Quinn. Trapped together while a storm rages outside, Annie discovers a hunger she never knew existed and an appetite that only Rourke can satisfy.But when the storm passes, will Annie move on too?
Her hero. Her savior. And her undoing…
Rourke Quinn found her on the storm-tossed shores of Cape Breton. The woman in his arms was unconscious and bleeding. And Rourke knew her. Annie MacIntosh was the town outcast—a wild thing. And as untamed and beautiful as the Atlantic itself. This storm was just the thing to keep Rourke as close to her as he dared....
Annie grew up fiercely independent. She was a survivor, needing no one and nothing. She cut herself off from the town and society, relying only on her raw need for survival. But Rourke unleashes a hunger she never knew existed. This man—this stranger—satiates an appetite she hardly dared imagine. It’s more exciting and more turbulent than that storm that rages outside. And Rourke has only one chance with the wild girl he can’t live without...before losing her to a world he can never be part of.
Praise for Kate Hoffmann’s MIGHTY QUINNS
“This truly delightful tale packs in the heat and a lot of heart at the same time.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Dermot
“This is a fast read that is hard to tear the eyes from.
Once I picked it up I couldn’t put it down.”
—Fresh Fiction on The Mighty Quinns: Dermot
“A story that not only pulled me in, but left me weak in the knees.”
—Seriously Reviewed on The Mighty Quinns: Riley
“Sexy, heartwarming and romantic, this is a story to settle down with and enjoy—and then reread.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Teague
“Sexy Irish folklore and intrigue weave throughout this steamy tale.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Kellan
“The only drawback to this story is that it’s far too short!”
—Fresh Fiction on The Mighty Quinns: Kellan
“Strong, imperfect but lovable characters, an interesting setting and great sensuality.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Brody
Dear Reader,
One of my favorite things about writing books for Mills & Boon is the opportunity to explore interesting new places. When I decided to do this latest quartet of Mighty Quinn books, I was excited to have the chance to choose four very different settings, in various parts of the world. Of course, the final book had to be set in Ireland, but for this book, I played with the settings of Central America and Africa before deciding on the island of Cape Breton in Canada.
With its vibrant Celtic culture and old lighthouses, I knew right away that this was the perfect place for a Quinn to fall in love—with the countryside and the heroine!
So, for all my Canadian fans, this one’s for you. I hope I’ve represented this beautiful corner of your country well. I think it’s the perfect place for Rourke and Annie to find their happy ending.
Enjoy!
Kate Hoffmann
The Mighty Quinns: Rourke
Kate Hoffmann
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
KATE HOFFMANN has written more than seventy books for Mills & Boon, most of them for the Blaze
line. She spent time as a music teacher, a retail assistant buyer and an advertising exec before she settled into a career as a full-time writer. She continues to pursue her interests in music, theater and musical theater, working with local schools in various productions. She lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her cat, Chloe.
Dedicated to the memory of Rita MacNeil,
an extraordinary voice from an extraordinary place.
Contents
Prologue (#udcdbd431-5516-5a08-b205-ceb3db6f9811)
Chapter 1 (#u13644f17-f1b2-5b84-b7fe-5cf2fc2f01fc)
Chapter 2 (#u3bdc5f9a-ea4e-51a4-9743-7f183cc8f166)
Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
“IT’S BEEN SO long. I’m beginning to lose hope that we’ll ever find them.”
Aileen Quinn stared out the window of her office at the slate-gray sky. Autumn was quickly turning to winter and she dreaded the damp cold that would settle into her bones. In her younger days, she’d traveled to the south of France during the worst of the Irish winter, soaking up the sun along the Mediterranean coast. But she hadn’t traveled for years, finding herself more comfortable in familiar surroundings.
“I have one more lead to check on your brother Diarmuid,” Ian said, leafing through his notes. “But I’m sad to say that we’ve found nothing on Lochlan. I have researchers on four continents looking for him, but he just disappeared. Off the grid, they call it.”
Aileen had hired Ian Stephens months ago to help her research the parents she’d never known for a chapter in her autobiography. She had grown up in an orphanage, believing that she’d been the only daughter of a destitute Irish widow who’d died of consumption—after her husband had been killed in the Easter Uprising. But Ian had discovered four older brothers—siblings she hadn’t remembered—whose fates had been scattered to the winds when their mother couldn’t care for them.
“I’m another year older,” Aileen said. She forced a bright smile. “I never intended to live to see my ninety-seventh birthday. Good Lord, I’ve lived far too long.”
“You’re the youngest ninety-seven-year-old I’ve ever met,” Ian said with a smile. “Look at you. You’re still writing, still active.”
“That’s lovely of you to say, but it doesn’t make this old body of mine feel any younger.” Aileen laughed softly. “In my mind, I’m still a young woman. When I look in the mirror these days, I barely recognize myself. I wish I could have some of those years back.”
“You’ve led a full life, Miss Quinn. An important life. Your books have meant a lot to so many people. You’re one of Ireland’s most beloved novelists.”
“And yet, I’m searching the ends of the earth for a family, desperate to give myself a legacy beyond my books. I could have had my own family if I hadn’t put my work first.”
Ian had found the descendants of two of her brothers—Tomas’s family near Brisbane, Australia, and Conal’s family in Chicago in the U.S. But it had been five months since he’d brought good news about the other two. She’d planned a festive family reunion for the holidays at Ballyseede Castle, leasing out the entire castle and its twenty-two bedrooms. She wanted the rooms full.
“What do you know of Diarmuid so far?” Aileen asked.
“We’ve come across a clue in a 1945 Canadian census. The age seems to be right and the individual lists his birthplace as Ireland. His name is registered as Dermot, but that is the anglicized version of the Gaelic name. Sometimes the census takers didn’t always get a spelling correct.”
Aileen leaned forward in her chair. “That does sound hopeful.”
“If this Dermot is the one, he settled on Cape Breton, worked as a fisherman and had three sons. The eldest, Alistair, died in the Second World War. The next son, Brian, or Buddy, as he was known, died about five months ago, a bachelor. And the youngest, Paul, died about eight years ago. His son, Rourke, is the only heir.”
“Rourke?”
“From our research, that’s his mother’s maiden name. She was quite a bit younger than her husband and has since remarried.”
“When will we know for sure if Dermot is Diarmuid?” Aileen asked.
“It’s difficult to say. But we’re getting closer. I have a genealogist in Halifax who will be traveling to Cape Breton this week to check the records and ask some questions. Hopefully someone will remember something about Dermot.”
A soft knock sounded on the door and Sally stepped inside Aileen’s office. “I have lunch laid out in the breakfast room whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Sally,” Aileen replied. “We’ll be along in a bit.” She turned to Ian. “I hope you’ll stay. I wanted to tell you about my plans for a grand family reunion over the Christmas holidays. I’ve rented a castle.”
Ian blinked in surprise. “A castle? Well, in that case, I’m not sure I should pause for lunch. I have a lot to accomplish over the next few months.”
“Of course, I want you to be there,” Aileen said. “I want you to put together a book on the family history. The reunion will be the final chapter in my autobiography.”
“It would make a perfect ending.”
“Much better than a funeral, don’t you think?” Aileen teased. She pushed up from her chair, wincing at the ache in her hip. “Come,” she said. “Let’s see what Sally has for us. I smelled bread baking this morning.”
Ian circled her desk and held out his arm. Aileen took it, clutching her cane in her other hand. “Did I tell you someone at the RTE network contacted me when they learned about our search?” he asked. “They have an American production company that wants to make a documentary about your life.”
“Imagine that,” Aileen said. “I can’t think it would be a very interesting documentary.”
“I beg to differ,” Ian said. “I think it would be wonderful. And that’s what I told the producer when she called me.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Aileen said. “I’ve managed for so long to keep a private life. You don’t think a documentary might be...unseemly, do you?”
“I think your readers would love to know more about the woman behind the books.”
“I’ll have to think about that,” Aileen said. “Perhaps you can convince me over lunch.” They walked out into the foyer. “And we can discuss hiring more investigators to search out Lochlan. One just doesn’t go missing in the modern world. There’s always something left behind, some piece of paper that will give us a clue. Perhaps if we find Diarmuid, that branch of the family will know about Lochlan.”
“We’ll fill those twenty-two bedrooms in Ballyseede Castle,” Ian said. “Mark my words.”
“Yes. I believe we will,” Aileen replied.
1
THE PEARSON BAY hardware store was bustling with activity as Rourke Quinn walked through the battered front door. The locals, worried about the approaching storm, were buying last-minute supplies before the wind and rain drove them indoors.
“Hey, Rourke! You hanging around for this? It’s supposed to be the storm of the decade. At least that’s what forecasters are callin’ it.”
Rourke turned to smile at Betty Gillies, the store owner. “Nope. I’m heading out. I want to get to the mainland before it hits. I just needed some batteries for my camera. Thought I’d take a few last pictures of the coastline before I left the island.”
“We’re going to miss you around here,” she said. “Heck, I’m gonna miss you. You were good for the bottom line.”
Rourke chuckled. “I’m sure I was.”
He’d arrived on the eastern shore of Cape Breton Island almost three months ago, coming to the Maritimes to settle his uncle’s estate. His father’s family had lived on the island for almost a hundred years, plying the waters of the Atlantic as fishermen. But Uncle Buddy was the last of the Quinns to make his home on Cape Breton and now that he was gone, his cottage would be sold.
Born in America of an American mother and a Canadian father, Rourke had always felt torn between the Cape Breton culture of his Canadian family and the big-city life of his hometown. His uncle had known this and Rourke suspected that was why the cottage had been left to him—so that he might find his way “home” again.
Rourke had spent summer vacations working on his uncle’s fishing boat, making the long trip up from New York City, where his parents lived. His father, Paul, had wanted Rourke to experience a working-class job, hoping that it would make him more interested in college and a business career. As he got older, Rourke found himself drawn to the business Paul had founded with two friends. During high school, he spent his summer vacations with his father, learning the ins and outs of civil engineering. Uncle Buddy was relegated to a couple weeks at the end of August.
Rourke felt a familiar twinge of guilt assail him, but he brushed it aside. He’d spent the past three months renovating Buddy’s place, making it habitable for a modern family. Now it was ready. He’d talked to a few real estate agents and made plans to list it, but he hadn’t made a final decision. Perhaps it might be better to rent it out.
“A single decision can change the course of your life,” he murmured to himself. Buddy had always offered sage advice with pithy sayings or old proverbs. That was one of his favorites.
When Rourke was young he used to tease his uncle. Yeah, I’ll make sure to embroider that on a pillow, he’d say. But now that he was older, he’d begun to realize the impact of that advice—and the truth of it as it applied to his own life.
After high school, he’d decided to join the firm. He worked nights and weekends as a draftsman at Paul’s office and took engineering classes during the day. Though it was never said out loud, he knew that the company was in trouble and that his father needed his help. And with every year that passed, the stress took more of a toll on Paul’s health.
He’d continued to work at the company, even after his father’s sudden death of a heart attack, hoping to save his dad’s legacy by getting the firm back on track. But without the support of the other two partners, Rourke knew it was a lost cause. He quit the day after he heard of Buddy’s death.
Rourke stared at the selection of batteries. He wished he’d had one last chance to talk to Buddy, to ask him the questions that had been plaguing him for the past few years. Where is my life going? What do I really want? Am I ever going to be truly satisfied?
“So you’re putting the place up for sale, are you?” Betty asked.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Rourke replied as he pulled a package of batteries off the rack and dropped it on the counter. “I don’t want to make any hasty decisions.”
“Is this it?” she said, pointing to the batteries.
Rourke nodded, then reached into his pocket for his wallet. But as he was pulling out the money to pay for the purchase, the patrons around him suddenly went silent. Betty’s gaze fixed on a spot over his shoulder and Rourke slowly turned.
Annie Macintosh was a familiar figure to everyone in town. Her family had lived on the eastern shore as long as the Quinns had. Her great-grandfather had built and kept the lighthouse on Freer’s Point.
Annie’s life had been more tragic than most. Her parents had died when she was young, both of them drowned under mysterious circumstances. She’d been brought up by her grandmother in the old light keeper’s cottage, set on a beautiful piece of property overlooking the Atlantic.
As a shy child, she’d been the target of the local bullies, their taunts focused on her stammer, on her mismatched clothes, on her tangled auburn hair or her pale complexion. Recalling the torment as an adult, Rourke had to wonder why no one had stepped in to help her. He’d stood up for her once, only to get pummeled for it by a group of six townies.
He could see her now, surrounded by the six bullies, her stance defiant, struggling to express her anger even through her stutter, which invited more derision from the boys. It had been the most courageous thing he’d seen in his young life and it had been one of those moments that Buddy had talked about. That day, he’d realized that he wouldn’t spend his life being led by others. He was a leader, not a follower.
Annie silently walked to the row of freezers and refrigerators on the far wall that held bait for the sport fishermen. When she returned to the counter, she was carrying two large boxes of frozen herring.
Rourke stepped aside, giving her a hesitant smile. “Go ahead. I can wait.”
She smiled back at him and for a moment, Rourke forgot to breathe. The dirty, disheveled girl had grown into an incredible beauty. Her eyes had always been an odd shade of blue—almost teal—ringed with dark lashes, but they had an unexpected effect on him now. Her hair, thick and wavy, hung just to her shoulders, and though tousled by the wind, seemed to be well tended. She wore simple clothes, a pair of jeans that hugged her long legs, a faded shirt and a canvas jacket.
But it was that heart-shaped face, so unusual and so captivating. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to look away. He took in as many details as he could before she finished her transaction. After she paid, she hefted the two boxes into her arms and turned for the door.
“Thank you,” she murmured softly, her gaze meeting his and then lingering for a moment. The corners of her mouth curled up slightly in what he could only take as a hesitant smile.
Somehow, he sensed that her gratitude wasn’t for the cut in line, but for what had happened all those years ago. “Can I help you carry those out?” he asked, reaching for the box under her left arm.
She shook her head and tried to walk by him, twisting her body away. The box slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a thud, then slid across the hardwood like a giant hockey puck.
Rourke made a move to retrieve it, but so did she, and when they reached the frost-covered box, they bumped heads as they squatted at the same time. He grabbed the box, then helped her to her feet. “Where are you parked?” he asked.
Cursing beneath her breath, she took the box from him, struggling as she tried to tuck it under her arm. Then, without giving him another look, she turned and hurried out of the store. Rourke stared after her, speechless, wondering at her odd behavior. The rest of the patrons had watched her retreat in silence, as well.
Drawing a deep breath, he returned to the counter and laid out the money for the batteries. “That was odd,” he murmured.
“You’re tellin’ me,” Betty replied.
“What do you think she’s going to do with all that herring?”
“The locals use it for crab pots,” Betty said. “But that’s not what’s odd.”
“What is, then?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard her speak.”
Rourke frowned. “Really? I know as a kid she didn’t say much, but I hadn’t realized that was still going on.”
“She doesn’t talk to anyone. Just goes about her business. Gotta wonder about that. She must get a little lonely out there, living all by herself.” Betty made a little circle with her finger beside her temple. “Some of us think all that solitude has made her a bit crazy.”
“I haven’t been out to the Freer’s Point light in years,” Rourke said. “Not sure I could find it if I tried.”
“You take the turn by the Banner Realty sign on the coast road,” Betty said, frowning. “You planning a trip out there?”
Rourke shrugged as he tucked the bag of batteries into his jacket pocket, then said goodbye to everyone in the store. He’d been anxious to get out of town before the storm struck, but his mind was suddenly focused on Annie Macintosh. While neighbors were helping neighbors prepare for the high winds and rain, boarding up windows and fueling generators, who was there to look out for her? Did she have any friends on the island at all?
The least he could do before he left was check on her. He could afford to stick around for a few more hours, maybe help her batten things down. The storm wasn’t supposed to hit the coast until midnight and it was just past three in the afternoon.
He made a few more quick stops, for gas and snacks, then headed out along the coast. He made the turn at the sign and as he drove the winding road, he caught sight of the lighthouse. Rourke pulled the SUV to a stop, reconsidering what he was about to do.
Was this another one of those moments? Rourke wondered. Was this really about being a good neighbor, or was this about the strange attraction he felt for Annie Macintosh? An uneasy feeling came over him and he thought about turning the car around and heading back to the coast road. After all, he was no white knight ready to ride to her rescue. “Come on, Buddy, give me a sign,” he murmured.
A few seconds later, a sparrow, buffeted by the winds, landed on the hood of Rourke’s car. The bird stared at him through the windshield. Rourke held his breath and a moment later, it flew off.
He cursed softly, then continued his drive toward the water. So many years had passed since they’d last seen each other. Did she really remember him or had he only imagined the look of recognition in her eyes?
The road was rutted and hard to navigate, his Range Rover bumping along as he tried to make out two tire tracks in front of him. When the light keeper’s house finally came into view, he stopped the truck and stared out at the landscape.
The cottage had seen better days. The porch was sagging at one end, the chimney looked as if it was listing and the shutters that used to protect the house from storms like the one rolling in were falling off their hinges.
When he reached the house, Rourke turned off the ignition and hopped out of the truck. “Hello!” he shouted.
A dog barked in the distance and he walked up to the front door, avoiding the rotten step just in time. Rourke rapped on the door and waited. “Hello! Miss Macintosh?” A few seconds later, a border collie came charging around the corner of the house and Rourke froze, wondering if he’d be able to make it back to the truck before being bitten.
But the dog stopped short, then spun around and ran in the opposite direction. It stopped again, as if waiting for Rourke to follow him. He charged again and this time, Rourke held out his hand. The dog gave him a wary look as he came closer, then nudged Rourke’s palm with his nose.
“Do you know where she is?” he asked.
The dog took off and Rourke followed, heading down a narrow path toward the sea. The lighthouse and keeper’s cottage were set on land that had been scrubbed almost bare by the wind. The trees had been cleared long ago, leaving nothing to serve as a shield between the buildings and the white-capped Atlantic.
The surf was already high, the water roiling ahead of the storm blowing in from offshore. As he stared out at the horizon, he caught sight of Annie, standing on a small spit of sand and rock, the waves crashing around her and sending up huge plumes of water.
She was already wet, yet she didn’t seem to notice. She just stared out at the slate-gray water, her eyes fixed on some distant point. The wind whipped her hair around her face and the roar was so loud that he doubted she’d be able to hear him. The dog stood on the shore, barking at her, but she didn’t turn around.
Another wave broke against the rocks and he watched as she struggled to keep her balance on her precarious perch. “What the hell are you doing?” he muttered. Rourke ran toward the shore, cupping his hands over his mouth and shouting at her to come back in.
To his relief, she turned at the sound of his voice. But at that exact moment, a rogue wave hit the rocks, slamming against her back and knocking her down. From where he was, Rourke couldn’t see if she’d slid into the surf. He said a silent prayer that the water hadn’t washed her away.
He made it down to the water in a matter of seconds, then climbed through the rocks. Rourke kept his eye on a small patch of maroon, the color of her jacket. When he reached her, she was lying on her back, the water rushing around her. Her eyes were closed and he leaned close, listening for her breathing. Rourke saw her chest move, then picked her up in his arms.
When they reached the safety of the shore, he laid her down in the tall grass and examined her for injuries. To his dismay, he found a cut on the back of her head that was bleeding into her wet hair. The dog circled around them both, whining and pawing at his mistress.
She moaned softly and her eyes fluttered open. For a long moment, she stared up at him. And then a soft groan slipped from her lips and she closed her eyes again.
Rourke scooped up her limp body and tried as best as he could to carry her gently to the house. When he reached the back porch, he kicked the door in with his foot and it easily gave way.
The huge kitchen had been turned into a single living space. A stone fireplace dominated one wall of the kitchen and pulled up near it was a tattered easy chair and a small table with an oil lamp. An iron bed was nestled into a corner near the hearth and a well-worn braided rug covered the plank floor.
Rourke set her down on the bed, then leaned over her and rubbed her hands between his. God, even in this state, she was beautiful. Her lips were a perfect Cupid’s bow and her skin was so flawless and smooth that he found himself reaching out to touch her.
As his fingertips made contact, she opened her eyes and looked up at him. “What are you doing here?” she murmured.
The stammer was gone and the sound of her voice sent a shiver through his body. He’d made a mistake in coming, Rourke thought to himself. The moment she spoke, he felt his world shift and he sensed that nothing would ever be the same again.
* * *
ANNIE’S HEAD ACHED and she was so cold she couldn’t think clearly. Reaching back, she touched a sore spot on the crown of her head, then looked down at her fingers. “I’m bleeding.”
“You hit your head on the rocks.” He walked over to the sink and grabbed a dish towel, then returned and pressed it gently against her head. “Hold that.”
She pinched her eyes shut, then opened them again. He was still there. He wasn’t just a dream or a residual memory from earlier. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her, his handsome face etched with concern. She felt a shiver race through her. Her teeth chattered and her body trembled.
“Are you dizzy? Is your vision blurry? Do you feel nauseated?”
She stared at him, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“I’m going to help you get out of those wet clothes. Do you have something warm to put on?”
Annie pointed to a fleece hoodie and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms tossed over the foot of the iron bed.
He gently turned her around and grabbed the collar of her jacket. Closing her eyes, she shrugged out of the jacket. Suddenly, she did feel a bit light-headed. And when he reached for the bottom of her T-shirt, her heart began to race.
She drew a deep breath, then raised her arms over her head. She was naked beneath the T-shirt and the moment the cold air hit her damp skin, she crossed her arms over her breasts.
He handed her the hoodie and she slipped it on and zipped it up to her chin. Annie slowly turned and met his eyes. Though he tried to appear indifferent, she saw a flicker of desire there. His gaze fell to her mouth and for a moment, she thought he might kiss her. Then, he suddenly stood up.
“I’ll let you take care of the rest,” he murmured. “I’m going to go fetch some wood for the fire.”
“There’s no need,” Annie said. “You don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine now.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s no bother.” He pointed to her head. “Keep pressure on that cut.”
Annie nodded. It was odd for a virtual stranger to just walk into her house and start ordering her around. It was even odder that she was allowing it. “How did I get here?”
“I carried you,” he said. “Your dog led me down to the water. What were you doing out there? You know how dangerous the waves can be before a storm.” He shivered violently. “Is it always so cold in here?”
“There’s no central heat. Just the wood-burning stove and the fireplace,” she said.
As he opened the door, a chilly wind swirled through the kitchen. “Rourke,” she called. “Your name is Rourke, isn’t it?”
He turned and smiled. “Rourke Quinn.” With that, he walked outside.
Annie sat up and swung her legs off the bed. Her head hurt, but she wasn’t dizzy or confused. Well, maybe a little, but that was more from having a handsome man in her house than the wound on her head. She slipped off her shoes and socks. Standing beside the bed, she gingerly skimmed the wet jeans down over her hips and kicked them aside.
Shivering, she grabbed the pajama bottoms and tugged them on, then crawled beneath the faded handmade quilts on the bed. Drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes. She led a rather lonely existence, but she’d never really regretted her choice of a simple life—until now.
This was the only home she’d ever known. After her parents passed away, her grandmother had taken her in. From that moment on, her life had changed. She’d been allowed to roam free, without any rules or expectations. She ate when she was hungry, slept when she was tired and in between, explored every inch of the land that surrounded her home.
For a young girl who struggled to communicate, it was the perfect life. Her friends were wild animals and sea creatures, clouds and trees, the wonderful, vibrant natural world waiting just outside the door of the light keeper’s cottage. They didn’t care whether her words came out in fits and starts. She lived her life in her fantasies, where she had friends, where people thought she was beautiful and clever, and where her stammer didn’t exist.
It was odd. Annie had imagined that someone would someday rescue her from her lonely existence. And her white knight had always looked exactly like Rourke Quinn. From the moment he’d defended her against the town bullies, he’d become her hero. And now, here he was, coming to her rescue again. Only she wasn’t a child anymore. She was a twenty-five-year-old woman.
Over the years, her fantasies had given way to a simple reality. She was alone and no one was coming to ease her loneliness. So she’d accepted her life as it was and learned to be happy.
Maybe it seemed strange to others on the island, but it was a life she’d come to enjoy, even love. She had her paintings and her poetry and plenty of time for her own thoughts. Still, she couldn’t deny that she was grateful for the company, especially with the approaching storm.
It wasn’t just because he was handsome or sexy or even a tiny bit dangerous. Annie had weathered storms in the past and they’d always left her shaken, filled with bad memories of her parents’ deaths. Perhaps if she had someone with her during the worst of it, it wouldn’t be so traumatic.
The door flew open and Rourke stepped back inside, his arms loaded with firewood. He strode to the hearth and carefully stacked the wood on the stone apron. Then, he tossed a few birch logs onto the flickering embers. A moment later, flames licked at the white bark.
He sat back on his heels and stared into the fire. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Better,” she said. “Thank you. For rescuing me.”
He turned to look at her and she took in the details of his face. There was something so kind about his eyes, even set in an expression that seemed less than happy. “You should go. You don’t want to be caught out here when the storm rolls in.”
“I have some tools in my truck,” he said. “The wind is supposed to be bad. I’m going to get your shutters squared away and then I’ll leave.”
“You don’t have to—”
“No, I’m not sure I could leave you here without making this place a little safer.”
“It’s held up to almost a hundred years of storms. I’m sure it will hold up to one more,” Annie said.
“I’m not so sure,” Rourke replied. “This is supposed to be a bad one.”
Annie shrugged. “I can’t stop it from coming, so worrying about the wind never did much good. Whatever will happen, will happen.”
He gave her an odd look. “How is your head? Are you confused?”
Annie pulled the towel away. “I think it’s stopped bleeding.”
“Just stay put,” he said. “Lie down and rest. Do you want me to light the stove? I could make you a cup of tea.”
“No, I’ll be fine.” She paused. “Why are you doing this, Rourke Quinn?”
“Because no one else seems to be worried about you,” he said. He went to the door and stepped outside.
How long had it been since she’d thought about him? When had she let go of that fantasy? Annie hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him—and her fantasies—until now. But something had changed. Her fantasies were now much more—erotic.
She sank back into the down pillows and stared up at the ceiling, smiling to herself. Now that she had him here, what would she do with him?
She hadn’t been completely isolated over the years. There had been men who wandered in and out of her life, usually in the summer months when the population of the island swelled from the tourists. There had been a fellow artist a few years back who had come to paint her lighthouse and ended up staying until the first frost. And then the guy from the coast guard who came to check the light every three months. They’d occasionally indulged in a night of pleasure after a few glasses of wine.
What would it take to get Rourke to stay for the night? Would he be so easy to seduce? Annie groaned softly. She’d come to the realization that most single men were quite willing to indulge, especially when there were no strings attached. But not all of them understood her rather unconventional thoughts about sex.
So yes, she’d lived a very simple life since she was a child. Left without a means of support, she’d managed to eke out an existence in a house that had no phone, no electricity and very crude plumbing. She didn’t own a television or a computer.
Annie understood exactly what was necessary to sustain life. She ate a simple and natural diet, supplemented occasionally with fish or crab or oysters she gathered herself, and eggs from a local farmer. Her clothes weren’t purchased for beauty but for functionality and durability. And her men, well, they were chosen to satisfy a very natural and powerful need. Like everything else in her life, sex, and the intimacy it brought, was essential to her existence. Like water...or oxygen...or warmth.
Reaching for the book on her bedside table, Annie tried to distract herself by reading. But it was impossible to think about anything but Rourke. She listened as he moved from window to window, closing the shutters and then fastening them with screws. As the last of the natural light disappeared, she crawled from the bed and began to light the kerosene lamps scattered around the room.
He left the two windows on the porch uncovered, probably choosing to wait until the wind got worse. Then she heard his truck start. Frowning, Annie crawled out of bed and hurried to the door, wondering if he’d chosen to leave after all. But just as she reached the door, it swung open again, nearly hitting her in the face. Kit, her dog, slipped in ahead of him.
“What are you doing out of bed?” he asked, raking his hands through his windblown hair.
“I—I thought you were leaving. I wanted to say goodbye. And to thank you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I just moved my truck closer to the cottage. What else do you need?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
He stared at her for a long moment. When he finally looked away, Annie felt the butterflies in her stomach intensify. It was clear he was attracted to her. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.
“Tea,” he said. “I’ll make some tea.” He shrugged out of his jacket and then moved to the sink. She watched as he glanced around, looking for the water faucet.
“You have to pump it,” she said. “There is no indoor plumbing.”
“No indoor—” He turned to face her. “You don’t have a shower? Or a toilet?”
“Sure. But they run on a rainwater catch system. I put it in about five years ago. There’s a shower in the lighthouse with a water heater. But here in the house, there’s just a bath, with water from the hand pump heated on the stove.”
“There’s no electricity either?”
Annie shook her head. “I don’t really need it. There’s nothing I need to run.”
“No television? No computer?”
“I have a phone. I recharge that in the lighthouse. There’s a little refrigerator out there, too, but I rarely use it. It’s really not that unusual. A lot of people live this way.”
“For this day and age it is,” he said. “Where do you get the firewood?”
“Sam Decker brings it around,” she said. “Except for food and taxes, it’s my only expense.”
Sam Decker had been one of the bullies who had taunted her as a child, making fun of her stammer by doing a dead-on imitation of her. But he’d come to regret his actions and one day, after her grandmother had passed away, he’d shown up on her front porch with a cord of split wood and an apology.
Since then, he’d brought wood every month and helped her with little jobs around the house. Though they were both adults now, and they were able to be cordial, even friendly, the wounds ran deep. She’d outgrown her stammer, but she still couldn’t fully trust Sam. And so she kept him at arm’s length.
Annie knew Sam had romantic feelings for her and hoped for something more than just friendship. But there was absolutely no attraction on her end. When there was attraction, she couldn’t deny it...like now...with Rourke.
She watched as he built a fire in the stove, studying his backside, clad in faded denim. He added small pieces of kindling from the basket beneath the sink and when the flames were high enough, he dropped a log on top of the fire. Rourke closed the cast-iron door, then worked to fill the battered kettle with water from the pump.
Annie walked over to the cabinets above the sink. She pulled back the gingham fabric and revealed two jars of loose tea. “I have black or green. Which do you prefer?”
“Black,” he said.
She retrieved an old china teapot from the breakfront and set it on the stove, then scooped a measure of the tea into it. After that, she found a pair of mugs and set them beside the pot. “I don’t have real cream. Or milk. Just powdered milk,” she said.
“Just a little sugar would be good,” he said.
* * *
ROURKE WASN’T QUITE sure what to think about all of this. Of course, he’d known there were people in the world who lived without the trappings of technology. He’d never actually met one, though. And a single woman living alone seemed like an unlikely candidate for pioneer of the year.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, watching him with an inquisitive expression.
“I’m just...I don’t know. Surprised. Maybe a little confused.”
“About how I live?”
He nodded. “That...among other things.”
“I didn’t really choose this life,” she said. “I guess it chose me—out of necessity. I don’t have a lot of money, so I have to be careful what I spend. You’d be surprised at how little you can live on when you simplify things.”
“I can imagine,” he said.
“I think everyone should at least try to reduce the impact they have on our environment. It’s just healthier. For me and the planet.”
“What about a car?”
“I don’t have one. I bike into town. In the winter, I walk. It’s only three miles. It’s good exercise.”
He’d never known anyone quite like her. And Rourke had known a lot of women. Though he’d admired beauty and wit in the opposite sex, there had always been something he found lacking in his female companions. But here was a woman who was strong and independent. She had courage and determination and a quiet confidence that he found endlessly attractive.
He was curious about her life. How had she transformed herself from that painfully shy girl with the stutter into a strong, capable woman? “You remembered my name,” he said.
Annie nodded. “You were kind to me once.”
“You’ve changed. A lot.”
“I’ve grown up.” She paused. “You probably mean the stammer? That disappeared after I got out of school. I didn’t want to live my life in a constant state of fear and I reached a point where I just stopped fighting. I didn’t feel it necessary to defend myself anymore. I found an inner calm and I think my mind caught up with my words.”
“You seem happy,” Rourke said.
“I am.”
“But you don’t have many friends on the island.”
“I don’t need a lot of friends. Those that I have are good to me. Besides, how many true friends do we really have? Most people in your life are acquaintances not friends. How many would come to you if you called?”
He shrugged. She was right. He didn’t have that many good friends. He could count them on one hand. The whistle from the teakettle shattered the silence between them and Rourke stood up and walked back to the stove. He poured the water into the pot.
“There’s a strainer on the stove,” she said.
He tossed the strainer into one of the mugs, then carried everything over to the hearth, carefully setting the china pot on the flat stone. “Don’t you ever get lonely?”
“All the time,” she said. “But there’s really not much I can do about it. Leaving the island would be like cutting out a part of my heart.”
“Have you ever left the island?” he asked.
This brought a laugh. “Of course I have. All the time.”
He could see it in her eyes. She was lying. But now was not the time to call her on it. “I live in New York,” he said.
“Good for you. When I imagine living my life there, it seems as difficult to me as my life here seems to you.”
A gust of wind rattled the windows and they both turned to look. “It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”
Annie crawled out of her chair and sat down next to him on the hearth. Rourke felt his pulse quicken and he held tight to his tea in an effort not to reach out and touch her. But she had other ideas. She set her mug down and reached out, placing her hand on his cheek. Then, her gaze fixed on his, she leaned forward and touched her lips to his.
The contact sent a jolt running through him, like being struck by lightning. Only it wasn’t painful, but warm and pleasurable. He set his mug down beside him and slipped his fingers through her hair, pulling her into another kiss, this one deeper and more urgent than the first.
Rourke wasn’t sure what was happening, but he wasn’t about to stop it. From the moment he’d seen her in the hardware store, he’d wanted this to happen. He’d just never expected to get the chance. And now that he was here, Rourke wasn’t going to waste another moment.
His fingers twisted in the damp strands of her hair, but suddenly he heard her gasp and Rourke drew back. He’d forgotten about the cut on her scalp. “Let me look,” he said.
“It’s really much better,” she said. “It just stings a little.”
The interior of the cabin was dimly lit, the sun already down and the lamps providing a feeble kind of light. He gently examined her injury by the glow of the fire and found the spot. There was a substantial knot around the cut, but it looked as if it had stopped bleeding.
“I don’t think it will need stitches.”
“Good,” she said. “I hate going to the doctor.”
“What the hell were you doing out there?” Rourke asked. “You’ve lived by the ocean your entire life. Surely you know better than anyone how dangerous it can be.” He paused. “And what was the herring for? Who buys twenty pounds of bait before a storm?”
“Are you hungry? I should make us something for dinner.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” he asked. “What were you doing?”
“Talking to the sea,” she said. “When it gets like this, sometimes I think I can hear voices in the wind. If I just listen hard enough, I think I might be able to hear what they’re saying.”
“Voices? Whose voices?”
“My parents’,” she said softly. He saw a blush rise on her cheeks. “It’s silly. I know.”
Rourke said, “No, it’s not. It’s not.” He wanted to ask her what had happened. Town gossip had never gone into great detail. He knew they’d both drowned, but he wasn’t sure of the circumstances. No one in town had ever offered an explanation and until now, it really hadn’t mattered to him.
“I really should stop. This time it almost got me killed.”
“I guess you were lucky I was there,” he said.
She nodded. “I guess I was.” Annie tucked her feet up beneath her and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Are you sure you don’t have someplace you need to be?”
“Actually, I was on my way home to New York. I was hoping to put a few miles behind me before the storm hit. But I can stay.”
“Maybe you should bring your things in before the weather gets too bad. I’ll just get dinner started.”
Rourke nodded. He stood, grabbed his jacket and slipped into it. “What’s the dog’s name?”
“Kit,” she said.
Rourke patted his thigh and the dog looked up from where he was sleeping by the fire. “Come on, boy.”
The border collie jumped to his feet and scampered to the door, then hurried out in front of Rourke. As he walked down the steps, he noticed that the wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped close to freezing. If it got any colder, the rain might become ice or snow.
He moved toward the water. The color of the sky and sea now blended together until the horizon was almost impossible to see. The wind gusts were strong enough to test his balance and within minutes, his fingers had gone numb from the cold.
Kit stood beside him, sniffing at the wind. Rourke reached down and gave him a pat on the head. She wasn’t entirely alone, he mused. And maybe she would have been fine without his help. But Rourke couldn’t regret his impulse to stop and check on her.
After all, she’d kissed him. And he hadn’t been kissed—or touched—by a woman since he’d arrived on the island. It was rather ironic that all this was happening the day he decided to head home. He wasn’t going to question the timing. Whatever happened tonight between them could be a powerful counterpoint to the storm.
2
“CAN YOU PEEL potatoes?” Annie glanced over her shoulder at Rourke. He sat at the kitchen table, watching her move about the kitchen as she prepared dinner. “I think I can manage,” he said. “Unless you’re going to make me do it with a knife.”
“I do have a vegetable peeler.” She reached into a wicker basket on the shelf above the sink and grabbed it, then placed some potatoes in a bowl.
“I wasn’t sure you had one of these newfangled things,” he said, holding up the peeler.
“I’m glad you find my life so amusing.”
Rourke picked up a potato. “Not amusing. Endlessly fascinating.” His gaze met hers and Annie felt a shiver skitter down her spine. The longer they were cooped up in this cottage, the harder it was to deny the attraction between them. It was like waiting for the storm to hit. She wasn’t sure when it was going to happen, but it would happen. And when it did it would be powerful and impossible to ignore.
“I like being self-sufficient,” she said. “I like not having to depend on anyone.”
“Someone brings you wood.”
“I could get my own wood,” she said. “It would just take so much time out of my day that it wouldn’t be worth it. But I could do it.”
“I’m sure you could,” Rourke said. “I suspect you could do just about anything you set your mind to.”
She grabbed a small bunch of carrots she’d brought up from the root cellar and sat down, placing them on the table. Cupping her chin in her hand, she observed him as he peeled the potatoes. Annie was used to doing things her own way, so she fought the urge to give him advice.
“It’s going to be a long night,” she murmured.
Rourke glanced up. “Are you worried?”
She shook her head. Storms usually put her on edge, but Annie felt remarkably calm. Rourke was a wonderful distraction. “I like having you here. I’m glad you stayed.”
“Is that why you kissed me?” he asked.
Annie wondered when the subject of their kiss would come up. She couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not sure why I did that.”
“Oh, come on,” Rourke said. “I know enough about you already to know that you never do anything without a reason. So tell me, Annie. Why did you kiss me?”
He was right. She was the least impulsive person on all of Cape Breton Island. “I wanted to let you know I was...interested. And what about you? Are you interested?”
“Interested in kissing you again? The answer to that would be yes. I’m very interested.”
“I think we should try it again,” Annie said.
“Now? Because, I think now would be as good a time as any.”
“All right,” she said. They stared at each other across the table. “Are you going to come to me or am I going to come to you?”
“I think you should come to me,” Rourke suggested.
Annie wiped her damp hands on a dish towel, then slowly stood. As she circled the table, her heart began to race and she felt as if her knees would buckle. When she stood in front of him, she reached out to smooth her hand through his thick, dark hair. But he caught her fingers and opened her hand, pressing his lips to the center of her palm.
She watched as he slipped his hands around her waist and gently drew her closer. Nuzzling his face against her belly, Rourke drew a long, deep breath. When he looked up at her again, Annie could see that they weren’t going to stop at just one kiss.
Furrowing her fingers through his hair, she tipped his face up. Slowly, she sank down until their mouths were nearly touching. His breath was warm on her lips, but she waited, resisting the urge to surrender. But Rourke wasn’t nearly so determined. With a low moan, he yanked her into a kiss, pulling her into his lap at the same time.
The depth of his passion startled her at first. It felt as if they’d skipped a few steps along the way. But Annie wasn’t going to fight him. This was exactly what she was hoping would happen. They had the whole night ahead of them and this was a promising beginning to it all.
His kiss was determined, almost desperate, searching for the perfect melding of their mouths. His fingers twisted through the hair at her nape and when he finally drew back, his breath came in short gasps. He moved to kiss her again, but Kit suddenly jumped up from his spot next to the fire and began to bark at the door.
A few moments later, a knock sounded. Annie glanced down at him. “Are you expecting company?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said. She ran her fingers through her hair as she walked to the door. When she pulled it open, a gust of wind nearly tore it from her hands. A tall, slender figure stepped inside and when he pushed his hood away from his face, she recognized Sam Decker. He was still dressed in his uniform from his job as a regional police officer and Annie wasn’t sure if the visit was personal or professional.
Sam quickly took his cap off and smiled at her. “Hey, it’s getting nasty out there.”
“Hi, Sam,” she murmured.
He started to shrug out of his jacket before he noticed Rourke sitting across the room. He frowned, then glanced back and forth between the two of them. “Quinn. I heard you were on your way off the island.” He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”
“I just stopped by to check on Annie,” Rourke said. “What about you?”
“Same. I just wanted to check...to make sure she had enough wood to get her through the storm.”
“You brought wood just last week,” Annie interrupted.
“We’re fine here,” Rourke said. “We have everything we need, right, Annie?”
“I didn’t realize you two were...friends,” Sam said.
Annie nodded. “We’ve known each other since we were kids,” she said.
Sam shrugged. “Is your cell phone charged?”
Annie nodded and took his arm, leading him back to the door. “If I need any help, I’ll be sure to call.”
Sam nodded reluctantly. “All right, then. I’m on duty tonight and my advice is to stay inside. If there’s trouble, dial 911.”
She opened the door and let him out, then closed it behind her, leaning against the scarred wood. Rourke slowly stood and crossed the room. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Are you sure you wanted him to leave?” he murmured, leaning close.
“Yes,” Annie replied, her pulse quickening. She’d done this before, but it had never felt quite so dangerous. There were feelings here, emotions that she couldn’t quite describe. She felt vulnerable and out of control, but Annie couldn’t seem to stop herself from wanting him.
“When was the last time you kissed him?” Rourke murmured.
“Who?”
“Sam Decker.”
“I’ve never kissed Sam,” she said.
“He wants to kiss you,” Rourke said. “It’s written all over his face.”
“He has too many expectations.”
“Expectations?”
“He thinks he wants to take care of me. He wants to marry me. But I’m not looking for anything like that.”
“You just like having sex with strangers?”
“Not strangers. I prefer...uncomplicated men.”
“Is that what I am, Annie?”
“You were on your way home. And I expect you will be again once the storm passes. That makes things between us very simple.”
“So you’re just using me for sex?”
Annie laughed. “That’s putting it rather bluntly.”
“I think we ought to be clear about our intentions, don’t you?”
It sounded as if the notion of no-strings sex was insulting to him. But then, maybe he was just teasing her. Or maybe he wanted to be sure of her motives. “No expectations,” she said.
“All right. But if you expect me to jump into bed with you, you could at least give me dinner first.”
Annie smiled. “All right. I do have a bottle of wine we could share.” She moved to a cabinet near the sink and pulled a bottle of Merlot out. When she found the corkscrew, she opened the wine and poured it into two mismatched jelly jars. “I don’t have proper wineglasses. These are recycled.”
He raised the jelly glass. “To the storm that brought us together,” he said.
Annie touched her glass to his. “The storm.”
As she sipped her wine and cut vegetables for the lentil stew, Annie listened to the wind howl outside and the shutters rattle. The anticipation was almost too much to bear. In her mind she was already undressing him and pulling his naked body onto the bed with her. She couldn’t remember ever wanting a man as much as she wanted him.
They’d have one night together. But would that be enough? Or would she be left wanting more?
* * *
BY THE TIME dinner was over, they’d gone through Annie’s bottle of wine. She’d offered him whiskey, but Rourke already felt the effects of the wine and he wanted to keep his wits about him.
It had taken every ounce of his willpower not to drag her off to the comfortable bed tucked into the corner near the hearth. They both knew what they wanted, but for some reason, Annie had chosen to prolong his agony.
After finishing the dishes, she’d grabbed a book and curled up in the overstuffed chair near the fire, an oil lamp providing scant light to read by. Rourke was left to pace the cabin, peering out the window of the kitchen door and wondering why she was delaying the inevitable.
Every twenty seconds, a beam from the lighthouse swept across the sky, illuminating the wind-driven rain and the bent trees. “The rain is turning to sleet,” he murmured.
She glanced up from her book. “Hmm. It’s gotten colder.”
“Are you cold? I can put more wood on the fire.”
“There comes a point when it doesn’t do any good. The fire can’t keep up with the dropping temperatures.”
“What do you do then?”
“Crawl beneath the covers and pull them up over my head.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Was she suggesting it was time to go to bed? And was she inviting him to crawl in beside her?
Annie seemed completely unconcerned about the weather. Rourke wanted to know the details of the storm, how long it would last, how much rain they’d get, whether the waves were breaking over the Canso Causeway yet. If he were at his uncle’s place, he’d turn on the Weather Network and all his questions would be answered. “You said you had a radio?”
She nodded.
“I think I’m going to see if I can find a weather report.”
Annie shook her head. “The batteries are dead,” she said. “I forgot to get some new ones.”
“I have batteries. I bought them at the hardware store earlier.”
She sighed. “I’m not sure where it is,” Annie said. “It’s just an old transistor.”
“Don’t you think it might be good to know what’s going on out there?”
“Listening to the radio isn’t going to make the storm go away,” she said. “When it’s done, it’s done. It will stop raining and the wind will stop blowing and everything will get back to normal. If you want to know what the storm is doing, then you should go outside and see for yourself.”
“You’re crazy,” he said.
Annie closed the book and got to her feet. “Come on. I’ll show you. I do it all the time.”
She slipped her bare feet into a pair of wellies, then pulled her slicker off the hook near the door. “It’s freezing out there. Put that cap on. And don’t forget your gloves.”
“We don’t need to go outside,” he insisted.
“I want to see how high the storm surge is.” Annie picked up a lantern from the table near the door, lit it, then stepped outside. Rourke frowned. There was absolutely no telling her what to do. For some odd reason, he found that one of her most endearing qualities.
Rourke quickly pulled on his jacket. He found her waiting for him on the porch. Annie held out her hand and they stepped into the midst of the storm.
The strong wind made it hard to stand upright, but they both leaned into it. Sleet stung his cheeks and he could barely see a few feet in front of him, even with the flickering lantern. But he knew, without a doubt, that he’d never forget this experience.
Kit danced around their feet, then ran off into the darkness, barking. He could smell the sea in the air and could hear the crash of the waves on the rocks. It seemed that every sense in his body had become sharply attuned.
They stopped near the shore and stared out at the horizon. With each pass of the light, they could see the angry water, the spray of the waves and the flood of water reaching farther onto the shore. The house was set at least thirty feet higher than the sea and safe from the worst surge.
“You’re right,” he shouted.
She looked over at him. He could see that she was mouthing a word, then realized it was impossible to hear each other in the roar of the storm. Instead, he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. His lips came down on hers, cold and damp. But as she opened to his kiss, a wonderful warmth flooded through his bloodstream. The wind buffeted them, threatening to knock them off their feet, but he held tight to her as the kiss intensified.
When he finally drew back, he could barely see her face. He reached down and ran his thumb over her cold cheek, cupping her face in his hands. “I think we should go inside,” he shouted.
“Come with me,” she replied. Annie grabbed his hand and drew him deeper into the storm. They ran toward the lighthouse, the beam of light guiding the way. When they reached the door, she pulled a key from her jacket pocket and unlocked it. They stumbled inside, Kit scampering in, too, and shut the door behind them.
A moment later, Rourke heard a switch flip and the interior was flooded in light. He stared at the spacious room, a circular iron stair dominating the center. Like most of the lighthouses on Cape Breton, this was a pyramidal-shaped tower that narrowed as it got taller. Annie walked over to a small painted table and set the lantern down. She grabbed her cell phone, holding it up to him as she unplugged it. “Charged,” she said.
The room was quite cozy, with antique furniture scattered around the perimeter. “Bathroom is through that door,” she said. “If you want to take a hot shower, you have to turn on the water heater and wait about an hour.”
“I don’t need a shower,” he said. “At least not now.”
Rourke wandered over to the table and examined the old radio sitting on top of it. He flipped it on and found it turned to a station playing Celtic music. The strains of fiddle and mandolin echoed upward.
The wind howled outside and the old wooden structure creaked with each gust. “I’m going to go up and watch the storm,” she said. Rourke watched as she climbed the stairs. Her skin was flawless, pale, marked only by a light dusting of freckles across her nose. Her auburn hair curled gently around her face and shoulders. And that body. Had no one here ever noticed how beautiful she was?
Everything about her was made for a man’s touch. Most of the women in New York City worked out two hours a day to get a body like Annie’s. She was lithe and fit, not from spending time in a gym, but because she lived a simple life.
She needed so little to be happy—a roof over her head, a warm fire, a good book. And she needed him, at least for the night. He closed his eyes and wondered at the fates that brought him here.
Had he followed his original plan, he’d be back on the mainland by now, headed toward the border and Bangor, Maine. He’d intended to stop there for the night, but now, he’d be spending the night in Annie’s bed.
It felt right. Though they didn’t really know each other in the traditional sense, there was a connection. He felt it every time he touched her...and kissed her. Maybe this had all been part of some cosmic plan—their encounter at the hardware store, the coming storm and the memories that flooded his mind upon seeing her.
He opened his eyes, then crossed the room to the circular stairs. He crawled upward to the top, into the darkness, and when he reached the platform, he found her standing near the window, her hands pressed against the thick glass.
The light was so blinding that he had to squint every time it made a rotation. He stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Annie leaned into his body.
“My mother died on a night just like this,” she murmured. “They found her body the next morning, on the rocks.”
“What happened?”
Annie shrugged. “She was sad. Depressed. Suicidal. She’d always been troubled, but my father thought he could fix her. That’s why he brought her here to live. Away from the city. Away from temptation. But she was so miserable here.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“He blamed himself. He used to row out into the cove in the middle of the night. He said he could hear her, he could talk to her. They found his boat right over there,” she said, pointing. “They never found him. We buried an empty coffin next to her in the cemetery.”
Rourke slowly turned her toward him. “You’ve had a lot of loss in your life.”
Annie nodded, reaching up to touch his face. “Make love to me.”
“Here?”
“Anywhere,” she said. “I don’t care. I need to get these thoughts out of my head.”
He took her hand and led her to the top of the stairs. “Let’s go back to the house.”
* * *
THEY RAN BACK through the storm, Annie breathless with anticipation and a bit of trepidation. If she were listening to her instincts, this would not be happening. She’d always maintained a careful distance in her physical encounters with men. But the only thing she could think about with Rourke was getting as close to him as possible.
The moment they stepped inside the house, Annie reached for the zipper on her slicker. But he grabbed her hands and warmed them between his, slowly drawing her toward the fire.
She could hear her heart beating, could feel the pulse in her veins. Every physical sensation seemed more acute, and when Rourke slowly began to remove her clothes, she grasped his shoulder, afraid that her knees might buckle beneath her. First her gloves, then her slicker, Rourke tossing both on the floor.
Annie didn’t want to wait any longer. The storm inside her body was raging out of control and the only way to quell it was Rourke’s touch on her naked body. But he would not be deterred. When she reached for the hem of her hoodie, he grabbed her hand. “Slow down,” he said, brushing his lips against hers. “Let me get the fire going.”
“The only place we’ll be warm is in bed,” she said. Annie pulled the hoodie over her head. The cold air prickled her skin into goose bumps and brought her nipples to hard peaks.
Rourke’s breath caught as his gaze drifted down to her naked breasts. “My hands are cold,” he said, his fingers skimming around her waist.
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