The bed yielded beneath his weight. His hand reached for her. “Justine?” His gentle whisper was nearly drowned out by the thudding of her heart. “Justine? Come here.”
Had it not been for her telltale quiver, she might have feigned sleep. But he would know, with those dark and cunning eyes that saw through her as no others could. Silently but determinedly, she shook her head.
“Justine ⦠it's cold. Let me warm you.”
Again, she shook her head. “I'm fine.”
“You're shivering.”
“I'm not cold.”
“That's just my point.”
Once more he had cornered her, caught her in a trap of her own making. The fox lay in wait beside her. How could she escape? “Please, don't, Sloane,” she begged softly. “Please let me sleep.”
“Is that what you really want? You've always been true to your own feelings, Justine. Don't stop now. Is sleep what you really want?”
His question only added to her torment, embodying it, putting it into poignant words. What
did
she want? The night hung heavy, dark and still, as she wrestled with the
dilemma. Her mind said one thing, her body another. Tears gathered behind her closed lids as she held off, held off, fighting what must surely be the inevitable. For she wanted Sloane. It was as simple as that.
With a low sob, she turned and covered the inches that separated them, drawn into Sloane's body, against his manly warmth, with an intermingling of arms that locked the union. She was home. At last. It mattered not for how long. All she knew was that she had come home.
Her tears dampened the firm skin of his shoulder as his arms caressed her shuddering form. “Shhh. It's all right, sweetheart. I love you.”
“IâI know. I know,” she wept softly, clinging to him with every ounce of strength she possessed.
He held her until her crying ceased, offering himself as a willing pillow for her pale-copper head, as welcome support for her quaking limbs. “Love me, Sloane,” she murmured, as the tears dried and her fingers relaxed their grip to travel over the planes of his bare flesh.
Moaning, he gently slid the thermal jersey over her head, crushing her against him, then worshipping her curves, one by one, with his hands, his lips, his tongue. If he noted a greater fullness in her breasts than that attributable to the heat of passion, he made no mention of it. Her body arched against him, warm and demanding, growing more and more aroused as he coaxed her to peaks unimagined.
“I need you, Justine,” he groaned thickly, his hands helping her peel the covering from her slender legs. “You can't imagineâ”
“I know,” she interrupted in a whisper, seizing the opportunity to lead his body to the height of awareness at which she waited. The leanness of his muscles trembled beneath her questing fingers, making his breathing more ragged than before. His arousal was warm and strong, a pulsing requisite to their mutual satisfaction.
At the apex of desire, she welcomed him, receiving him with warmth, enveloping him with warmth, as his own warmth filled her. Together they scaled that peak, groping ever higher toward that star-filled summit, loving onward and upward, locked in the embrace that brought them finally to the pinnacle for a joyous moment of delirium which hung high and free in mindless suspension, before slowly beginning the downward cascade.
His flesh melded with hers as the wonder of it all held them in breathless ecstasy. Then, as their tremors eased, he shifted to lie beside her, holding her firmly against him. “McKinley pales in comparison, doesn't it?” he gasped, his lips warm against her closed eyes.
“Ummmm.” Words could not express the pleasure he had given her, any more than could the life's-beat of her heart so close to his. As they had shared the height of rapture, so they shared the haven of sleep which stole over them. Only the lonely hoot of the horned owl and the anguished howl of the lone wolf broke through the stillness of the nightâbut they were oblivious to it all. Their only reality was the warmth of each other, and they slept.
Morning brought the feather-softness of warm lips against Justine's eyes. Slowly, she opened them, startled, then eased as the events of yesterday surged back in divine detail. A lazy smile curved the corners of her lips. “Good morning,” she whispered. “What time is it?”
“Somewhere in the vicinity of ten. How did you sleep?” His voice was soft and low by her ear. Instinctively, she turned her head toward it.
“Ten? It's late! Shouldn't weâ”
A strong finger against her lips stilled her voice. “No, we shouldn't. There's no reason to get up, nothing at all to do. Isn't it lovely?”
Her grin was a mirror of his own. “It is.” What was even more lovely was the length of hair-roughened leg that wound between her own smoother limbs. Her curls fell
across his chest as she rested her cheek next to his heart. “You lied to me, Sloane.”
“Oh? When have I ever lied?”
“You told me, that first day I met you, that you talked in your sleep. I've spent three nights with you now, and I haven't once heard you talk.”
“You wear me out. What strength have I got to talk, much less dream. Or”âhe paused, a trace of mischief in his voiceâ“perhaps it's you who is worn out. Perhaps I do talk, but you sleep through it all.”
“No way! I'm not that used to sleeping with someone that I'd miss something like that. So I'm not to learn the business secrets?”
“You already know most of them, sweetheart.” His arms settled around her, drawing her more comfortably against his body. “And I doubt that there's much that that sharp legal mind of yours misses, anyway.”
“You'd be surprised,” she murmured, half to herself, thinking of how fully she'd missed the cunning approach he'd taken to her seduction. Not that she'd minded it in the end; last night had been worth every second. Even now, in hindsight, the stirring of desire was not far away. “So”âshe cleared her throat of its thicknessâ“what do we do today?” Angling her head up, she propped her chin on his chest, resting her forearms across its sinewed breadth.
Sloane regarded the low-slung rafters as he listed off the possibilities. “We could walk in the woods, paddle around the lake in the canoe that's out back, hunt for berries ⦔
His voice fell victim to a lazy amusement as he looked down at her, then shifted her onto her side and turned to face her. “What will it be?” he crooned, gently brushing a wispy red curl from her brow, then letting his hands fall lower onto her body.
“I'd like to go berry picking,” she began, then sharply
sucked in her breath at the riot caused by his wandering touch. “It's an idyllic thought ⦠romantic. We could ⦠walk through the woods ⦠in ⦠the bright sunlight ⦔âshe draped her leg over his, her breath coming in ever shorter gaspsâ“hand in hand ⦠Adam ⦠and Eve ⦔
“It's cold out there,” he rasped, needing her.
“We could ⦠get ⦠dressed ⦠aaahh ⦠very ⦠warmly”âshe gasped again as he filled herâ“and
⦠then ⦠bake a ⦠pie ⦠with ⦠the ⦠ooooh, Sloane ⦠He moved inside her, warm and throbbing, driving the train of thought from her mind. “You feel so good ⦔
They were silent for a long time, their mouths occupied in the more crucial acts of kissing and exploring, finding new places and deeper secrets. If Justine had thought McKinley to be awesome, the new peak they scaled was no less than mind-boggling, both in its height and its reverence. Long after, they lay in limb-mingled stupor, savoring the beauty of the act and its underlying emotion. It was nearly noon before they stirred again.
The morning's mist had long since risen from the lake when they ventured out to walk, to enjoy nature's splendor. Through the eyes of lovers, the world was that much more spectacular. All thoughts of the Outside were pushed into oblivion in favor of the time they both knew was precious.
Underbrush brittle in the early fall's chill crunched beneath the soles of their boots. The air was white at every exhalation. Justine could now fully appreciate the clothing that Sloane had suggested she wear, for the layered garments were utterly necessary against the cold.
“It's hard to believe that this is still August.” She pulled her collar more tightly around her neck. “Is there any real summer here?”
Sloane took her hand, tucking it within his, then into
the pocket of his parka. “In June and July, when the sun shines for twenty hours of the day, it can get pretty warm âwell into the sixties. But when you stop to consider how close we are to the arctic circle, when you think of those glaciers farther south and look at that snow on the mountains over there, sixty degrees sounds very warm.”
The High One, toward which his eye gravitated, was reflected in perfection on the surface of the lake. Her mind made a photograph of the majestic sceneâthe peaks, the trees, the ferns, the lake, then the twin image in reverse below. As they walked on, there were other sights, many as exciting to store in memory.
There were cranberry bushes approaching their bright red autumn hue, their fragrance creating a luxuriant bouquet. There were the trees, hovering high overhead, much taller now above them than when dwarfed by the mountains. There were the sounds of the wild forestâthe flight of the ground squirrel, the twitter of the birds, the rustle of the leaves as a cool breeze stirred up to play in their midst.
“It's all so fresh and untouched,” Justine whispered, reluctant to impose the sounds of humanity on the natural bounty.
“That's precisely what has drawn so many people up here from the lower forty-eight.” Sloane's appreciation was no less than hers, though he had seen it all before. “They come in search of adventure, of purity and simplicity. Unfortunately, many find themselves in even worse straits once they get here.”
Justine recalled some of the bush villages they had visited. “It must be very different to live here year round than just drop in for a short time, as we are doing.”
“The rugged ones survive,” he spoke his thoughts aloud. “Others are forced to become rugged if they hope to survive. Still others admit failure and either return
home or migrate to the cities. The rates of alcoholism and suicide are appalling.”
“That's precisely why legislation is needed for programs to deal with it.” Justine had made voluminous notes on the topic, based on things they'd seen and learned in the past three weeks. “Is there any hope of passing such legislation? It's one thing to propose it, to point out the problem, but there must be a commitment on the part of the government to follow through.”
Sloane's gaze held admiration as it warmed her. “It was the government that hired CORE International in the first place. I'm assuming that if they've made the commitment to us, they will be willing to go further. Actually,” he continued, leading her back in the direction of the lake, “the governmentâat least, this present governorâis committed. With money pouring in from the oil pipeline, there should be plenty to fund social service programs such as you have in mind. He would like a legislative commitment before he leaves office. Unfortunately, the windfall has prompted many citizens to spend wildly. That's where we come in. It's our job to make specific recommendations ⦠and then hope.”
Later that afternoon they returned to the woods carrying containers which soon brimmed with the largest blueberries Justine had ever seen. Even later the cabin was filled with the delicious aroma of freshly baking pie. In this warm and heady haven, the love they shared knew no bounds. As the heat of the oven warmed the air, their passion sparked, flared, then exploded in a cataclysmic lovemaking that left Justine trembling in awe. How each joining could take her higher than all others before she couldn't imagine. Yet Sloane knew the ways of love and his lessons were endless.
“How can a lawyer be such a good cook?” he asked later, their lips moistly blue from the goodies on which they'd feasted.
“How can a sleeptalker be such a good lover?” she teased in return, leaning forward to kiss the last of the sweets from his lips.
And so it wentâa bounty of love growing ever larger, ever deeper as one day melded into the next. One early morning found them at the shoreline, admiring the lacy ribbons of ice which the night air had laid there. “Look at those tracks.” Sloane had pointed to the moist dirt at the edge of the ice. “Beaver, muskrat, possibly mink. All wandering freely here.” One dusky evening found them on the dock, sitting quietly in awe of the moose and her calf feeding on the succulent aquatic vegetation beyond their view beneath the surface of the water.
Their days were filled with quiet adventure, their nights with tender love. When they awoke on the morning of their last day in the cabin, Justine knew a regret she would not have imagined three days before. “I wish we could stay here forever,” she whispered against his throat. His pulsepoint raced, as did hers, in the aftermath of a fiercer lovemaking than they'd known yet. It had been as though each had fought for something extra, as though each had known that this might be the last.