Mail-Order Millionaire (20 page)

He looked at her for a long moment, then he closed his eyes and for just a second she thought his lashes were wet, and she felt her heart contract. She looked again and saw she was mistaken. But she knew she’d hurt him, reminding him of his failed half-time marriage. She told herself it was better to remind him now than later.

She gave him beef barley soup for dinner. Then, sitting on the edge of his bed, she washed his face with a cool cloth, studying the character lines in his face, sliding the cloth under his chin behind his ears.

He looked at her, his blue eyes narrowed to slits. “What about the rest of me?” he asked. “I’m burning up.”

She nodded, helping him pull his sweatshirt off over his head, revealing a smooth, well-toned chest. She took the thermometer from the bag Ariel had given her, shook it down and put it under his tongue. Then she took the cool, damp cloth and slowly worked her way from his shoulders to his waistband, where the rash disappeared. His gaze held hers, stronger than his grip on her hand had been, and she was unable to look away. She felt the texture of his skin and the tone of his muscles. The heat from his body seared her hand. Frightened, she took the thermometer out of his mouth, fearing the worst, but it read only one hundred degrees.

She eased his shirt back over his head, her hands lingering on his shoulders. “Good news,” she said. “You’re not on fire.”

“You could have fooled me.”

She cleared her throat. “I mean your temperature’s almost normal. I don’t think you’ve got pneumonia.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I’ve got all the symptoms, chills, fever and a pain right here.” He pointed to his heart. “You haven’t even listened to my chest.”

She leaned forward. She knew it was a trick. She knew it was a mistake, but she put her head against the soft gray of his sweatshirt and felt his arms go around her and hold her tight. She exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of her problems slide off her shoulders, feeling the warmth of his body creep into hers, hearing the steady heartbeat that matched her own. She felt so safe, so secure, that she fell asleep in the arms of the man she’d come to care for, who—for some reason—was always taking care of her.

For Max the dream and the reality of falling asleep with Miranda in his arms merged into one that night. It wasn’t exactly as he’d dreamed it, but he reminded himself that one of them was sick, too sick to take advantage of the situation, and the other was too scared. Which was just as well, because in the morning one of them would regret it, maybe both of them. In the meantime he drifted in and out of sleep, inhaling the scent of her skin and her hair, feeling the weight of her body against his, knowing that it was only his sickness that kept her there and vowing to stay sick for as long as possible. Because it wasn’t likely to happen again.

The next morning she was up and dressed before dawn as he knew she’d be. Somehow she’d found bread in his freezer and eggs and made French toast with what else, maple syrup which he managed to eat half of and even enjoy it, but she refused to meet his gaze. He should have known. She reached for the empty breakfast tray on his lap and he reached for her arm. “Miranda, nothing happened.”

“I slept with you. I came here to take care of you and I slept in your bed, on top of you.”

“I’m sorry, I was too tired to stop you.” She finally met his gaze, her eyes full of self-reproach. “Do you want to leave?” he asked. “I don’t have pneumonia.”

She frowned. “You still have chicken pox. What about your work, your observations? Maybe I can help.” She gestured toward the computer on the desk and the telescope on the tripod in front of the window.

“Well, okay,” he said reluctantly. “There’s not much weather to observe today. I’ll read the anemometer in here, but you can observe the sky cover and estimate visibility.” He yawned in spite of himself. It made him tired just to think of it. How did kids ever survive this disease, anyway? Maybe chicken pox was more serious than he thought. It was certainly itchier. Just when he was rubbing ferociously against his stomach, Miranda came out with some soothing cream from the bottom of that seemingly bottomless tote bag.

She slipped her cool hand under his shirt and while she stopped the itching, she created other problems, which caused him to flop over on his stomach. That left her to work the magic cream into his shoulder blades and down his back. He moaned and her hands stilled.

“Is it that bad?” she asked softly.

“Terrible,” he groaned.

“I’m sorry. Where does it hurt?”

“All over.”

“What can I do?”

His answer was unintelligible.

She slid her hands out from under the shirt and covered him with the blanket. While he napped, she put on her jacket and went outside on the observation deck to inhale the crisp, clear air. She didn’t know what the visibility was in miles, but she could see from the White Mountains to the glimmer of the ocean beyond. Directly below her in three feet of snow grew clumps of balsam fir, still dusted with white. Slate-colored junco birds shook the branches of the trees. She tilted her face to let the late winter sun warm her face. High, puffy clouds floated by. If this was the world’s worst weather, then what was the best? The peace and the solitude seeped into her bones and she understood what he meant about the lure of the mountains.

When she came back in he was sitting up raking his hand through his hair. “Well,” he said, “what’s the visibility? I have to phone in my report in five minutes.”

“I felt like I could see forever.”

“Forever doesn’t quite make it down in Portland. Was it seventy or eighty miles? Could you see Mount Killington or Adams?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, giving him a sharp look. Was this the cranky stage she’d read about in the medical book?

“Never mind, what’s the temperature?”

“Fifty-eight.”

“Very good. Sky cover, clouds?”

“Yes.”

“Altocumulus or altostratus?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

He staggered to the window and looked at the sky. ‘ ‘Altostratus at 8000 feet. Would you bring me my phone?”

He gave his report from the edge of his bed in his wrinkled gray sweats, bare feet on the floor, gauging the wind speed by the sound it made against the window, giving an in-depth report, including the humidity. She watched him from the door of the kitchen where she was making tea, impressed by the complexity of the information and his mastery of it.

When he finished he set the phone on the floor and flung himself back into bed. “What’s wrong with me?” he called to her. “One report and I’m wiped out. And I didn’t even go out, you did.”

She carried two cups of tea to the table next to his bed. “I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.”

He cocked his head to one side and looked at her. “For a rookie you weren’t bad.”

She sipped her tea. “Maybe I’ll do better tomorrow.”

He juggled his cup. “You’re staying until tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to leave until you’re completely well. I never knew everything that went into your work. How did you get so good at it?”

“Experience. The first thing I learned was to trust my instruments. The second thing I learned was that if I couldn’t trust my instruments, I had to trust my instincts.”

She spooned a dollop of honey into her cup. “What do you mean?”

“Weather watching isn’t a science and it isn’t an art. It’s somewhere in between. That’s what I like about it.”

“Is this what you always wanted to do?”

He shielded his eyes to look out the window. “Not really. I could have gone in several directions. But when I was a kid I kept a rain gauge, so maybe I was destined to end up like this. Who knows?”

She set her cup down. Who knew? She knew. It was destiny, and how could she fight destiny? He was meant to be where he was, and she was meant to be where she was. It was only an accident that they’d met at all.

She met his steady gaze over the top of his cup and the look in his eyes confused her. There was warmth in his blue eyes, warmth and gratitude and something else she couldn’t decipher. She looked out the window. It was crazy coming up here again. There was something about the solitude that wove a spell around them, made her feel as if they were the only two people in the world. From every window was a spectacular view of sky and mountains. From every direction was wilderness. No people. Only them.

“This wasn’t always a mountain,” he said, following her gaze. “Three hundred million years ago it was a seabed with fish and other forms of life. That was before my time,” he explained. “Then the earth was forced upward into these White Mountains you see around you. The one we’re on is made up of the oldest material. Ancient mud turned into tough mica schist.”

She turned her gaze from the spectacular peaks to look at him. “I thought it was granite.”

“No granite in the Granite State’s highest peak. When the snow melts, sometime this spring, you’ll see the layers of rock along the trail, one for every glacier that passed through during the ice age, but no granite.”

She didn’t say that just as surely as the snow melted she, too, would be gone, never to return to this spectacular place. Never to see the layers of rock along the trail. He would be alone again, leading the life he wanted, the life destiny had chosen for him. Maybe he realized it, too, because he trailed off and just as suddenly as he’d begun his geology lecture, he stopped.

In the afternoon he napped again and she went outside to walk around the observatory, to pick up the dry snow in her hands and hear her boots crunch through it.

When Max woke up his mouth was dry, his head hurt and he wasn’t sure where he was. One thing was sure, he was alone. She was gone. The emptiness in the room echoed from wall to wall. She’d promised to stay until tomorrow. What had made her leave? Something he’d said? Something he hadn’t said?

What could he say, that he wanted her around all the time? What was the point if it was impossible? It would just make things worse. It was better to pretend that he was just what she thought he was, a loner, a man more comfortable with things than with people. It was true once. Only that was before he knew Miranda. Before she came into his life and turned it upside down. Maybe she thought it would work, a half-time relationship. But he knew better. He’d learned the hard way. And he’d never put anyone else through it. Especially someone he cared for as much as he cared for her.

She was everything he’d ever wanted and everything he couldn’t have. She was light and warmth and as beautiful as a mountain sunrise, all pink and gold. He could talk to her or he could just sit next to her and not say a word. She made this sterile observation tower feel like a home in just the one day she’d been there. If she stayed any longer he might lose what willpower he had left. He might tell her... might ask her...

There were footsteps on the stairs and the heavy front door opened. She was back. Her face glowed, her gloves were caked with white powder. She gave him a smile as dazzling as the snow outside. He didn’t know he’d been holding his breath, waiting, hoping—

“Where were you?” he growled. “I thought you’d left.”

“Nope,” she said, hanging her jacket on the coat rack next to the door. “You can’t get rid of me yet. How do you feel?”

“Terrible.”

“I’ll make some toast.”

“No more toast and no more tea. I want some bourbon from the cabinet up there.” He pointed to the shelves above the desk. “And then I want something I can get my teeth into.” He narrowed his eyes and gave her a long, hard, hungry look-If only he were well, if only he dared let her know how he felt. He wanted to get up, move around, take her in his arms, but he fell back weakly on the bed.

She reached for the bottle. “You seem better today.” She poured a small amount into a shot glass and handed it to him. “Shall I look and see what’s in your freezer?”