His fingers curled up into her hair, his
other hand slid down over the curve of
her bottom then settled at the base of her
spine. He smelled fresh and masculine,
but there was a tinge of smokiness
clinging to his clothes and the subtle
flavor of beer on his tongue.
When he pulled away, it was abrupt
and sharp. All at once the heat and
sensuality was gone and Remy found
herself looking up at him, dragging
herself from the lull of passion.
“What the hell are you doing?” he
demanded.
W
yatt wasn’t certain whether he was
asking Remy or himself.
What the hell
are you doing?
No, definitely himself.
Stupid
fucking
idiot.
Remy was looking up at him, her
eyes wide with shock and, probably,
hurt. Christ.
“You do this often?” he asked, trying
and failing to keep the roughness from
his voice. His knees were about ready to
give out and it had taken every bit of
conscience to pull himself out of that
dangerous vortex of desire. He could
hardly catch his breath, found it hard to
focus his emotions where they should
be: on disgust. Instead, his body hummed
with desire and
mo re .
More, more,
more.
No,
he told himself flatly.
You can’t.
“What . . . what are you talking
about?” Remy recovered quickly, he
noted with relief. That flash of spirit
was back in her eyes—at least as far as
he could tell in the iffy light.
What? Why not?
He struggled
desperately for a reason. Any reason that
wasn’t the truth. “I’m not interested in
walking in Ian Marck’s footsteps. But
you can try for Vaughn Rogan . . . he
might be desperate enough not to ca—”
She shoved him. Hard enough to
catch him in the lungs and cut off the rest
of his sentence, but not hard enough to
make him stumble. “You’re damn lucky I
don’t have my gun with me. God, Wyatt,
it’s like every time I begin to like you, to
think you actually have a human side,
you have to act like a real bastard.”
Like
him? Holy shit, he’d fucked
things up more than he realized.
Wyatt shook his head, which was,
thankfully, beginning to clear. “Were you
or were you not sleeping with Ian Marck
for the last two days? And were you or
were you not flirting your ass off with
Vaughn Rogan ten minutes ago? And
now you’re coming on to me because . . .
why? Because I’m standing here?
Because I’m convenient?”
He didn’t know why he was even
explaining himself, or giving her the
chance to do the same. He didn’t
generally bother. If someone screwed
with him, that was it. He was done. He
didn’t have the time or the stomach for
excuses and platitudes.
“The only sleeping I’ve done with
Ian—or with anyone since . . . since . . .”
Her voice broke, sending a sharp stab of
guilt through him, but she soldiered on
before he could say anything. “. . . since
I came to Yellow Mountain, is the
simple sharing of body heat. Which, I
might mention, you couldn’t even bring
yourself to do when we were in the
truck.”
Wyatt snorted. “You expect me to
believe that?”
Then all at once understanding lit her
face. She straightened and glared up at
him. “And how the hell do you know I
was with Ian two days ago? Were you
spying
on me?”
Fuck. Didn’t think that one through.
Just went to show how scrambled his
brains were. A mistake like that could
have cost him his life over in Iraq. And
it was just as dangerous now.
“Only to make sure you were safe,”
he said, dredging up a haughty tone. “So
it’s hard for me to believe you’re not
jumping from one sack to another. You
two seemed very cozy when you were
swimming in the creek.” Damn. Too
much detail again. He was getting
sloppy.
“Who said anything about jumping in
the sack with you, Wyatt? I just kissed
you, for pity’s sake.”
“Right. Thanks for the clarification.”
Oh, the sarcasm just rolled right off his
tongue.
“I was just checking on things,” she
said. The tone of her voice was different
now.
He knew better, but the words
jumped out before he could stop them.
“Checking on what things?”
“I was doing a little comparison.
Between kisses.”
Oh Christ. Hell, she was the last
person he would have expected to play
games, to taunt and tease and flirt like
this.
Cathy didn’t play games. She was as
straightforward as they came, honest to a
fault. Sunny-dispositioned most of the
time . . .
Cathy
.
That’s right, think of
her. You can’t forget her yet. Too soon.
Grief welled inside him. Grief and
guilt and anger. He channeled it into
control. “I hope it works out for you,” he
managed to say. “The comparison.” He
turned to get the hell away from Remy.
“Um . . . Wyatt.”
Damn. He needed to keep walking.
He wanted to, but he couldn’t. It was the
tone of her voice: husky and yet
peremptory at the same time. It was like
a massive magnet, pulling him back,
turning him to face her even as he knew
he needed to get the hell out of there.
“What?” he said from between
clenched teeth. Trying not to look at
Remy, her lips, still full and soft and
glistening from the kiss. Ignoring the
silvery slide of moonlight over her long
bare neck and creamy shoulders. And he
was definitely not looking down at the
deep shadowy vee between her breasts
—the ones that had just been smashed up
against him. He tried and found it damn
near impossible to swallow when he
thought about that long curvy body
plastered against his.
Remy hesitated, then looked toward
the party. “It sounds like the ceremony is
starting,” she said, obviously revising
whatever she’d planned to say. “Are you
going to go watch?”
No, he wasn’t going to go watch. He
was going to find himself a nice dark
corner with a big-ass beer; the biggest
fucking beer he could find—maybe a
whole keg—and be alone. Blessedly
alone. And then later he might see if
Kellie from the Irish pub was around.
She didn’t talk too much, she sure as hell
didn’t argue, and she didn’t want
anything but a good time.
Best of all: being with her didn’t
make his knees weak.
“I’d better go with you,” he heard
himself saying. “In case Marck tries to
get that crystal from you again tonight.”
Dammit. He knew he should have
stayed in his room.
R
emy juggled a glass of Pete’s mead in
one hand and a napkin-wrapped piece of
cherry pie in the other as she and Wyatt
made their way toward the stage. Dantès
had been put inside in a safe place with
a couple of teenage boys who were
playing cards, Wyatt told her. He’d
thought it best to keep the dog safe from
the discarded chicken bones and other
garbage generated by the party that could
make him ill. And apparently the teens
were much more interested in cards than
survivors.
The crowd was too thick for them to
get very close to the stage, but Wyatt
pulled her through the throngs so they
found a place to stand off to the side but
near enough to see and hear. She wasn’t
certain what to expect, but she thought it
was an interesting and appropriate idea
to honor the survivors who’d helped
rebuild the city.
“Have you been to this before?” she
asked her companion—the man who was
at war with himself, and, it seemed,
everyone around him. Including her.
Still, he was here with her, and
although she wasn’t certain how she felt
about it, his reasoning was sound. She
wasn’t fond of the idea of running into
Ian again tonight. What little trust and
affection she’d felt for her former lover
had disintegrated. She might not be in
physical danger from Ian, but he was
still ruthless and determined. And since
she now had the crystal again . . .
In answer to her question, Wyatt
shook his head. He had a bottle of beer
in his hand and leaned against a tree. His
white linen shirt shone like a beacon
against the dark trunk, the rest of him
muted in shadow. “Nope. I only arrived
in Envy a little less than a year ago.”
Despite his relaxed stance, his voice
sounded tight.
“If Lou were here, he’d be honored,
too, wouldn’t he?” Remy asked, trying to
keep the conversation light.
“I’d expect so. Too bad he’s still in
Yellow Mountain. I would have liked to
have seen him up there.”
She would have responded, but
Vaughn Rogan was speaking into the
microphone, introducing himself and
explaining the idea behind Survivors
Day.
As Vaughn called up one of the
survivors onto the stage, a cool breeze
stirred the air and an unexpected shiver
took Remy by surprise.
“It’s no wonder you’re cold, wearing
that,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have
a sweater.”
“I’m fine,” she replied, sipping her
wine, holding back another tremor. It got
chilly rather quickly, here by the ocean.
She was surprised when Wyatt left the
tree and actually moved in closer behind
her. He stopped short of actually
touching her, but warmth emanated from
him anyway.
“I don’t have a jacket, and I’m sure
as hell not taking off my shirt,” he said.
Thank God, she thought. She wasn’t
sure which would be worse: wearing his
warm, masculine-scented shirt or having
that muscular bare chest in close
proximity. A little shiver caught her by
surprise.
“If you took your hair down, it might
help. But it looks nice up.”
Remy’s eyes widened. An actual
compliment? Really? She reached up to
touch it automatically and felt parts of it
sagging. A flicker of heat licked her
inside. That was from Wyatt. From the
kiss. From his hands, all over her,
shoving up into her hair, loosening the
pins, sliding down over her spine . . .
From the stage, Vaughn was speaking
again. It took Remy a moment to drag her
thoughts from the man behind her and
focus on the ceremony.
“Our next honoree is Mangala
Kapoor. Unfortunately, she’s no longer
with us, but her granddaughter Zoë is.”
Remy grinned as Zoë stomped up
onstage, reluctance evident in every
bone of her body. She could see Quent
standing near the front, his tawny head
highlighted from the lights onstage.
“Who got ahold of Zoë?” Wyatt
murmured. His voice was low and rough
near her ear, raising little prickles over
her skin. “That must’ve been a battle.
And holy shit, I can’t imagine what the
other woman looks like.” There was
amusement in his voice.
“Flo’s just fine. I think Zoë got the
worst of it, so to speak.” Remy managed
to respond coherently despite the warm
tickling sensation near her ear.
“If that’s the worst, that’s pretty damn
good. She looks different, but very ho—
nice.”
She had only met Zoë twice, but
Remy agreed: the other woman had
never looked better. Her choppy hair
had
been
tamed
into
a
sleek
sophisticated look that curled up at the
ends and was tucked behind her ears.
Two tiny jewels sparkled in its
darkness. She was wearing the black
tube top along with white slacks and
white shoes. Flo had been on a white
streak today, apparently. Even though
she was five months pregnant, Zoë’s