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He saw that her eyes were inquiring and disillusioned. “Go to sleep,” he said crossly. “The wolves are gone. Besides, I told you they can’t hurt you. Now stop being a crybaby and don’t bother me again.”
Returning to his own bed, he pulled the covers up around his ears. In seconds he was drenched with sweat. Damn her. His body was still on fire.
Damn her, why had she responded that way? So honestly. With no coyness. No affectation. Her mouth had been so receptive. Her kisses so generous. Her breasts so soft and her nipples so hard.
He clenched his teeth against the memories. Was he a fool? A damn fool for not taking what she had offered so unconditionally?
But that was the hitch. It wasn’t unconditional. Otherwise he’d be lying between her silky thighs now instead of in a pool of his own sweat. That dazed expression on her face had told him that it meant more to her than simple rutting. She was reading things into it that he would never be able to deliver.
Oh, he could imbed himself deeply into that sweet feminine body and succeed in pleasing both of them physically. But he couldn’t feel, and that’s what she wanted. Maybe even what she deserved. He didn’t have it to give. His heart was the Sahara of emotional wastelands.
No, better to hurt her now and get it over with. Better to be a bastard now than to take advantage of the situation. He didn’t engage in long-term affairs. Certainly not in anything more. A relationship between them could go nowhere once they were rescued.
Until then, he’d live. Contrary to popular myth, a man couldn’t die from being perpetually hard. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but he’d live.
The following morning, Rusty’s eyes were so swollen from crying that she could barely open them. With an effort, she pried them apart and noticed that the cabin’s other bed was empty. The covers had already been neatly smoothed into place.
Good. He wouldn’t notice her puffy eyes until she had had a chance to bathe them in cold water. The weakness she’d exhibited last night made her furious with herself. Unreasonably, the crying wolves had frightened her. They personified all the threats surrounding her and made the precariousness of her situation very real.
For some inexplicable reason, her terror had manifested itself in desire. Cooper had responded. Then she had. Thank heaven he’d come to his senses before something drastic had happened.
Rusty only wished that she had been the one to come to her senses first. He might erroneously think that she’d wanted him—when in fact, what she had wanted was someone. He was just the only one around. And if he thought anything else, he was sorely mistaken.
Imitating him by making her bed—never let it be said that he was a superior survivor—she went to the sink and pumped enough water to bathe her face and brush her teeth. She dressed in the same pair of slacks she’d worn yesterday—air conditioning provided by Jack the Ripper, she thought peevishly—but put on a fresh flannel shirt. She brushed her hair and tied it back with a shoelace. It was when she was pulling on her socks that she realized she had been moving about without the aid of her crutches. There was very little soreness left in her leg. They might not be pretty, but Cooper’s stitches had worked to heal her injury.
Not wanting to feel any kindness toward him, she moved to the stove and fed short sticks of firewood into it. She filled a kettle with water and spooned coffee into it, sadly thinking about the automatic coffee maker with the built-in digital timer that she had in her kitchen at home.
Forcibly tamping down a wave of homesickness, she began making a breakfast of oatmeal. Reading the directions on the side of the cylindrical box that she’d found among the food supplies, she was glad to discover that oatmeal didn’t require any cooking skills beyond boiling water and pouring in the correct portion of oats.
Unfortunately her guess was off a trifle.
Cooper came stamping in and without preamble demanded, “Have you got breakfast ready yet?”
None too charitably, she answered, “Yes. Sit down.”
She wanted to serve him a steaming bowl of creamy oatmeal like the ones in the commercials on TV. Instead, when she lifted the lid on the pot, she gazed down into a gooey mess about the color and consistency of setting concrete, except lumpier.
Dismayed, but determined not to show it, she squared her shoulders and dug out two spoonfuls. When she dumped them into the tin bowls, they landed in the
bottom of them like lead. She carried the bowls to the table, set them on the rough wood plank with forceful disdain, and took her chair across from him.
“Coffee?” he said.
She bit her lip in consternation, but got up, poured their coffee and returned to the table without saying a single word. She let her body language convey her dislike for his lord-of-the-manor attitude.
He scooped up a bite of the oatmeal and weighed it in his spoon, eyeing her skeptically. Silently, she challenged him to say anything derogatory about her oatmeal. He put the bite in his mouth.
As though instructing him on what to do with it once it was there, Rusty took a bite of hers. She almost spat it out immediately. Instead, knowing he was watching her with his eagle eyes, she chewed it. It seemed to expand instead of get smaller. Finally she had no recourse but to swallow it to get rid of it. Her stomach must have thought she was eating golf balls. She swilled down a scalding gulp of coffee.
Cooper’s spoon clattered against his bowl. “Is this the best you can do?”
Rusty wanted to come back with, “Was last night the best you could do?” But she reasoned that aiming such an insult at a man’s lovemaking abilities might be justifiable grounds for homicide, so she judiciously said, “I don’t cook that much at home.”
“Too busy flitting from one expensive, fancy restaurant to another, I guess.”
“Yes.”
Making a terrible face, he forced down another swallow of the foul stuff. “This isn’t that presalted, presweetened oatmeal that comes in the cute little packages with teddy bears and bunnies on them; this is the real stuff. Add salt to the water next time. Use only about half as much oatmeal, and then sprinkle sugar over it. But not too much. We’ve got to ration our supplies.”
