Stranger In His Arms. Charlotte Douglas

of honeysuckle scattered the vestiges of gun smoke and blood from his memory. His muscles relaxed. His breathing slowed.

      He didn’t know how long they held each other. The clock struck the quarter, then the half hour, and still they didn’t move. Then, gently, she drew back, placed her hands on either side of his face and raised her lips to his. Her kiss at first was comforting, succor to his pain, blissful alleviation of the hollow ache in his soul.

      She tasted of sweet herbs and honey, and her scent infused his senses. Her soothing warmth turned to heat, her tender touch to electricity. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, savoring the taste of her, the weight of her in his arms. His heart thudded with excitement, and he could feel her heartbeats pounding beneath the softness of her breasts pressed against his chest.

      Suffused with sudden desire, he slid his hands beneath her sweater and felt the heat of her bare skin against his palms, but his touch apparently broke the trance between them, and she pulled away.

      The green of her eyes was smoky with desire, her lips reminded him of a bruised blossom and high color stained her cheeks, but he couldn’t read the expression on her face.

      “Maybe I should apologize,” he offered, “but I won’t say I’m sorry.”

      Unexpectedly, she threw back her head and laughed. “No need for an apology. Not unless that kiss was another bet with Tommy Bennett.”

      “No way,” he said. “And no way was that kiss anything like our first one.”

      She seemed agitated then, as if in stating there’d been two, he was implying there might be more. She jumped to her feet. “I’d better check on Sissy.”

      He heard her rush into the bedroom, then heard the bathroom door close behind her. He probably shouldn’t have kissed her. Not like that. She’d only been showing sympathy, and he’d wanted more.

      Dumb move.

      But he’d learned a long time ago—and the hard way—that things already done could not be undone and had to be dealt with. With a sigh, he stacked the dirty dishes on the tray and carried them into the kitchen.

      When she returned from the bathroom a short time later, hair combed, face scrubbed and fresh lipstick applied, he had almost finished the washing-up.

      As if nothing unusual had transpired between them, she took a clean towel from a drawer, removed a soup bowl from the drain rack and began wiping it dry. “Sissy’s sound asleep.”

      He nodded, dried his hands. “Guess I’d better shove off then.”

      She hesitated, as if debating whether to ask him to stay. He hoped she would. He still hadn’t learned what caused the fear that flitted across her face when she was unaware he was watching.

      Then, as if making up her mind, she nodded. “I’ll see you to the door.”

      A few minutes later, he was cruising through Casey’s Cove on his way home. He wasn’t sorry he’d shared Johnny’s story with her, and he damned well wasn’t sorry he’d kissed her.

      What he did regret was that he hadn’t kissed her again when he’d left, but her barriers had gone up once more, effectively closing off any advances on his part.