Page 8 of Cursed
He swore under his breath. “What men?”
“Two guys from the gas station where I stopped to fill my tank. When I told them I was coming here, I caused a little bit of a stir.”
“You should have kept that information to yourself,” he muttered.
“I was gauging their reaction,” she countered.
“Well you have it. They ran you off the road. They’re getting bolder,” he said, his tone turning rough with anger.
“We’ll deal with that later. How did you know … to come looking for me?”
“You were later than I expected,” he answered. “I thought I’d better see if you were in trouble.”
“From … what?” she asked, struggling to keep her teeth from chattering.
“The rain. We’ve had some flash floods like this. I wasn’t thinking anyone would follow you from town.”
“They didn’t stay around.”
“Why not?”
“A jaguar scared them off,” she said, suddenly wanting his reaction to that statement.
His expression turned fierce. “As I told you in my correspondence, someone in town is playing jaguar.”
“That may be true. But I saw a … a real one,” she answered, losing the battle to keep her teeth from clanking together.
“If so, the animal isn’t the problem,” he bit out, then gave her an appraising look as he changed the subject. “You need to get warm. You’d better get out of your wet clothes—what’s left of them.”
She’d been so grateful to be back on dry land that any thought of her appearance had fled her mind. Now she looked down at herself, seeing her bare legs, then her blouse clinging wetly to her breasts, plainly showing the darker outline of her tightened nipples.
Embarrassed, she stammered, “I … need …”
“Clothing,” he supplied. “In the back, I have some things I was taking to the church sale. Climbing out again, he went around to the back of the vehicle. Swiveling, she watched him rummaging through large plastic bags, heard him muttering.
When he returned, he was holding out a lady’s robe, made of soft ecru silk, the front panels decorated with delicate embroidery.
She reached out, stroking the fabric, trying to keep her fingers from trembling, aware of his eyes on her.
“That’s beautiful. You were getting rid of it?” she asked, her voice turning soft.
“Janet said it was in an old trunk,” he answered, sounding offhand. Yet she sensed a current of meaning running below the surface of his words. When he laid the robe across her knees, it felt warm and alive against her chilled flesh. And dangerous.
Janet. His housekeeper. He’d mentioned her in his correspondence.
She continued to stroke the fabric. The robe would cover her; still, she heard herself asking, “Do you have something else?”
He tipped his head to one side, watching her. “You could try one of my shirts and a pair of my pants—if you like the ragamuffin look.”
“I’ll pass on that,” she answered, trying to match his light tone.
“Since it’s stopped raining, I can give you some privacy.”
Before she could answer, he strode around the SUV, and she saw him rummaging again in the bags. This time he pulled out a tee shirt and jeans much like the wet ones he was wearing.
Standing out on the road, behind the vehicle, he pulled his sodden shirt over his head, and she found herself staring at the mat of dark hair spreading across his broad chest, then dragged her eyes away. He said he wanted to give her privacy. She should do the same.
She looked down at the robe still warming her lap. The garment was old and beautiful, like something from a vintage clothing store. Very appealing. Yet as she stared at it, she was oddly reluctant to put it on.
