Heart of the wolf (13 page)

"Don't be," he rasped.

Sarah touched her brow, dizzied at having unexpectedly found
herself
in Wolf's arms then abruptly pushed away. In his eyes she saw anger, mixed with the fire of longing, and she became confused. If only she had more experience with men, maybe she could understand what was going on between them. She'd seen the need for her in his eyes. She was sure of it! So why had he shooed her away?

Sarah gripped the crutches more
tightly,
unable to look up at Wolf, mortified by her own weakness. She had reached out to him trustingly. . . .

"I'm going to go watch some television," she muttered as she moved past him. More than anything, she didn't want Wolf to apologize. It was humiliating enough to be rejected. She didn't want him adding to her shame by mouthing some inane reason for not wanting to hold her.

Scowling, Wolf watched Sarah hobble out of the kitchen. Her head was down, the golden sheet of her hair hiding her expression, but he'd heard the pain in her voice, and it made him feel worse than ever. Closing his fists, he railed at himself for his mistake. His protective side was working overtime with Sarah.

Sarah was far from helpless, he realized harshly. Because of the past, he was overreacting. There was a big difference between Sarah and Maria. But the situation, the danger, was the same. Glumly Wolf moved to the table. He'd told Sarah she wasn't a housekeeper, and he'd meant it.

His conscience smarting, Wolf cleared the table and began to wash the dishes. He could hear the television in the next room—the national news was on—but his heart centered on Sarah. He shouldn't have pushed her away so quickly. He'd hurt her, sending her the wrong message. The past was looming over the present, and Wolf didn't know how to handle the turmoil of emotions raging within him. He was projecting onto Sarah
al!
the
pain and failure of his past. It wasn't her problem, he reminded himself tersely. She had enough problems of her own.

With a shake of his head, Wolf concentrated on the dishes. Somehow, the drudgery of the duty soothed some of his fluctuating emotions. Still, he wondered how Sarah was feeling. He tried to block from his memory the awful expression of loss on her face when he'd forced her from his embrace. His mouth tightened. If only he'd been more guarded, more alert.

Closing his eyes, his hands in the warm, soapy water, Wolf realized for the first time that Sarah liked him. Why else would she have willingly fallen into his embrace instead of reaching for the counter or her crutches when her legs gave way? Then his mind—that cold blade of reality—reminded him that maybe Sarah was just feeling emotionally torn apart from sharing her traumatic past. Maybe she'd merely needed a haven, a set of arms to hide in for just a moment, and it had had nothing to do with liking him in a personal or intimate sense.

As he stood there feeling his way through the situation, his heart gently informed him that Sarah liked him a lot
inore
than either he or she honestly realized. Wolf had always had good sense about people—until recently. Now he no longer dared trust the instincts that had always kept him in harmony with himself and the world around him. Peru had proven that his senses, his understanding, were faulty. People had died—
he'd
nearly died—because he'd believed he knew what to do and blindly acted on it.

Sarah had just as blindly acted upon her need to be held, and he'd denied her that safe harbor. Wolf silently chastised himself. Sarah deserved someone a hell of a lot better than him. Why had he been placed in her life? Swallowing hard, Wolf forced himself to finish the dishes. Somehow he had to apologize to Sarah, to make her understand it wasn't her he was rejecting—it was himself.

In an effort to break the tension strung between them, Sarah asked Wolf to set her faceting machine up out on the porch. They worked out on the porch for nearly an hour after the dishes were done. Sarah sat at the small wooden table where her faceting machine had been placed and plugged in. She was nervous in Wolf's presence. The message he'd given her was that she wasn't worthy of him—as a woman—and it left a very real hurt
io
her heart. Yet he had been so solicitous after coming out of the kitchen.

They'd taken special precautions not to accidentally bump or touch each other as they worked. Gradually, as all the equipment was put into place, some of the tension drained away, and for that Sarah was profoundly grateful. She looked up at Wolf, glad to see that the heavy scowl across his brow had relaxed.

"Tomorrow morning I'll start faceting these." She took a small plastic container and opened it. At least a hundred rough sapphires spilled out into the palm of her hand. Placing them beneath a lamp that Wolf had moved from the living room to her workbench, she motioned for him to look at them.

"See? Their colors are all different."

Wolf came close and leaned over Sarah's shoulder. He should have been looking at the rough sapphires she'd mined. Instead, he was studying her long, graceful fingers.
Their nails practically nonexistent from digging in the dirt and sapphire gravel.
He noted a number of small scars on her fingers and hand, too, but nonetheless she had an artist's hands, he thought.

"Nice," he grunted.

Sarah twisted a look up at him, wildly aware of his closeness. There was such sadness in Wolf's eyes now. Something within her reached out to him, and she was helpless to stop it. "Wolf, what's wrong?"

Abruptly he straightened.
"Nothing."

Stung, Sarah felt heat rushing into her face. She was blushing—again. No man, not even Philip, who had captured her heart years earlier, when she was young and trusting, had made her blush so often. Casting around for a safe topic as the tension leaped violently to life between them again, she said, "I'm really tired. I think I'll go to bed."

Wolf nodded and moved to the entrance. "Take my bed."

Sarah's head snapped up. "What?"

He saw her cheeks flame a dark red. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he muttered, "I said, take my bed. I'll sleep out here on the living room couch."

Wolf's bed.
Panic broke in Sarah. She stood up, nearly tipping the chair over. Catching it, she rattled, "I couldn't possibly take your bed, Wolf. I'll sleep on the couch." The memory of him pressing her to his strong, unyielding body, his arms going around her, the male scent of him, was permanently lodged in her heart. Sarah couldn't sleep on Wolf's bed. It would bring all those wonderful sensations back to the surface.

She forced a light smile as she got her crutches. "It's no problem. That couch is fine, Wolf. Really, I've created enough problems for you already by being here. I don't want to cause more. Keep your bedroom. I'll just sleep out here." She motioned toward the living room.

Frowning heavily, Wolf searched Sarah's features. She was forcing herself to placate him because he'd hurt her.

Dammit
, anyway! Moving aside as she
hobbled
toward him, Wolf desperately sought to let her know that he hadn't rejected her. "Look," he grumbled, running his fingers through his hair, "you need a good night's sleep. This couch is lumpy and short. You need to stretch out and give those feet all the room they want."

She brushed by him and went into the living room. It was almost painful to be that close to him. Her heart was beating so hard in her chest that she took a long, ragged breath. She stopped in the center of the room, desperate. "Wolf, I want the couch, okay? No argument."

Turning, he held her guileless blue gaze, which broadcast her anxiety all too well. Wolf felt miserable. If only he could explain. . . He jammed that thought deep down inside him. "You're right," he snapped. "There isn't going to be an argument on this, Sarah." Pointing toward the hallway and the connecting bedroom, he said, "That is your room while you're here. Understand? And don't give me grief about it. Your feet need to heal, and—" he jabbed his finger at the old, worn couch "—they sure as hell won't do that on this thing."

Sarah moved restlessly around in the queen-size bed. She was used to her small bed, not this rambling expanse of mattress. Wolf's emotional reaction had jarred her. Opening her eyes, she stared sightlessly up at the darkened ceiling of the quiet bedroom.
Wolf's bedroom.
He slept in this bed. Unconsciously she smoothed her hand out across the cool cotton sheet and tried to imagine what it would be like for him to be
lying
next to her.

The thought stunned Sarah. She just hadn't been drawn to that many men in her life. There was Philip, but that had ended badly. Sitting up, the sheet falling away to expose her thin cotton nightgown printed with tiny
vi
olets
, she frowned. The clock on the dresser opposite the bed read 2:00 a.m. Her feet were throbbing, but that wasn't why she was restless and unable to sleep.

Wolf's words, the look in his eyes—as if some part of him were dying inside—kept her awake.
Kept her thinking.
Grasping her crutches, which leaned against the wall next to the bed, Sarah slowly got to her feet. Perhaps a cup of tea would help her sleep.

The light from the street filtered in through the dark orange drapes and the sheers as Sarah made her way slowly down the carpeted hall. At the entrance to the living room, she suddenly realized that Wolf was sleeping on the couch, which was located opposite where she stood.

Leaning on her crutches, Sarah's heart started a slow, heavy pounding in her breast. Wolf was far too long for the short couch. It was very warm in the house, the summer heat lingering without a cooling breeze to push it outside, where it belonged. The white sheet he wore across his naked body had slid down and pooled around Wolf's waist, the outline revealing his narrow hips and long, powerful legs. Both his feet were exposed, as he'd kicked the sheet aside. Her gaze moved appreciatively upward to his slab-hard torso and his dark-haired chest.

A small gasp escaped Sarah as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Was she seeing things? Was it her overactive imagination? Narrowing her eyes, her heart pounded painfully. Wolf's chest bore a crisscross pattern of puckered pink-and-white scars, as if someone had taken a bullwhip to him. No, that was impossible. Sarah closed her eyes and shook her head. What was happening to her? What craziness descended on her when she was in Wolf's quiet, powerful presence?

She reopened her eyes and studied his chest again. Yes, there were scars there.
Too many to count.
How on earth had he gotten them? Her gaze moved to his face, and the pain she'd felt for him disappeared. In sleep, his face was tranquil. She gripped the handles of her crutches as he stirred and muttered something in his sleep, turning onto his side. One of his arms hung over the edge of the couch, his curved fingers resting against the carpeted floor. He was bathed in sweat, and the sheen emphasized the muscles across his shoulder and upper back.

There was such a powerful beauty to Wolf. Sarah wavered. Should she go back to the bedroom or try to quietly reach the kitchen for the cup of tea? The tea was terribly tempting; it was the only thing that settled her nerves and imagination enough that she could get to sleep. Moving slowly and quietly forward, Sarah opted for the tea.

Wolf slept lightly, as was his custom. A vague noise awakened him instantly, and he jerked into a sitting position, his fists cocked. Disoriented for a second, he saw Sarah, in a knee-length
nightgown,
freeze in the center of the room.

"Oh, dear.
I'm sorry, Wolf. I thought I was being quiet." Sarah stood there uncertainly. Wolf's eyes were softened by sleep. Black strands of hair hung across his brow.