Night Resurrected (30 page)

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.

Chapter 14

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