Reilly's Woman (15 page)

Briskly he turned away. "I don't think so, but if I were you, I'd try to keep it out of the water. There's no need to take a risk at this stage. The waterhole isn't deep. Unless you slip, you shouldn't have any trouble keeping the bandage dry."

"How do you know it isn't deep?" Leah arched a curious eyebrow, frowning slightly.

"I bathed you in it once to bring your fever down, remember?" Reilly reminded her with lazy mockery in his tone as he again bent over the snare. "And I've used it myself a few times—in the mornings before you were awake."

No wonder he always looked so fresh and impervious to the rigors of their less than luxurious conditions, she thought. But there was hardly a need to make a vocal comment on the fact.

"I'll be careful not to slip," she promised diffidently.

At the waterhole, Leah glanced over her shoulder. Reilly's back was turned toward her, deliberately or indifferently, she didn't know which.

Removing the shirt the rest of the way, she stepped into the pool, using an overhanging branch of a willow for balance. The deepest point, near the far end of the pool, brought the water to her waist. The temperature of the water in that area was several degrees cooler than the rest of the pool. She decided that she was near the spring's inlet.

It was awkward keeping her left arm out of the water while she tried to rinse the upper half of her body and her hair. It was a slow procedure but refreshingly cooling. She resisted the impulse to linger, splashing and playing in the water, and crawled on to the bank. Reilly was still working on the snare.

Quickly she towelled the moisture from her skin with the shirt she had been wearing, blotting the excess water from her undergarments. The rest of her clothes would be dry. Slipping the now damp shirt on, Leah retraced her path to the bushes, collected the washed clothes, and changed swiftly into her own.

The seams of her slacks were still damp, but that coolness and her damp underwear countered the sunbaked heat of the dry material of her slacks and blouse.

"Here's your shirt," she told Reilly as she returned to the circle of their camp.

"Hang it on the lean-to." His jet dark head nodded toward it while his attention remained with the damaged snare.

Leah hooked the collar over one of the poles. "Haven't you fixed that yet? You've been working on it all afternoon."

"Whatever it was that was caught in it worked on it all night," he replied absently.

Kneeling beside the stack of their meager possessions, she sifted impatiently through them, finally sitting on her heels and glancing at Reilly.

"Do you know where the comb is?" she asked.

"In the food box."

She found it and began raking its teeth through her tousled and snarled hair. The sun had bleached pale streaks through its light brown color, increasing the golden highlights. As she tugged the comb through her hair, she watched a cloud shadow racing across a distant mountain slope. A ghost moon occupied a corner of the daylight sky.

There had not been a sign of a search plane in the last two days. There couldn't have been one previously or Reilly would have mentioned it. There was no one who knew where they were or that they were alive.

Leah thought of her father, stern yet compassionate, but always correct and proper. His air of reserve was a contrast to her mother's warm, outgoing personality, which helped her make new friends with ease every time her husband was transferred.

With his cold logic, her father would have calculated Leah's chances of surviving the plane crash and nine days in a desert wilderness. She guessed that his conclusion would be that there was little hope that she was still alive. He would be devoting himself to consoling her mother. Lonnie, she knew, would never give up the search until he found her. He did not accept the inevitable as their father did.

Her father's calculations could not have taken into consideration Reilly's presence. He couldn't know of Reilly's knowledge of the desert or his ability to live with relatively little hardship in primitive conditions.

A smile played with her mouth as she visualized her parents' reaction if they were able to witness this scene—Reilly sitting there trying to repair a broken snare to catch their night's meal and herself combing her hair after washing their clothes in a stream and bathing in a pool.

The clock could have been turned back a hundred years. The only modern possessions they had with them were a flashlight, an emergency ration of food, a pistol, and a pocket-knife. Everything else they had made or improvised—the pan, the bowls, the spoons, the snares, the lean-to.

"Why are you smiling?" Reilly was studying her, his impassive face tipped to one side in idle curiosity.

"I was imagining my parents' astonishment if they could see us now, living here in the desert like natives." Her smile deepened with wryness.

He nodded understandingly, his gaze briefly sweeping the sky before returning to the snare in his lap. His action wiped the smile from her face.

"There isn't much hope any more that a plane will find us, is there?" Leah said. "We'll have to walk out of here, won't we?"

"Yes." A simple, clear-cut answer.

Her gaze shifted to the sage-colored valley and the corridor of mountain that enclosed it. The valley seemed to run forever. It was difficult to remember that somewhere beyond the horizon, there was a modern highway with cars and trucks and buildings and homes with electricity, running water, and central heat and air-conditioning. The neon world of Las Vegas was an absolute fantasy in the cruel beauty of this wilderness.

A snarl at the back of her head caught the comb's teeth. She tried working the comb through the knotted hair and she gasped at the inadvertent yank on her scalp. The sound drew a look from Reilly.

"A rat built a nest in my hair," she answered the silent question in the green eyes.

While she tried to work out the snarl, she watched him set up the snare to test his repairs. At the first pressure, it snapped at the very place he had mended. Reilly gathered it up and tossed it in the banked fire.

"Can't you fix it?" Leah protested as a tiny flame licked greedily over the snare.

He shook his head in a negative answer. "The other three will have to be enough." His sideways glance noted her struggles with the comb. "Want some help?"

"Please," she sighed with frustration. "I can't see what I'm doing," she rubbed the tender portion of her scalp that had become sore from repeated pulling of her knotted hair, "although I certainly can feel it!"

Rising, he walked to her, taking the comb from her hand as he knelt behind her. With gentle care, he worked the hair free of its snarling knot piece by piece, then smoothed the hair into the rest curling around her shoulders. He offered the comb to Leah.

"Would you comb the rest of it…to be sure there aren't any more knots?" It was only an excuse to keep him near. The breathless tremor in her voice must have betrayed her inner wish.

"Leah, no." His answer was grimly firm.

He tossed the comb on the ground in front of her. She turned sideways, her hazel eyes wide and shimmering with the aching need of her love for the sustenance of his touch. The parted softness of her lips issued an invitation that his jade eyes couldn't ignore.

His narrowed gaze ripped away from her mouth to look deep into her eyes. "You're playing a dangerous game, Leah," he muttered.

"I know," she swallowed tightly, her voice unreasonably calm," but—"

"This situation provides enough temptations without you offering more," he added flatly.

Leah averted her gaze, lowering her chin in reluctant agreement. "You're right, of course," she admitted, but it didn't soothe her wildly leaping pulse.

A sun-browned hand lightly cupped her cheek and chin, turning it back to meet his gaze. Desire smoldered through the sooty veil of his lashes as it swept possessively over her upturned face.

"I should have left this morning and gone for help."

She moved her cheek against his fingers, her lashes fluttering briefly from the magic spell of his touch. "I would have followed you."

"I know." Her lips curved into a faint smile.

An irresistible force bent his dark head toward her. At the touch of his mouth against hers, Leah turned into his arms, sliding her hands around his neck into the black thickness of his hair.

The demand of his kiss tilted her head backward while his molding hands arched her against him. A fire to equal the burning rays of the sun flamed through her veins, the roar of its blaze raging in her ears. The male scent of him was intoxicating fuel to the fire that consumed her.

Boneless, she gasped as his mouth explored the exposed hollow of her throat, sending volcanic shudders through her body from his sensually arousing caress. Pushing aside the collar of her blouse, his mouth tantalized her shoulder, trailing up the sensitive cord of her neck to nibble at her ear lobe. Then he teased the corner of her mouth until her lips sought his kiss.

The iron band of his arms eased her to the ground. Leah's hands slipped to his muscular shoulders to draw him with her, then remained to revel in the nakedness of his hard flesh. Crushed beneath his weight and smothered by his kiss, she could hardly breathe, yet there was no thought to struggle. Never before had she been so completely alive.

The sun blazed white-hot in the sky. Behind her closed eyes, the light of love was as intensely bright as the sun, searing in its insatiable fire and illuminating every corner of her heart. It was beyond physical. If Reilly never touched her again, Leah knew the invisible linkage of love bound her to him for eternity.

Wordlessly, she responded to his embrace with all the fervor the magic knowledge had given her. The soaring joy that sang in her veins lifted her to a horizonless world. Reilly's kiss hardened as if he had been carried there, too.

Then just as suddenly, as if the height was too dizzying, he rolled on his side, his hand slipping away from her breast to rub his face and mouth. One arm couldn't let her go. It remained to hold her firmly against his chest.

Dazed by the rapturous discovery, Leah could only listen to the pagan drumbeat of his heart and the raggedness of his breathing. Much slower, she descended from the spiritual plateau to the physical reality of their nearly consummated embrace. Irrationally she knew she would have gloried in his possession of her and cared not about any future consequences.

His control was almost frightening when she considered how readily she had abandoned her own under the possession of her love. The wonder of it kept her silent for several minutes.

"Reilly." Her voice was warm and throbbing.

His hand cupped her cheek, a thumb touching her mouth to ask for silence. "Leah"—she could hear the conflict with his physical need in his husky voice—"be still."

It would have been easy to disobey his order and persuade him to countermand it. The delicious temptation teased her thoughts, but the wisdom behind it was unquestionable. So she lay unmoving in the half-embrace of his arm until she felt the tension easing from his muscles and knew he was again in total command.

"Tell me about your boyfriend," he said quietly.

Her eyebrows drew together in confusion, "Who?" Leah blinked.

"Marvin, the man you've been dating."

Tipping back her head, she gazed into Reilly's impassive features. "How did you know about him?" she frowned.

"You mentioned him when you were delirious." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

It was strange, but she couldn't remember what Marvin looked like. It seemed years ago since she had seen him. The vague image she could summon was of a pale, insignificant man compared to Reilly, lacking the masculine vitality and virility that were a dominant part of the man who now held her in his arms.

"He works at the same bank as I do," she answered indifferently. "I've been out with him several times, which, I suppose, classified him as a boyfriend. What did I say about him?"

"Nothing."

She believed him. There was little she could have said about Marv except that he was nice and possessive in an irritating kind of way. A stab of jealousy shifted her thoughts to an adjoining track.

"Tell me about your girlfriend," she requested tensely.

"I don't think that terminology would fit." His mouth twisted cynically as he shifted on to his back and stared at the pale blue sky.

An agonizing pain knotted her insides. "Your mistress, then," she suggested with underlying bitterness. "Tell me about her. Does she…live with you?"

His dark head shifted to the side to look down at her nestled in the crook of his arm, his hair pitch black against the green of the long grass.

"I live by myself," he answered, a remoteness in his tone. "My mistress is my work. I know women, but I don't have a woman."

His reply should have made her feel content. Instead she felt a vague dissatisfaction. It was several seconds before she realized why. The implication of his answer included her in the category of women in the plural. A lump rose in her throat.

"You…you mentioned you lived in Las Vegas," she murmured, needing to change the subject. "Where?"