Lori Foster – Buckhorn Beginnings: Sawyer (страница 8)

Sawyer didn’t refute that. His behavior did seem odd, considering his brother didn’t know why he was so insistent. But when Jordan walked away, Sawyer again opened the door where she slept. Nope, he didn’t want his brothers seeing her like this.

The little lady slept on her stomach, and she kept kicking her covers off; the jersey had ridden to her waist.

Damn, but she had a nice backside. Soft, white, perfectly rounded. The kind of backside that would fit a man’s hands just right. His palms tingled at the thought, and his fingers flexed the tiniest bit.

With a small appreciative smile, Sawyer once again covered her. At least her fever must be lower, or she’d still be chilled deep inside. The fact she felt comfortable enough not to need the blankets proved the medicine was doing its job. Still, he touched her forehead, smoothed her hair away, then forced himself to leave the room.

When he walked out this time he ran into Morgan.

“We need to talk.”

Sawyer eyed his brother’s dark countenance. He’d have been worried, except Morgan pretty much always looked that way. “If you’re going to offer your help, don’t bother. I’m more than able to—”

“Nope. I figure if you want to hover all night over the little darling, that’s your business. But I want to show you something.”

For the first time, Sawyer noticed Morgan was gripping a woman’s purse in his fist. “Our guest’s?”

“Yep. I decided I didn’t like all this secretive business, and being she’s staying here, I was fully justified—”

“You snooped, didn’t you?”

Morgan tried to look affronted and failed. “Just took a peek at her wallet for I.D. I’m a sheriff, and I had just cause with all this talk of someone hunting her and such.”

“And?” Sawyer had to admit to his own overwhelming curiosity. He wondered if the name would match the woman. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“You won’t believe this, but it’s Honey Malone.” Morgan chuckled. “Damn, she sounds just like a female mobster, doesn’t she?”

It took Sawyer two seconds before he burst out laughing. Honey. No wonder she thought he knew her name. He was still grinning when Morgan poked him.

“It’s not that funny.”

“Ah, but it is! Especially when you know the joke.”

“But you’re not going to share it?”

Sawyer shook his head. “Nope. At least, not until I’ve shared it with Miss Malone.”

Since he had the arrogant habit of refusing ever to let anyone rile him, Morgan merely shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you should also know I braved this hellish rain to run out to the car radio and run a check on her. Nothing, from either side of the law. No priors, no complaints, no signed statements. If someone is trying to hurt her, the police don’t know a damn thing about it.”

Sawyer worked that thought over in his mind, then shook his head. “That could mean several things.”

“Yeah, like she’s making it all up.” Morgan hesitated, but as he turned to walk away, he added, “Or she’s more rattled than you first thought and is delusional. But either way, Sawyer, be on your guard, okay?”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“No.” Morgan pointed at him and chuckled. “But you are acting like a man out to stake a claim. Don’t let your gonads overrule your common sense.”

Sawyer glared, but Morgan hadn’t waited around to see it. Ridiculous. So he was attracted to her, so what? He was human, and he’d been attracted to plenty of women in his day. Not quite this attracted, not quite this…consumed. But it didn’t matter. He had no intentions of getting involved any more than necessary to get her well. She was a patient, and he’d treat her as such. Period.

But even as he thought it, he opened the door again, drawn by some inexplicable need to be near her.

Damn, but she looked sweet resting there in his bed. Incredibly sweet and vulnerable.

And once again, she’d kicked the blanket away.

HONEYWOKE slowly and struggled to orient herself to the sensation of being in strange surroundings. Carefully, she queried her senses, aware of birds chirping in near rapture, the steady drone of water dripping outside and a soft snore. Yet she was awake.

Her throat felt terrible, and she swallowed with difficulty, then managed to get her heavy eyes to open a tiny bit. As soon as she did, she closed them again against a sharp pain in her head. She held her breath until the pain ebbed, easing away in small degrees.

Her body felt weighted down, warm and leaden, and a buzzing filled her head. It took a lot of effort to gather her wits and recall where she was and why.

She was on her stomach, a normal position for her, and this time she opened her eyes more carefully, only a slit, and let them adjust to the dim light filtering into the room. As her eyes focused on the edge of a blanket, pulled to her chin, she shifted, but her legs didn’t want to move. Confused, she peered cautiously around the room. The rain, only a light drizzle now, left glittering tracks along the wall of windows, blurring the image of the lake beyond and the fog rising from it. The gutters must have been overloaded because they dripped steadily, the sound offering a lulling, soporific effect. The day was gray, but it was definitely morning, and the birds seemed to be wallowing in the freshness of it, singing their little hearts out.

Frowning, she looked away from the windows, and her gaze passed over Sawyer, then snapped back. She almost gasped at the numbing pain that quick eye movement caused.

Then she did moan as the sight of him registered.

Wearing nothing more than unsnapped jeans, he lounged in a padded wicker chair pulled close at an angle to the foot of the bed. His long legs were stretched out, his bare feet propped on the edge of the mattress near her waist pinning her blankets in place. No wonder her legs didn’t want to move. They couldn’t, not with his big feet keeping her blankets taut.

She remembered him waking her several times throughout the night, his touch gentle, his voice low and husky as he insistently coaxed her to respond to him, to answer his questions. Her skin warmed with the memory of his large hands on her body, smoothing over her, resettling her blankets, lifting her so she could take a drink or swallow another pill.

She warmed even more as she allowed her eyes to drink in the sight of him. Oh, she was awake now. Wide-awake. Sawyer had that effect on her, especially when he was more naked than not, available to her scrutiny. He was a strong man, confident, even arrogant in his abilities. But there was an innate gentleness in his touch, and an unwavering serenity in his dark eyes.

The muscles of his chest and shoulders were exaggerated by the long shadows. She felt cool in the rainy, predawn morning, yet he looked warm and comfortable in nothing more than his jeans. His abdomen, hard and flat, had a very enticing line of downy black hair bisecting it, dipping into those low-fitting jeans. Her heart rate accelerated, her fingers instinctively curling into the sheets as she thought about touching him there, feeling how soft that hair might be and how hard the muscles beneath it were.

One of his elbows was propped on the arm of the chair, offering a fist as a headrest. His other arm dangled off the side of the chair, his hand open, his fingers slack. He was deeply asleep, and even in his relaxed state his body looked hard and lean and too virile for a sane woman to ignore. He appeared exhausted, and no wonder after caring for her all night. She studied his whisker-roughened face a moment, then gave in to temptation and visually explored his body again. A soft sigh escaped her.

She needed a drink. She needed the bathroom. But she could be happy just lying there looking at him for a long, long time.

“G’mornin’.”

With a guilty start, her attention darted back to his face. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his thick black lashes at half-mast, his dark gaze glittering at her. Honey closed her own eyes for a moment, trying to get her bearings. His voice had been low, sleepy, sexy.

Ahem. “Good morning.” The words, which she’d meant to be crisp, sounded like a faint, rusty impersonation.

Sawyer tilted his head. “Throat still sore?”

She nodded, peeking a glance at him and quickly looking away again. “You’re, ah, pinning my blankets down.”

She heard the amusement in his tone when he murmured, “Yeah, I know.”

Then he dragged his feet off the bed and stood and stretched—right there in front of her, putting on an impressive display of flexing muscle and sinew and masculine perfection. Without even thinking about it, she rolled to her back to watch him, keeping her blankets high.

With one arm over his head, she saw the dark silky hair beneath his arm, the way his biceps bulged, and she heard his growled rumble of pleasure. As he stretched, his abdomen pulled tighter and the waistband of his jeans curled away from his body. Her vision blurred. He ran both hands through his hair and over his face, then he smiled.

She tried to smile back, she really did. But then he scratched his belly, drawing her gaze there, and she saw that his jeans rode even lower on his slim hips and that his masculine perfection had changed just a tad. Okay, more than a tad. A whole lot more.