Free Last Bridge Home by Iris Johansen Page B

this. I probably changed positions too quickly when you jerked me to my feet.”
    “So now it’s my fault,” he said between his teeth as he climbed the steps of the deck. “I did
not
jerk you. I helped you to your feet.”
    Her eyes twinkled up at him. “You helped me,” she agreed. “Forcefully.”
    “I didn’t—” He drew an uneven breath. “Save your breath, and rest, dammit.” They were inside the lodge, and he was climbing the stairs to the second floor. “You shouldn’t have been out wallowing in the snow anyway. Don’t you have any sense?”
    “I wasn’t wallowing. I was creating.” She giggled. “Though I admit from an observer’s point of view it might have been difficult to differentiate the two. The exercise was good for me. I haven’t been able to get out much in the last week.”
    Jon didn’t answer but his lips tightened grimly.
    A moment later he carefully negotiated the door to her bedroom and kicked it shut behind him. He crossed the room and deposited her on the bed.
    She immediately started to get up. “I’m all wet. Let me change before I get the coverlet damp.”
    “Sit still.” He shrugged off his coat, tossed itcarelessly on the floor, and knelt in front of her. His fingers trembled slightly as he unbuttoned her navy coat and slipped it from her shoulders. He drew the thigh-length, cable-knit sweater over her head and threw it on the floor beside his coat. “Lord, even your blouse is wet.” He rose to his feet. “Ill be right back. Take off your boots and socks.”
    She made a face at the bathroom door as it closed behind him. Jon’s dominant streak was emerging with a vengeance. Oh, well, it wouldn’t hurt to indulge him. Perhaps it would make up for the hurt she had unintentionally inflicted upon him earlier. When she had turned and seen the expression on his face, she had been filled with such empathy it had shocked her. What could he have been thinking about, to cause that look on his face? She began to work at removing her suede boots. The wet snow had turned their pale beige color to a shade of dark brown. She was damper than she realized. The vigorous activity she’d engaged in all morning had kept her from being conscious of either the damp or the cold.
    The door opened and Jon came back into the bedroom with several large white towels draped over his arm. He stopped by the closet and slid open the door. “The towels are warm from the heated rack. If they don’t get rid of the chill, I’ll put you in the shower.”
    Her eyes widened. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
    He jerked a caftan that was the color of orange sherbet from a hanger, and came back to where she sat. “We’ll see.” He knelt before her, his fingers undoing the buttons of her blouse. “Believe me, I’d like to avoid it as much as you. I’m afraid you’d get dizzy again. Which means I’d have to join you in the shower.” He pushed the blouse from her shoulders, his hands going to the front fastening of her bra. “And who knows where that might lead.”
    She looked down at his fingers, as he struggled to undo the fastening. His hands were strong and tanned against the white lace garment. Strong, and yet trembling. Her breath caught in her throat and a tiny quiver shook her.
    “You’re shivering. Are you cold?” His gaze lifted to her face, and he inhaled sharply. “No, you’re not cold …”
    “No,” she whispered. Heat was throbbing through every vein. She could feel the flush that rose to her cheeks and throat. His knuckles were resting against her full breasts that were also flushed, engorged, aching.
    He closed his eyes. “Not now. Don’t do this to me now. I thought I had it under control. It took me most of the damn night but Ithought…” His eyes opened. Burning. Brilliant. Hungry. “You’re not well. I can’t…”
    “I’m fine.” She could barely get the words past the dryness in her throat. How had she come this far in so short a time? The words