Free Slow Fever by Cait London Page A

from her. Kylie in a soft, feminine mood, or in a playful or angry one could entice him, drawing uncertain emotions from him—like tenderness and the thought that he’d cherished her all his life. The imprint of her soft, warm body stayed with him as he stood. One look down at Kylie’s pale, mysterious expression and Michael grabbed a towel from his backpack. He strode for safety—the icy water of the creek.
    Splashing himself with water, he was just damning himself thoroughly, for wanting her so desperately, for wanting to place his hands intimately upon her—wanting to taste her skin, her breasts, to lose himself in her sweetness. “Selfish bastard,” he muttered to himself in the cold night. “You’ve got enough of your old man in you to take what you want. Keep your hands to yourself.”
    The brush bordering the creek rustled and Kylie stepped into view. With her hands on her hips and a toss of her head, she glared at him. “You always did that—run away. Is that what you do with your women? What’s the matter? Aren’t I up to your standards?”
    Michael returned the glare. “You’re not one of my women. You don’t qualify. Get that straight.”
    “You make me so mad that I could just jump you and hold your head underwater until a little of that arrogance washes away.”
    “You and who else? I outweigh you by seventy-five pounds and a whole lot of experience.”
    “I’ve learned a bit since we were young, Mr. Hot Stuff.”
    Michael shook his head. Kylie had never walked away from a fight and he promised himself he wasn’t giving her one—or anything else. Holding her furious glare, he stepped out of the creek, grabbed his towel and dried roughly. On his way past her, he threw the towel at her.He was just calling himself an idiot, snapping his jeans and wondering what he was doing on a chilly night splashing in a freezing creek when Kylie marched past him. She dropped the damp towel from her fingertips like he suspected she wanted to drop any association with him.
    She began to roll her sleeping bag, complete with the rosebud splattered pillow. Kylie, in a mood, was capable of doing anything. Michael didn’t trust her. Or himself. “What are you doing?” he asked in a voice he hoped was calm.
    “Leaving.”
    The mountain trail was treacherous during daylight; at night it was too dangerous. The mountain’s chill sank into Michael’s heart. “Not now. In the morning.”
    Kylie straightened and glared at him. “I’ll take the offer of the shop, because it’s close to town and practical. But I won’t be ordered by you.”
    “Now, honey,” Michael managed to say, as images of Kylie’s torn and bruised body slammed into him. “Be reasonable. It’s dangerous to go down the path in the dark.”
    “You just called me ‘honey.’ Is that what you call your women?” she demanded hotly as she tore a flashlight out of her backpack.
    Michael knew he was holding on, clinging by his fingertips over a deep dark chasm. He struggled for logic, but it wasn’t easy after “honey” had just leaped out of his lips. Still stunned, his instincts told him that he’d been hoarding his endearments for Kylie. He remembered then how Paul Bennett had called Anna “dear heart.” Uncertain what to say while his unfamiliar emotions were churning, Michael decided for a verbal shrug-off. “It’s a term men use.”
    “So it means nothing. Just like that kiss at the dance. Like when you were so tender a moment ago,” she rapped accusingly at him. “You’re afraid of tenderness and intimacy. Big bad Michael Cusack is afraid of meaningful conversation and relationships other than those he has with his women.”
    “Could we leave this nowhere conversation and get into a sane one?” he asked warily.
    Kylie stood immobile and he wasn’t certain what she would do next. “Okay,” she said finally, and unrolled her sleeping bag. She kicked off her shoes, crawled into it and ripped the zipper upward. She crossed