Mysteries of Lost Angel Inn by Evelyn Rogers

Author:Evelyn Rogers [Rogers, Evelyn]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fantasy, Romance - Harlequin
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2004-08-29T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHRISTOPHER WISHED he had cleaned up the cottage this morning. He would have, if he’d known he was going to have to play superhero this afternoon.

After he shoved a bunch of old newspapers into a pile in the corner, he took Emily’s soaked blue jeans and sweatshirt and spread them out next to his wet clothes along a handy plank of cherry. The fire blazed nearby, so it was possible they might dry—in a few hours.

He’d pulled on some new jeans and a T-shirt and rubbed his hair with a towel. Through the smoky, dusty windowpanes that led into the storeroom, where Emily was changing into one of his old robes, he could just see the cloudy outline of her body. No details, but the hint of bare shoulder and breast was enough to make his throat go dry.

She was so beautiful. Even bedraggled and frightened, and soaked to the skin, she had the power to make him ache with desire.

God, Maxwell, get a grip. This was hardly the time to think about sex. Emily had damn near died. If it hadn’t been storming, and if she hadn’t asked him to stay nearby, he would be out there right now, finding out what the hell had gone wrong with that staircase.

He had repaired it, declared it fit for use only last week.

The door to the storeroom creaked open and he looked up.

“Well,” she said sheepishly. “How do I look?”

She held out her arms, looking a little like Dopey of the seven dwarfs, with the old, dingy robe dangling way beyond her fingers. It was about six sizes too big, and about six years past its prime. But if he had hoped it would neutralize her incredible sensuality, he’d been deluding himself big-time.

“Could I maybe add these to the dryer?” She had a small wad of white silk and lace in her hand. She gestured self-consciously toward the cherry plank.

“Sure,” he said. He turned his back—more for his sake than for hers—while she arranged the bra and panties. He did not need to imagine how she looked with them on, and he damn sure didn’t need to start picturing her as she was now, with them off.

Instead he busied himself at the little kitchen sink, preparing the supplies to dress her hands. He’d already called up to the inn and reported to Livvy that both of them were safe, that they’d just wait out the storm in the cottage.

It was pretty tight quarters. The whole cottage was about fifteen by fifteen, and held a twin bed with a rustic, multicolored quilt comforter, an armoire, a small bathroom closet and a kitchenette. It suited him fine when he worked so late he missed the ferry and needed somewhere to crash. But it was hardly a place to entertain company. They could barely walk around without bumping into each other.

“Let’s get those hands fixed up, okay?”

He tried to sound friendly and businesslike, but the minute she held out her hands, he had to fight the urge to lean down and kiss the poor torn flesh.

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