The Fire of Spring by Elizabeth Lowell

Author:Elizabeth Lowell
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
ISBN: 9780373052653
Publisher: Silhouette
Published: 1900-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Dawn returned from her own bedroom quickly, as though she were afraid Logan would change his mind about helping her. When he saw the size of the plastic bags she was dragging behind her, he groaned. The sound was echoed by a low mutter of distant thunder. The clouds, which had teased the mountains by day, had gathered into a spring storm after sunset.

"This was your idea," Dawn reminded him quickly, eyes bright with mischief. "I'd never take advantage of an invalid."

Logan gave her a sideways look out of hard amber eyes. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

For a moment she hesitated, uncertain about his mood. Then she smiled widely. "You bet your boots, cowboy. I love choosing the yarns, dying them, and weaving them. But unwinding, unsnarling, and rewinding skeins onto shuttles is borrr-ringgg."

Dawn skidded the bags across the floor and up against Logan's bed just as lightning sparkled briefly against the black windows. "It will be easier for you if you're sitting up," she said. Suddenly she frowned. "Do you feel well enough to sit up?"

Logan swore beneath his breath. He had spent almost every minute she wasn't with him pacing the room. He knew its dimensions to the last quarter-step. "I'm a man, not a baby," he said harshly. "I have more than enough strength to sit up."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

His curt gesture cut off her words. As he sat up, the sheet slid slowly off his chest and down to his waist. Dawn found herself watching the process with all too much interest. She told herself it was the artist in her that so enjoyed the blunt, muscular wedge of tanned chest contrasting with the eggshell white of the sheets. It was the artist who wanted to trace the powerful lines of bone and sinew. It was the artist who wanted to stroke Logan in silent appreciation of the latent power beneath the masculine grace of his movements.

But it was the woman in her who wanted to rub her hands and lips over Logan's shoulders and chest. It was the woman who wondered if his skin would taste as smooth and warm as it looked. It was the woman who wanted to follow the darkly curling wedge of his hair as it became a single thick line disappearing beneath the sheet.

Lightning danced through the night, pulling thunder behind. The storm did nothing to settle Dawn's nerves. Blindly she thrust her hand into the yarn sack and brought out the first skein her fingers encountered.

"This is yarn," she said quickly.

Logan's mouth curved in male amusement. He had seen er curious, admiring glance slide down his body—and he had enjoyed it as much as she had.

"Do tell," he murmured. "Yarn. Fancy that."

Dawn's cheeks took on a warm rose shade. "Yes. Yarn," she said crisply. "Hold out your hands."

"Are you going to tie me up?" he asked, smiling and holding out his wrists like a man waiting to be handcuffed.

"Don't tempt me," she muttered, plucking at a trailing piece of yarn, trying to see if it was the single strand that would neatly unravel the skein.

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