Wedding Fever. Lee Wilkinson
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While the two older men talked, Nick ate in silence. Raine watched him surreptitiously from beneath long lashes.
She was studying the planes and angles of that hard, lean face, the wide, mobile mouth, the strong nose and the well-marked brows, several shades darker than the thick blond hair, when he looked up and saw her.
Afraid the longing she felt was only too visible, she flushed scarlet and bent her head, allowing her black silky hair to partially curtain her face.
‘I have to go up to Maine tomorrow,’ Nick remarked during a lull in the conversation.’
‘Maine?’ Ralph raised an eyebrow.
Harry answered. ‘Donkey’s years ago I bought a lumber company and several paper mills up there. Nick takes time from his own business affairs to look after them for me.’
Nick smiled. ‘An occasional trip to Maine is no hardship. It’s a wild, beautiful state, well worth a visit. How about if we all go?’
Harry shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to count me out.’
‘What’s it like?’ Ralph asked his nephew.
‘Lakes, mountains, a spectacular rocky coastline with hundreds of small islands, charming little towns, white clapboard churches, quaint fishing villages, hidden harbours and colourful lighthouses... A lot of the sparse population live near the coast and make their living from the sea.
‘Northeast, towards Canada, is the Allagash—a wilderness of forests and swamps and waterways, where most of the logging is done.’
‘Sounds marvellous,’ Ralph said, ‘but I think I’ll stick with Boston.’
‘Why don’t you two young ones go?’ Harry suggested.
‘How about it, Raine?’ Midnight-blue eyes caught and held green:
A trip alone with Nick would be as exhilarating as jumping out of a plane at thirty thousand feet without a parachute—and as dangerous.
‘I’d love to,’ she said, and if he noticed the quiver in her voice, hopefully he would put it down to excitement.
The next day they caught an early flight up to Bangor. Then Nick, piloting the company’s small plane, which had been specially fitted with dual landing gear—wheels and floats—and extra fuel tanks, took them to the Maine wilderness.
They were to visit the site offices of the lumber company, and landed on a graded road, following a huge truck piled high with massive tree trunks held in place by chains.
Seeing that Raine was startled, Nick told her, ‘There are no airstrips out here. Either we land on water, or on one of these logging roads that belong to the company.’
He steered the plane over uneven ground and they bumped through enormous wire mesh gates and into a kind of compound, where there were several long prefabricated buildings.
Climbing the steps to what was obviously the office block, they were greeted by a short, plump, balding man, wearing a hairy checked shirt and rimless glasses. Nick addressed him as Elmo.
Raine was ushered to a hard wooden chair and plied with strong black coffee and thick slices of cake while Nick sorted out the problem that had taken him there.
Business completed, he returned to say casually, ‘We have a log cabin over at Owl Creek. Would you like to stay there for a few days and see something of the backwoods? Or would you prefer to go somewhere more civilised? ’
Without hesitation, she burnt her bridges. ‘Oh, stay at Owl Creek.’
They flew over forests of spruce, fir, pine and birch, interlaced with gleaming waterways, and landed on the mirror-like surface of Owl Lake, disturbing its evening cloud reflections.
Ringed by hills clothed in the scarlet and gold, green and bronze of ash and maple, tamarack and cedar, it was the most beautiful place Raine had ever seen.
The substantially built, single-storey log cabin was on the lakeshore about half a mile from Owl Creek. Set well back from the water, it was in the centre of a wide clearing and raised on piles, with an open veranda running along three sides and a screened porch.
Nick opened the heavy door, and, having stooped to put a match to the stove, left her to look around while he brought their luggage from the plane.
The kitchenette was fairly basic. Apart from a sink and an old-fashioned hand-operated washing machine, it had a gas cooker, which was connected, and a gas fridge, which wasn’t. But the larder was stocked with all manner of dried and tinned goods, including tins of butter and malted brown bread.
Beyond the kitchenette was a small, separate bedroom and next to that a bathroom—luxurious, Raine guessed, by backwoods standards—with a porcelain sink and bath, a shower cabinet and a flush toilet.
But most of the space was taken up by a large, attractive, open-plan room on split levels.
The living area was simply furnished with two long bookcases, a coffee-table and a comfortable black leather suite. There were boldly patterned cushions and curtains, and matching Aztec-type mats were scattered on the polished wooden floor. The huge wood-burning stove stood in a stone fireplace, and in front of it lay a shaggy bearskin rug.
To one side, on a curved, slightly raised dais, were a stripped pine wardrobe, a dressing-table, a blanket chest and a large divan.
The air was cold and held the faint mustiness of a place that had been shut up for some time, but already crackling flames were devouring the kindling and licking around the pile of split logs in the stove.
‘Like it?’ Nick asked as he carried in their cases.
‘Love it,’ she answered lightly, trying to ignore the tension between them—a sexual tension which had been growing ever since she’d agreed to come here. ‘Incidentally, the bathroom surprised me.’
He grinned briefly. ‘I’m old enough to prefer a certain standard of comfort.’
‘But how do you manage it?’
‘The water’s pumped from a well, and bottled gas provides heating and lighting. Speaking of which...’
Dusk was falling rapidly, and, after bending to light a taper, Nick touched it to the gas mantles, which lit with little plops and blossomed into yellow flowers. That done, he drew the heavy curtains over the windows, making the place cosy and intimate.
‘I’ll cook tonight,’ he said. ‘Your turn tomorrow. But first we’ll have a drink.’
While she stood by the stove, enjoying the blaze, he brought a bottle of Chablis from the larder, and, having opened it, poured two glasses and handed one to her.
As she accepted it his fingers brushed hers, and she caught her breath audibly.
Their eyes met and held. Something deep and primitive flared in his—a look that was at once a challenge and a statement of intent.
She knew without a shadow of doubt that if she didn’t want him, now was the time to make that plain. All she had to do was break eye contact and step back.
But she did want him—with a passion that made her blood run through her veins as hot and impatient as molten lava. Green eyes drowned in blue, she took a step forward.
Removing the glass from her nerveless fingers, he set it carefully on the table.
But, instead of leading her to the bed, he laid her down in front of the stove with a cushion beneath her dark head, and, stretching out beside her, kissed her eyes and her throat and her mouth with a passionate hunger that turned her very bones to water.
She was his to take then, and he must have known that, but, keeping his own desire leashed, slowly, unhurriedly, with enjoyment and finesse, he set out to rouse hers to fever-pitch.
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