Chapter 10: What Rafe Saw

Rafe came to the guesthouse that night with a bandaged arm and a bottle of burn ointment.

"Doctor's orders," he said. "Somebody has to put it on."

"Somebody being me."

"You're the only one who knows where it hurts."

I locked the door and took the ointment out of his hand.

He sat on the edge of my bed, and I knelt in front of him and unwound the gauze.

The burn ran from wrist to elbow, shiny and red, with white blisters at the edges.

I spread the cool ointment with two fingers.

He watched my face the whole time.

"You ran into a fire for me," I said.

"I'd run into it again."

"Don't say that."

"Why?"

"Because I might believe you."

His good hand came up and caught my chin, and he tilted my face up.

"Believe me," he said.

I kissed him.

This time there was no waiting at the door, and no rain, and no pretending that either of us would say no.

He pulled my shirt over my head and I shoved his T-shirt up his chest, careful of the arm.

We tumbled back across the quilt.

"Twenty-seven years of being careful," I said, "and I know exactly what I want."

"I'm thirty-four, and I've wanted you since the ballroom," he said.

"Lie down," I said.

"Maeve."

"Lie down, Rafe."

He looked at me, and his mouth curved, and he did.

I straddled his hips and pinned his good wrist to the pillow.

He let me.

I knew he let me, because he was twice my size and could have flipped me in a breath.

He let me see how much he wanted me instead.

I took off my bra and his eyes went black.

"Christ," he said. "Come here."

"Not yet."

I leaned down and dragged my mouth across his chest, over the scar and the flat of his stomach, and he groaned and arched.

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