Thirty Nights Read online

Another faint protest. But she did as instructed.

  “You were a virgin.”

  It was not a question, but Gillian answered it, anyway. “Yes.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  She sighed. “Would it have made a difference?” she asked as she propped herself up on her elbows. “Would you have changed your mind about bringing me here?”

  “No.” He’d promised he wouldn’t lie to her, and whatever else might be said about him, Hunter had always prided himself on being a man of his word. “But I would have done things differently.”

  “Oh? How?”

  Having never been one to indulge in long, heartfelt conversation after sex, Hunter was finding this topic more unpalatable than most.

  “I would have been more careful with you. Taken you with more finesse.”

  She stretched, in an unconsciously seductive way that reminded him of a sleek, satisfied cat. “I thought you showed amazing finesse.”

  “I managed some restraint in the beginning,” he allowed. “But I ended up taking you like some kind of animal.”

  “Oh, that.”

  Her smile was slow and decidedly sensual, giving Hunter a very good idea of what Eve must have looked like after she and Adam had shared bites of that serpent’s shiny red forbidden apple.

  “Actually, Hunter, I thought that was wonderful.” The siren’s smile darkened her eyes, turning them from Irish moss to emeralds. “Thrilling, actually.”

  He was going to have to send her away, Hunter decided yet again. She was too enticing. Too appealing. Too damn dangerous. But first…

  He scooped her up from the piano, threw her over his shoulder and walked out of the room.

  “What about our clothes?” she asked, seeming as unfazed by her upside-down position as she’d been about everything else he’d thrown at her these past days. “We can’t just leave them here. Mrs. Adams—”

  “Is well paid not to notice,” he said as he strode down the hall to the master bedroom suite, where he plunked her unceremoniously on the closed lid of the commode while he ran the water in the oversize tub.

  The water streaming from the wide swan’s-neck tap was hot; he tossed in a handful of herbal bath salts he’d bought specifically with her in mind and soon they were surrounded by fragrant steam.

  “Hunter?” she asked as he moved the soft-as-silk Egyptian cotton washcloth over her bloodied thighs.

  “What?” Self-recrimination made his tone sharper than he’d intended.

  “I know you don’t care about image. Or your reputation.” She bit her bottom lip as she looked up at him through a thick fringe of lashes. “But I do. And I don’t think I’ll be able to face Mrs. Adams tomorrow morning knowing that she knows we were having an orgy in your library.”

  Hunter wondered how it was that even after what they’d just shared, she could remain such an innocent. “It wasn’t exactly an orgy, Gillian. Besides, Mrs. Adams is an employee. It’s none of her business what we do. Or where.”

  She didn’t exactly seem won over by his argument. “Please?” When the touch of her hand on his arm brought back the memory of those slender fingers against his burning flesh, Hunter felt himself giving in.

  “All right. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go get them.”

  “Thank you, Hunter.” Her smile could have lit up the entire island for the entire winter. “That’s very nice of you.”

  Both touched and irritated by the wave of emotion sparked by that dazzling smile, Hunter cupped her chin and gave her a hard, tooth-grinding, punishing kiss.

  “I told you, baby,” he reminded her on a growl, when they finally came up for air. “I’m never nice.”

  That stated, he stood up and strode from the bathroom.

  “Hunter?” She called out to him as he reached the doorway.

  He shot her a frustrated glance over his shoulder. “What now?”

  “My name isn’t baby.”

  Because he wanted to laugh, he merely shrugged his shoulders and left the room. But even as he reminded himself that Gillian Cassidy was turning out to be trouble with a capital T, he found her impossible to resist.

  Although he suspected very little got past the eagle-eyed Mrs. Adams, he retrieved their clothes from the library. Then, as he succumbed to temptation and joined Gillian in the tub, Hunter tried to ignore the uneasy feeling that he wasn’t really sinking into the fragrant hot water, but into quicksand.

  GILLIAN FOUGHT THROUGH the fog of sleep filled with erotic memories, some real, others born in dreams so vivid she wondered if some of them could have actually occurred. As her mind gradually cleared, she wasn’t all that surprised when she woke up and found that Hunter had gone. Disappointed but not surprised.

  “After all, he does have work to do,” she murmured, reluctantly leaving the tangled sheets that still carried Hunter’s scent.

  The fire had died sometime during the night; the former blaze had burned down to embers as cold as the lonely bed. “He can’t stay in bed all day just because you’ve discovered that making love just might be your favorite thing to do.”

  No. Not making love, Gillian reminded herself. “It was only sex.” She stretched from side to side, trying to work out the unfamiliar kinks. “Great sex. But that’s all it was. Love had nothing at all to do with it.”

  At least on his part. But she feared that somehow, between when she’d barged into his office and the time, just before dawn, when he’d given her a kiss so sweet and tender it had almost made her weep, she’d begun to fall in love with him.

  “It’s merely the situation.” Continuing the little pep talk, she walked across the room and opened the draperies. “He’s set up a ridiculously erotic situation. There’s probably not a woman in the world who could resist falling a little under the spell.”

  That thought, meant to comfort, did just the opposite as Gillian wondered how many women Hunter had made love to— “had sex with,” she corrected again sternly—in this room. In this bed.

  If there was one thing Gillian was certain of since arriving on Castle Mountain, it was that a man with Hunter’s sexual skills must be an inveterate seducer of women.

  “Well, at least the piano may have been a first.”

  Gillian sighed at the realization that a few days under the same roof with Hunter would have her foolishly grasping at such weak straws.

  Along with the storm that Gillian and Hunter had created last night, a blizzard had blown in from the mainland. The entire world was engulfed in a white blanket; more snow was battering against the glass wall. It was definitely a day to stay indoors.

  A day to stay in bed, she thought, feeling her hormones spike dangerously as remembered sensual images caused a slow burn deep inside her. As she went into the bathroom, which had its share of erotic memories, Gillian wondered, yet again, what on earth she’d gotten herself into.

  After showering, she returned to the bedroom, opened the top bureau drawer to retrieve a sweater and found it filled with the lingerie Hunter had taken away that first night. Even as she understood that this was his way of maintaining control by rewarding her for last night’s submission, she was inexorably drawn to the scanty bits of lace so different from anything she’d ever owned. She ran her fingers through them, enjoying the feel of silk against her fingertips, the slick of cool satin. Then she smiled.

  Like everything else about Hunter’s home, the lingerie almost seemed to be imbued with magic. She’d no sooner put it on than Gillian felt her spirits lift. She was humming as she entered the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” she greeted Mrs. Adams, receiving a grunt in return. Refusing to allow the taciturn woman to spoil this special day, she smiled and said, “I’m surprised to see you here today.”

  “Don’t know why you should be.” The housekeeper cracked an egg on the side of a blue ceramic bowl. “It’s my job, after all.”

  “But the storm’s so bad.”

  “Ben’s truck has four-wheel drive. It’ll go near anywhere.”

  Gillian walked over to the kitchen window, looking out at the drifts that were beginning to pile up against the glass. She wondered if her cat was out there, wet and cold and hungry. That thought caused a little pall to drift over her good mood.

  “Well, I’m sure Dr. St. John appreciates your devotion to duty, but I can’t believe he’d expect you to come out in a blizzard.”

  “T’weren’t a blizzard when we left our place. Though the snow was sure enough starting to pile up when Dr. St. John left.”

  “Left?” Gillian turned back toward the housekeeper. “Dr. St. John went out?”

  “Ayuh.”

  That came as a surprise, given his seemingly reclusive lifestyle. “Did he tell you where he went?”

  “Can’t say as he did.” Butter sizzled hotly in a cast-iron skillet. Normally the fragrance would have stimulated Gillian’s appetite. But not now. “Though it’d be my guess he went over to the brain factory.”

  “Brain factory?”

  “His laboratory.”

  “Oh.” Gillian cradled the mug in her hands and took another sip of coffee. “I thought his lab was here in the house.”

  “That’s where he works most times,” Mrs. Adams allowed. “But he’s on staff at the brain factory.”

  “Is it far away?”

  Mrs. Adams’s bony shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Not much that’s far away around these parts. It’s a small island. The brain factory’s on the other side. The town’s sort of in the middle.” She poured the eggs into the pan and began energetically stirring them around with a fork.

  “Still, that’s quite a trip in a storm like this.” Gillian went from feeling abandoned to fearing for Hunter’s safety.

  “Weather Service says it’ll be a short
, quick blow. ‘Course, forecasts are wrong as often as right this time of year. But you needn’t worry about Dr. St. John, since he won’t be driving back today.”

  “He won’t?” Her heart sank.

  “Told me I wasn’t to worry about making him supper tonight or tomorrow. Said he’d call after that and let me know his plans.”

  “I see.” All too well. Hunter couldn’t have made his point more clear if he’d written it across the bathroom mirror in bold black paint.

  Mrs. Adams flipped the scrambled eggs onto a plate and put the plate down on the table. “I suppose you’ll be wanting some extra bacon. For that fool wild cat.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Mrs. Adams.”

  The woman’s huff told Gillian she’d suspected nothing less. It also suggested that she thought Dr. St. John’s houseguest was crazy.

  Gillian couldn’t blame her. She was, after all, rapidly coming to the same conclusion herself.

  10

  IT WASN’T WORKING. The plan, which had seemed logical enough when Hunter had finally abandoned the warm comfort of the bed he’d shared with Gillian two days ago was turning out to be a bust.

  He’d never thought of himself as a particularly greedy man. Granted, the wealth that came from his work was a nice perk, and if the government wanted to write him an obscenely large check to stake a claim to his research, he certainly wasn’t about to turn it down. But everything else—including the house he’d designed down to the last nail—was just gravy.

  So long as he had enough funds to keep his work going, he wouldn’t care if he woke up tomorrow to find it all gone.

  As for relationships with the opposite sex, even prior to the bombing, he’d preferred brief, uncomplicated affairs with women who were no more interested than he was in any kind of permanent relationship. These past years on the island with Toni had been more convenience than emotion, friendly lust that scratched an itch for them both.

  He liked Toni. A lot. He liked her mind, her body, her penchant for sexual adventure. He also liked the fact that he could get caught up in his work for days or weeks at a time and she wouldn’t get her feelings hurt or feel abandoned. After all, she felt the same way. They were comfortably compatible, neither believing in, nor wanting, any happily-ever-after type of commitment.

  Still, he couldn’t help being relieved that she’d left the island for a research trip to the National Institutes of Health in Atlanta. He knew she’d understand why it would be awkward to sleep with her while he had another woman living in his house. But Toni was a highly intuitive woman and he didn’t want anyone realizing that his feelings for Gillian had unexpectedly become more complex than merely sexual.

  Hell. Only two weeks ago things had been going along well. Better than well. After years of compiling data, he’d been crunching the numbers and had felt as if he’d been close to a breakthrough when Toni had shown up at his house with that damn tape.

  Ever since that evening, his mind had been dominated by thoughts about Gillian Cassidy.

  He’d hoped that if he got away from the house—from her—he’d be able to concentrate and focus on his work. But as the computer hummed away, Hunter stood by the window of his laboratory, staring out at the swirling snow and thinking of Gillian on the other side of the woods.

  He wondered if she was still lying in bed, still tangled in the sheets that had finally begun to cool when he’d left before dawn that morning. Wondered if she was taking a bath in the Jacuzzi tub. Wondered if she was thinking of him.

  Was she regretting giving up her virginity to a man who hadn’t particularly welcomed it and had treated her with less tenderness than the situation had called for? But how the hell had he been supposed to know the woman was far more innocent than her sensual music had led him to believe?

  He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and reminded himself that Gillian was a grown woman. She’d known before coming to the island what would be expected of her, and even if she hadn’t totally believed he was serious, he’d certainly made himself perfectly clear since her arrival.

  So why the hell was he experiencing this unexpected guilt? And another, even more unsettling feeling he couldn’t quite put a name to?

  “Damn,” he muttered as he glared out at the swirling white snow.

  “Numbers not crunching well?” a masculine voice behind him asked as Dylan strolled into the office.

  “The work’s going well enough.” He shrugged with more casualness than he felt. “Actually, it’s turning out better than expected.”

  “Then it must be a woman who’s got you looking like a ticked-off lion with a thorn in your paw.”

  “You couldn’t begin to imagine,” Hunter said dryly.

  Dylan laughed with obvious delight. “If I didn’t know that you weren’t a man given to entanglements, I’d suspect that the tables had been turned and the lovely red-haired songstress has snared the hunter.”

  At first Hunter was a bit surprised that Dylan knew it was Gillian that Ben had brought to his house. Then realized he should have expected it. Any visitor to Castle Mountain was bound to be noticed right away, especially once tourist season had passed. Especially a high-profile visitor like Gillian Cassidy.

  “It’s complicated,” he muttered, jamming his hands deeper into his pockets as he glared back out the window.

  “It usually is, when a female’s concerned,” Dylan said with the blithe attitude of a happily married man. “I take it your visitor has you dancing to her tune?”

  Hunter frowned. He wasn’t prepared to talk about Gillian. Not even with Dylan. Not when he hadn’t yet figured out what he was feeling.

  “Did you drop by to play Dear Abby?”

  “No.” The smile faded from Dylan’s eyes. “You have a visitor.”

  “Oh?” He wondered if Gillian had actually managed to talk Ben into driving her here and wondered, if she had, why he didn’t feel any irritation at her invading his sanctuary.

  “It’s the general,” Dylan said. “He’s currently cooling his heels in the reception area.”

  Hunter shook his head. Just what he needed to top off a less-than-perfect day. He wondered how the man had made his way here from the mainland in such lousy weather, then, remembering the many tales he’d heard over the years about his covert activities going all the way back to the final days of Vietnam, he realized that General Alexander Stonewall Lee wasn’t going to allow snow—even a near blizzard—to interfere with a mission.

  He cursed, then sighed with resignation. Lee was, after all, the man who signed his checks.

  “Send him in.”

  The general possessed the bearing of a man for whom military service was a birthright. As he entered the office on a strong, confident stride that brought to mind a conquering army, Hunter could almost imagine him standing at full parade attention in his mother’s womb.

  “I wasn’t expecting you.” Hunter opened a maple cabinet and took out the bottle of Wild Turkey he kept on hand for the general’s visits.

  “I wasn’t expecting to be here.” Snow glistened in his silver hair as General Lee took off his overcoat, boasting four gold stars on the shoulder epaulets, and hung it on the brass rack. “I try to make it a policy not to travel north of the Mason-Dixon line after Thanksgiving.”

  “That must make it difficult to wage war in the northern regions,” Hunter suggested dryly.

  “Which is why I got myself a transfer to the Pentagon,” the general said as he took the crystal glass Hunter held out to him. “Granted, one would never move to D.C. for the weather, but at least it’s not as inhospitable as this place.”

  He glared out at the sleet hammering against the window. “If you have to live on a damn island, why couldn’t you have chosen one in the Caribbean?”

  Since the debacle with George Cassidy, Hunter always thoroughly investigated everyone with whom he worked. His research on the general had revealed the man was a miserable sailor. Which made it all the more surprising that he’d risk coming out here on Ben Adams’s mail packet on a day that the sea was rough enough to make even the most hardy seasick.

  “The island suits me.” Hunter sat down in one of the black swivel chairs. “You didn’t come all this way to give me a weather report. What’s so important to have you braving a stormy Atlantic to come to our little back of beyond?”