Page 52 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“Yes,” she says. “I know you.”

Trust exists between us, fragile and more risky than attraction.

“You can use the bedroom,” I tell her.

“And you?”

“The sofa.”

“I’m not taking your bed.”

“You nearly collapsed.”

“That does not make me incapable of sleeping on a sofa.”

“I need access to the radio and equipment. You need quiet.”

She checks out the hallway. “How long am I staying?”

“Until you can drive safely.”

“That could be an hour.”

“It could.”

“Or morning.”

“If necessary.”

The awareness between us returns. Less sharp than it was inside her booth, but deeper.

“One bedroom,” she says.

“Yes.”

“One sofa.”

“Yes.”

“And an entire security team occupying the cabin downhill.”

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose my virtue is adequately protected.”

I look at her. Loralee’s tired smile contains the first trace of her usual humor.

“I wasn’t concerned about your virtue.”

“No?”

“I’m concerned about mine.”

Her lips part. The awareness between us deepens into something more intense. I should redirect the conversation, check the radio, or move to the opposite side of the cabin. Instead, I remain beside her while heat gathers beneath the restraint I have spent three days attempting to maintain.

Loralee’s gaze drops briefly to my mouth. But she allows exhaustion to win. Her head sinks against the back of the sofa, and her eyes close. The tension leaves her face by degrees.

I wait until her breathing becomes even before standing. She does not wake when I lift her into my arms.