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When would he put the poker down and walk over to her?

  “And you, Olivia? You don’t hate it?”

  His voice curled through her, as soft as smoke, and she shivered a little. It was the way he said her name—her whole name. That never failed to turn her inside out.

  “No,” she said, just as softly. “I don’t hate it.”

  Carefully, he put aside the poker and her shiver turned to heat. Then he started to walk toward her.

  Chapter Ten

  Nic sat down on the edge of her swag because, hell, he couldn’t keep his distance any longer. Although she wriggled away to create some space between them, she didn’t bolt. That had to be a good sign.

  Not that he was making any moves. Yet. They had all night and a nice slice of the morning, so he didn’t need to rush.

  There were bits of him ready to rush—bits hard and aching from watching her sleep on this makeshift bed for half the afternoon, and from putting his hand on her soft and sleep-warm shoulder to wake her. And from noticing how she’d discarded half her clothes after she washed.

  Inside her cozy swag, not six inches away, her legs were bare. He’d lay odds she’d discarded her bra as well. For all he knew she might be bare-ass naked except for the long western shirt.

  Which he was not going to think about while he was fully dressed. Sitting down. In jeans.

  He shifted, stretching his legs out in a vain attempt to get comfortable. “You never told me about your sister hating the outback.”

  “You never told me about running away from boarding school,” she countered, quoting one of the stories he’d told her while they’d walked. It was an effort to distract her from the accident, to wipe the sad shadows from her eyes. “Or about putting a cane toad in Angie’s bed. Or the blindfold race down the bluff to the waterhole.”

  Nic shrugged. “They’re just stories.”

  “Just stories or a symptom?”

  “Of…?”

  “In all the years we were together, we never talked much, did we?”

  All Nic heard was her use of the past tense—were together—and denial kicked in.

  “We talked more than enough. When I got back you always asked about where I’d been, my last job.”

  Her face was in shadow. He couldn’t see her expression, but he heard her soft expulsion of breath. “Oh, we’d start out in the right direction. But then somewhere around the second sentence…”

  The soft heat in her eyes would fry the words on his tongue and the only thing he’d think of to say would be, “Ah, Liv, I’ve missed you like crazy,” as he’d reach for her. And as quick as he could utter “unzip me” they’d be naked and halfway to paradise.

  Nic frowned and shoved those images aside. Remembering the softness of her hands on his skin and her husky hurry-up murmurings and her sexy cat’s smile when she had him right where she wanted him—hell, none of that was doing him any favors right now.

  “So, talk to me, Liv,” he said, more harshly than he’d intended. Because he was about half-a-memory away from turning and saying, Ah, Liv, I’ve missed you like crazy. And, unzip me.

  “About?”

  He heard the caution in her voice and knew what she was thinking. But he didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to break the tentative strands of connection he’d allowed to slowly build through this long day. “Today. After the accident. You went very quiet.”

  For a long, tense minute he thought she was going to clam up. He shifted closer, moving so he could see her face in the flickering light.

  And the sadness on her face, in her eyes, punched him in the heart.

  “It was that little girl, Hollie. I was holding her and she put her arms around my neck. And it was just like when I used to hold…when Brooke was little…she used to—”

  Her voice, already low and husky, caught on her sister’s name, and although she drew a shaky breath and tried to continue, she couldn’t. Because, ah hell, she was crying. Those silent, heartbroken tears that always did him in.

  Nic didn’t think. He just reached for her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Olivia let him comfort her. At first it was an awkward hug, with him sitting and her lying down, but then he stretched out beside her and pulled her close.

  How could she object? She’d always loved the solid strength of his chest and the way their bodies matched up. She loved how his hands stroked her back and tucked her hair back from her face.

  She even loved the slight tension she felt in his big body. He was a man, after all, and inherently averse to tears.

  Yet he held her, the same as he’d done at Brooke’s funeral and for so many days and nights afterward. And when the initial flood of tears eased, he tucked her even closer, and pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head.

  She knew if she stayed right where she was long enough—maybe another minute or two—he’d make some crack to ease the what-next awkwardness. He’d managed to make her laugh in days when she thought she’d never laugh again.

  “It’s a gift,” he’d told her more than once, and thinking about that now—thinking about her decision to walk away from a man with such a gift—jabbed sharply in her heart.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t wait for him to make funny. She didn’t want to be reminded of how things used to be between them. How, after the wisecrack, he’d dry her tears and then he’d kiss her, and within the space of a long stroke of his magic hands the kiss would turn from tender comfort to warm arousal to consuming flames.

  As always when he held her, she’d managed to get her hands on his chest. Beneath them she felt the solid thud of his heartbeat. And the heat of his body. As always, her body hummed in response, even as she used those hands to lever some space between them.

  “I’m sorry. I keep doing this to you.” She batted at the dampness of his shirt, attempting to lighten the mood. “Not what you expected when you suggested we talk.”

  “It’s been a rough day.”

  “On top of not enough sleep.”

  “On top of waking up with a strange man in your bed.”

  That memory flooded her body with liquid heat. “And here we are again,” she murmured.

  “Yup. Here we are again.”

  This time there was no teasing in his voice, and she felt a new and dangerous tension…in the big body so close to hers, in the hands that still rested on her shoulders, pervading the air in their own tiny cocoon of firelight.

  “Not talking,” she murmured, “again.”

  A piece of firewood cracked and splintered, sending a trail of sparks into the darkness.

  He laughed, a dark, husky sound that caused the same trail of sparks in her blood. “Yeah, well, the last time I suggested you talk to me, it opened the floodgates.”

  True, but she’d been sidetracked by memories of Brooke. Now was the time to talk about their relationship. To explain everything she’d poured onto the pages of that letter. To explain why they could no longer do this.

  But when she tipped back her head, when she lifted her eyes and met the steady intensity of his gaze, she knew she’d left it too late.

  One of his hands cupped her face. His thumb stroked across her bottom lip.

  Olivia swallowed. “What are you doing?”

  “I hope I’m about to finish what we started this morning.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Just like that morning, Nic leaned into the kiss slowly, allowing her time to object. Instead, she came up on her elbows to close that last inch. One soft brush of her lips and fire shot through his veins.

  Slowly, he followed her down onto the mattress. Quickly he discovered the same blaze of longing in her eyes. They didn’t need to talk, not when they communicated so well with their bodies. He loved this spontaneity. He loved their compatibility. He loved that they could pick up this morning’s kiss right where it ended.

  It helped that they weren’t on horseback. And that her arms were looped around his neck, urging him nearer. With a hungry little sound, she opened her m
outh and took him inside. Nic might have died and gone to heaven.

  She tasted of coffee, warm and sharp and slightly bitter, but then he kissed her deeper until all that was left was Olivia. Hot, sweet and addictive. At the back of his mind he knew he should think about slowing down, easing off, pacing himself. But her use of the past tense kept pounding at his brain, and he felt an almost desperate need to imprint himself on her.

  To prove they belonged together.

  Only when he needed to breathe did he ease that first wild kiss, and then he didn’t go far. He sipped at her bottom lip, licked a line along her jawbone, kissed her throat.

  He rolled onto his side, far enough to unzip her swag. She didn’t object. Instead, she kicked the thick canvas flap aside.

  Her legs were bare, her shirt up around her hips. And Nic’s whole body throbbed with anticipation.

  There must have been a remnant dash of blood that hadn’t rushed south. Enough for him to think, steady, boy, instead of bunching that shirt in both hands and ripping it off her. Unbuttoning the damn thing seemed to take forever, which, in his current state equated to anything longer than five seconds.

  Maybe he voiced his frustration, because she laughed softly and—bless her sweet hide—helped him out.

  That smidgen of blood left in his brain steadied him again, urged him to rise up on one elbow to take in the full effect of her pale-skinned beauty in the firelight.

  She’d never looked more beautiful and, man, he wished he could find some words to tell her. But he’d never been slick with words, not when it mattered. He could joke and make her laugh. He could hold her and soothe her with murmured nothings.

  But what he felt when he looked at her sometimes…like now…he had no words.

  All he could do was show her. To worship every inch, every curve, every delicate slope, with hands, mouth and tongue.

  He kissed the dark tips of her breasts, the smattering of freckles across her chest, the fragile tracery of veins on the inside of her wrists and elbows. He nuzzled her belly and licked the slope of her flank. Then he started all over again, at her toes and working his way, slowly, thoroughly, up one leg and then the other.

  “Enough,” she whispered, coming up onto her elbows. “Enough.”

  “Not quite.”

  Nic kissed the inside of her thigh and heard her swift intake of breath. Felt the shiver of reaction in her flesh. He looked up and across the length of her naked body, their gazes linked and locked. Her eyes were dark and wild; the flames painted dancing shadows on her face and breasts. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Oh, yes,” Nic said. “I do.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Making her laugh wasn’t Nic’s only gift. He also knew when to get serious. Olivia closed her eyes and arched her back and pressed closer to the seriously carnal press of his mouth. His tongue, his lips, the gentle scrape of his teeth. It was almost too much, and then not enough.

  She wanted more. She wanted him. Inside her body. Now.

  But before she could say so, he changed the pressure and the sensations spinning through her body caught her off guard. He licked her again and her climax exploded, a hot and dizzying contrast to the cool wash of night air on her skin.

  She heard the thud of his discarded boots on the hard ground, and realized he’d remained fully dressed. That, she thought, might be a first. Usually she met him halfway, undressing him as he stripped her.

  By the time her world—and the whole night sky—stopped spinning and came into focus, he was naked except for protection.

  He rose above her and kissed the world back out of focus. She caught his face between her hands, wanting that anchor. Beneath her palms she felt the abrasive texture of stubble. Against her body she felt the hot slide of his skin, between her legs the steely heat of his erection.

  Something shifted in his kiss, in his eyes as he settled against her. She thought she tasted a sadness beneath the hunger, a quiet desperation, but realized the emotion was hers. Her acknowledgment that this was the last time. That she would never have this man again.

  She tore her mouth away, to tell him…to tell him what? That she would never forget him, always miss him, forever love him. But her words became a long exhalation, a sigh and a moan, a cry and a plea, as he slid into her body.

  Filling her with one long, hard thrust.

  Had it only been six months? It seemed like forever since Nic had felt the intense ripple of sensation as her body accepted him, welcomed him, opened to him. Forever since he’d looked into her eyes and felt that slam to his chest.

  The sense of yes, this is what I come home to. This woman, this emotion, this completion.

  He linked their fingers and held them high beside her head. “God, I’ve missed this, Liv. You, us, together.” Slowly, he started to move. “Every night I’m away I think about being with you.” Teasing her and torturing himself with restraint. “Like this. You beneath me. Me inside you.”

  He kissed her again, to show what he couldn’t say. To taste her passion, to take her ragged breaths into his mouth as he steadily built the rhythm.

  He released her hands. He wanted them on him, sliding over his back, her nails in his skin. He wanted his on her, palming her breasts, teasing her nipples until he took them into his mouth, one then the other, sucking until he saw the wild pressure building in her face again.

  Driving into her, touching her slick folds, until her choppy breathing gave way to the broken cry of her orgasm. Until he gave in to the raging need and followed her down.

  Afterward, he folded her close in his arms, protecting her desire-damp skin from the chill night air. And before he let sleep claim him, he held her even tighter against his chest and said, “I don’t know what you thought you were trying to say last night, when you told me about that letter. But we are definitely not ended.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nic made love to her again in the night, achingly slow, heartbreakingly thorough, as if he needed to drive home his message: We are definitely not ended. And Olivia believed what he told her with words and body. Always, in his bed, she believed. And then he would leave, for months at a time. That’s when the doubts set in.

  When the first rays of dawn spilled over the landscape, she slid out of his arms and into her clothes. She needed to think. She needed to work out if last night made any difference. If his words meant anything more than, Lord, I’ve missed the sex, honey.

  If we’re absolutely not ended meant we have a future beyond a string of hot weekends.

  She glanced across the dead remains of last night’s campfire to where Nic remained sound asleep. Even sleeping he looked strong and invulnerable. His own man, who needed no one and nothing but his flying.

  Her chest tightened with an almost unbearable heart-deep longing. If only the night had included some words of love, of hope, of a future, but Nic always sidestepped that topic. Fool that she was, she’d stayed on here, she’d made love to him, hoping that this time there would be more.

  I love you, instead of, I love sex with you.

  And would that make a difference? Would it matter if he loved her when he turned around and left again? Livvy pulled on her second boot and stared at the cold ashes of last night’s fire. Until he heard those words, until she looked into his eyes and saw that emotion, she just didn’t know.

  From on top of a rise a short walk from the hut, she watched the sunrise and Nic’s approach. Knowing what she had to say, her heart beat hard with nerves. He calmed them by sitting behind her and drawing her back between his knees. The morning was cold and she welcomed his body heat and the blanket he wrapped around them both.

  When he kissed her temple and snuggled her even closer, she bit back her it’s-time-to-talk opening. Instead, she said, “Not as colorful as the sunset, but dawn is nice in a quiet, unspectacular way.”

  Like the future direction she had chosen, away from Nic’s passion. Quiet and unspectacular.

  “Want to know how the local peo
ple believe the sun was made?”

  She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “Is this an Aboriginal dreamtime legend?”

  “Yup.” His lazy smile completely disarmed her, even as he started into the story. “For a long time there was no sun, only a moon and stars, and the only birds on earth were great big birds. One day the big emu and the big brolga were arguing, and the brolga completely lost it. She tossed one of the emu’s eggs into the sky where it broke and burst into flame and lit up the world.”

  She felt the warm drift of his breath near her ear. Then, “You light up my world, Liv.”

  Oh, God. Why did he have to say that now? Why did he have to make this a zillion times worse than it already felt?

  “Were you up here thinking about Brooke again?” he asked, as if he’d somehow detected her immense sadness.

  “No. I was thinking about sunrises and sunsets, actually. Beginnings and ends.”

  At her back she felt him go still. Tense. He’d read between the lines; she knew he’d guessed her meaning.

  “It’s time I explained,” she continued, “about the letter I wrote you and why I decided to take this job in America.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nic unwound his long legs and rose to his feet. In her mind’s eye, Olivia could picture him standing there, hands on hips, looking down at her. “What is this job?”

  “I’ll be a production assistant.”

  He huffed out a breath. “A production assistant for your ex.”

  Livvy looked up sharply. “That’s not why I got the job.” And this wasn’t a promising start to their dialogue. “Can we leave Grant out of this? Please? I made this decision—I wrote that letter to you—months before I bumped into him again. He’s irrelevant.”

  “Isn’t this whole conversation irrelevant? Given last night?”