last-ditch time to say how sorry she was. To make things right.
It had been useless. Her family wouldn’t interrupt their fighting to listen. It was her fault.
Her fault, her fault, her fault.
Terrific. She was surrounded by a cyclone, she had a badly injured guy stuck in her cave—and she was dwelling on past nightmares.
Think of current nightmares.
Think of Jake.
She’d given some fast reassurance to Ben, but, in truth, the last radio report she’d heard before communications had been cut had been appalling. The cyclone had decimated the yachting fleet, and the reporter she’d heard had been talking of multiple deaths.
There’d been an interview with the head of the chopper service and he’d been choked with emotion.
‘The last guy...we came so close... We thought we had him but, hell, the wind... It just slammed everything. The whole crew’s gutted.’
The last guy...
Was that Ben’s Jake?
She had no way of knowing, and there was no way she was passing on such a gut-wrenching supposition to Ben.
She felt...useless.
‘But I did save him,’ she told herself, and Heinz nosed out to see what was going on; whether it might be safe enough for a dog to find a tree.
Not. A gust blasted across the cliff in front of them; he whimpered and backed inside.
‘You and Ben,’ Mary muttered. ‘Wussy males.’
She glanced back into the cave. All was dark. All was well.
She hoped. She still had no way of telling whether Ben’s leg was fractured or, worse, if that crack on his head had been severe enough to cause subdural haemorrhaging. What if she walked back in and he was dead?
She walked back in and he was asleep, breathing deeply and evenly, with Heinz nuzzling back down against him.
What to do?
What was there to do? Sit by the fire and imagine subdural bleeding or twins falling from ropes into a cyclone-ravaged sea? Think of home, her family, the past that had driven her here?
Or do what she’d been doing for the last few weeks?
She lit a fat candle. Between it and the fire she could sort of see.
She shoved a couple of cushions behind her, she tucked a blanket over her legs, she put her manuscript on her knees and she started to write.
The door to the bar swung open.
She glanced at the sleeping guy not six feet from her.
He was six foot three or four, lean, mean, dangerous. His deep grey eyes raked every corner of the room.
Could he tell she was a werewolf?
She grinned. Hero or villain? She hadn’t figured which but it didn’t matter. There was a nice meaty murder about to happen in the room upstairs. A little blood was about to drip on people’s heads. Maybe a lot of blood. She wasn’t sure where Ben Logan would fit but he’d surely add drama.
‘Call me Logan,’ he drawled...
She thought maybe she’d have to do a search and replace when she reached the end. Maybe calling a character after her wounded sailor wasn’t such a good idea.
But for now it helped. For now her villain/hero Logan could keep the storm at bay.
There was nothing like a bit of fantasy when a woman needed it most.
* * *
He woke, and she was heating something on the fire.
That’s what had woken him, he thought. The smell was unbelievable. Homey, spicy, the smell of meat and herbs filled the cave.
He stirred and winced and she turned from the fire and smiled at him. Outside was black. No light was getting in now. Her face was lit by flickering firelight and one candle.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Dinner?’
He thought about it for a nanosecond or less. ‘Yes, please.’
‘You can have the bowl. I’ll use the frying pan. I wasn’t anticipating guests. Would you like to sit up a little?’
‘Um...’
She grinned. ‘Yeah, I’m guessing what you need before food. Are you ready to admit I might be a nurse and therefore useful? If I’d known I’d have brought a bedpan.’
He sighed. ‘Mary...’
‘Mmm?’
‘Can you hand me my clothes?’
‘Knickers is all,’ she said. ‘The rest are still wet.’ She handed him his boxers—and then had second thoughts. She tugged back the quilt and slid his boxers over his feet before he realised what she intended.
‘Lift,’ she ordered, and he did, and he felt about five years old.
She was still scantily dressed, too, in knickers, bra and T-shirt.
Her T-shirt was damp. He shouldn’t notice.
He noticed.
‘So it’s okay for you to stay cold but not me?’ he managed.
‘That’s the one.’ She was helping him to stand, levering herself under his shoulder, taking his weight.
‘Mary?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Hand me my stick. I can do this.’
‘In your dreams.’
‘Not in my dreams,’ he said. ‘For real. I won’t take your help.’
‘This is Smash ’em Mary you’re talking to. I’m tough.’
‘This is a five-feet-five-inch runt I’m talking to. Let me be.’
‘You want to sign an indemnity form so if you fall down the cliff it’s not my fault?’
‘It’s not your fault. How could it be your fault?’
‘Of course it could be,’ she said, and there was a sudden and unexpected note of bitterness beneath her words. ‘Somehow it always is.’
* * *
He managed. He got outside and in again. He almost made it back to his makeshift bed but he had to accept help for the last couple of yards.
