upon her reaction to meeting him, he doubted he’d ever experience any of the things he’d like to experience about Cara, which was a real shame because she fascinated him. Probably because of his love of Preston. Probably.
If only he could convince himself of that.
He turned to leave but her hand grabbed his.
“Don’t go.”
Sloan stood perfectly still. Was she even awake or just reaching out in her sleep? He turned, met her sleepy gaze. “Cara?”
“I don’t want to be alone in this lonely house. Not tonight.” Her voice was small, almost childlike in its plea. “Please, don’t go.”
Sloan knew staying shouldn’t be an option. Not in Bloomberg. His Jeep was parked outside. Everyone knew his Jeep. Bloomberg was a small town. Nothing would happen. Not when she was so distraught, but, still, the right thing for him to do would be to leave, to not give gossips anything to gnaw upon.
But walking away from her might take a much stronger man than he’d ever claimed to be.
CARA CLUNG TO Sloan’s hand as if letting go would mean falling into an abyss she might never climb back out of.
She just might.
Goose bumps covered her skin. Her insides trembled. Her teeth fought chattering.
Which was crazy. The house wasn’t cold. Not really.
But she felt chilled all the way to her bones, had from the moment she’d lost contact with Sloan’s body heat when he’d laid her into her childhood bed. She’d suddenly felt more alone than she could recall ever feeling.
In his arms, and in the cocoon of her exhaustion, she’d felt warm, safe, not alone.
She’d not slept the night before, had tried, but the house haunted her, filling her mind with noises and memories of days gone past.
By the time she’d left for the funeral she’d been grateful for a reason to leave the ghostly haven.
She shivered again and grasped Sloan’s hand tighter as she felt his inner struggle on whether to go or stay. No wonder. She didn’t like him, hadn’t been receptive to any of his friendly overtures. Yet now she was begging him to stay as if he was the only thing protecting her from nighttime monsters.
He was.
“Don’t go,” she pleaded, grateful for the dim lights. She hated begging. She hated the thought of being alone in this house even more. “I need you.”
Still he wavered. “Are you sure, Cara? I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
Please. She rolled her eyes. Typical man. She just wanted him to ward off the ensuing nightmares and he thought she was offering sex.
Perhaps she couldn’t fault him for that because maybe her pleas had sounded as if she wanted more than what she’d meant.
“So long as you keep your clothes on, Casanova, and I keep on my clothes, you aren’t taking advantage. I just don’t want to be alone. Please, don’t make me.”
The dark shadows of the room didn’t hide him digesting her words. His expression confused, he looked down at where she held his hand. “Just so we’re clear, what is it you want from me, Cara?”
Her brain felt fuzzy and she almost said, “Everything.” But that was all wrong. All she wanted from him was the comfort of knowing another person was near, that she wasn’t really alone in this house, in the world. She needed human contact. Not him really. Just another human near to offer companionship, to ground her to reality.
“Just hold me and don’t let me go.”
He still looked torn. She wished she could read his mind to know his thoughts. But then his lips pursed and he gave one slight nod.
“I can do that.”
His answer seemed odd, but perhaps that was her fuzzy, fatigue and grief-laden brain talking. “I never thought you couldn’t.”
A small smile tugged at one corner of his lips. “I suspect you have a sharp tongue, Cara.”
If Cara weren’t so cold, feeling so emotionally bereft, if her eyelids weren’t so heavy, she might have smiled at his comment. Wasn’t that what her father had often said of her mother? That she’d had a tongue so sharp she could cut diamonds with a few well-chosen words? Odd. She hadn’t thought of that in years. Instead of acknowledging the memories flooding her, she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered again. “I’m so cold.”
Sloan sucked in a deep breath and crawled into the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms and cradling her next to his long, lean, warm body. “You won’t be for long, Cara. I promise.”
She wasn’t.
Instead, she closed her eyes and, although being in bed with him should have kept her wide-awake, she slept, peaceful in the knowledge that he was there.
Not only there but stroking her hair, telling her how sorry he was at her loss, at how her father had been a good man and would be sorely missed. His low, gentle voice soothed aches deep inside her. She snuggled closer into him, knowing that if she wakened and needed him, he would still be there for the simple reason that he’d said he would be.
Funny how much that thought comforted her when he was essentially a stranger and she didn’t like him.
Still, her father had liked him, trusted him, which was partially the problem. But in a moment of crisis that had to count for something.
In his arms was the only place she’d found any comfort since her entire world had turned upside down with a phone call he’d been the one to make.
Sloan lay very still, listening to the even sounds of Cara breathing. She’d gone right back to sleep. That was probably a good thing because no matter how many times he reminded his mind that this was a good deed, his body responded to her closeness in an all-male way.
He inhaled a slow whiff of the scent of her hair. Clean with a soft cherry flavor. That’s what she smelled like. Cherry blossoms.
Unable to resist, he ran his fingers into her hair, stroking the sweet softness of her tresses between his fingers.
What was he doing?
Sighing, he let go of her hair and wrapped his arm back around her body, holding her close.
She wriggled against him, causing torturous awareness to zing to life.
“I don’t like you,” she mumbled under her breath, so low he barely could make out what she said.
“I noticed,” he whispered back in resigned acknowledgement of her feelings toward him.
“Even if you are scorching hot and wear sex appeal like a second skin.”
Sloan’s
