storm.” He shivered violently. “Is it always so cold in here?”
“There’s no central heat. Just the wood-burning stove and the fireplace,” she said.
As he opened the door, a chilly wind swirled through the kitchen. “Rourke,” she called. “Your name is Rourke, isn’t it?”
He turned and smiled. “Rourke Quinn.” With that, he walked outside.
Annie sat up and swung her legs off the bed. Her head hurt, but she wasn’t dizzy or confused. Well, maybe a little, but that was more from having a handsome man in her house than the wound on her head. She slipped off her shoes and socks. Standing beside the bed, she gingerly skimmed the wet jeans down over her hips and kicked them aside.
Shivering, she grabbed the pajama bottoms and tugged them on, then crawled beneath the faded handmade quilts on the bed. Drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes. She led a rather lonely existence, but she’d never really regretted her choice of a simple life—until now.
This was the only home she’d ever known. After her parents passed away, her grandmother had taken her in. From that moment on, her life had changed. She’d been allowed to roam free, without any rules or expectations. She ate when she was hungry, slept when she was tired and in between, explored every inch of the land that surrounded her home.
For a young girl who struggled to communicate, it was the perfect life. Her friends were wild animals and sea creatures, clouds and trees, the wonderful, vibrant natural world waiting just outside the door of the light keeper’s cottage. They didn’t care whether her words came out in fits and starts. She lived her life in her fantasies, where she had friends, where people thought she was beautiful and clever, and where her stammer didn’t exist.
It was odd. Annie had imagined that someone would someday rescue her from her lonely existence. And her white knight had always looked exactly like Rourke Quinn. From the moment he’d defended her against the town bullies, he’d become her hero. And now, here he was, coming to her rescue again. Only she wasn’t a child anymore. She was a twenty-five-year-old woman.
Over the years, her fantasies had given way to a simple reality. She was alone and no one was coming to ease her loneliness. So she’d accepted her life as it was and learned to be happy.
Maybe it seemed strange to others on the island, but it was a life she’d come to enjoy, even love. She had her paintings and her poetry and plenty of time for her own thoughts. Still, she couldn’t deny that she was grateful for the company, especially with the approaching storm.
It wasn’t just because he was handsome or sexy or even a tiny bit dangerous. Annie had weathered storms in the past and they’d always left her shaken, filled with bad memories of her parents’ deaths. Perhaps if she had someone with her during the worst of it, it wouldn’t be so traumatic.
The door flew open and Rourke stepped back inside, his arms loaded with firewood. He strode to the hearth and carefully stacked the wood on the stone apron. Then, he tossed a few birch logs onto the flickering embers. A moment later, flames licked at the white bark.
He sat back on his heels and stared into the fire. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Better,” she said. “Thank you. For rescuing me.”
He turned to look at her and she took in the details of his face. There was something so kind about his eyes, even set in an expression that seemed less than happy. “You should go. You don’t want to be caught out here when the storm rolls in.”
“I have some tools in my truck,” he said. “The wind is supposed to be bad. I’m going to get your shutters squared away and then I’ll leave.”
“You don’t have to—”
“No, I’m not sure I could leave you here without making this place a little safer.”
“It’s held up to almost a hundred years of storms. I’m sure it will hold up to one more,” Annie said.
“I’m not so sure,” Rourke replied. “This is supposed to be a bad one.”
Annie shrugged. “I can’t stop it from coming, so worrying about the wind never did much good. Whatever will happen, will happen.”
He gave her an odd look. “How is your head? Are you confused?”
Annie pulled the towel away. “I think it’s stopped bleeding.”
“Just stay put,” he said. “Lie down and rest. Do you want me to light the stove? I could make you a cup of tea.”
“No, I’ll be fine.” She paused. “Why are you doing this, Rourke Quinn?”
“Because no one else seems to be worried about you,” he said. He went to the door and stepped outside.
How long had it been since she’d thought about him? When had she let go of that fantasy? Annie hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him—and her fantasies—until now. But something had changed. Her fantasies were now much more—erotic.
She sank back into the down pillows and stared up at the ceiling, smiling to herself. Now that she had him here, what would she do with him?
She hadn’t been completely isolated over the years. There had been men who wandered in and out of her life, usually in the summer months when the population of the island swelled from the tourists. There had been a fellow artist a few years back who had come to paint her lighthouse and ended up staying until the first frost. And then the guy from the coast guard who came to check the light every three months. They’d occasionally indulged in a night of pleasure after a few glasses of wine.
What would it take to get Rourke to stay for the night? Would he be so easy to seduce? Annie groaned softly. She’d come to the realization that most single men were quite willing to indulge, especially when there were no strings attached. But not all of them understood her rather unconventional thoughts about sex.
So yes, she’d lived a very simple life since she was a child. Left without a means of support, she’d managed to eke out an existence in a house that had no phone, no electricity and very crude plumbing. She didn’t own a television or a computer.
Annie understood exactly what was necessary to sustain life. She ate a simple and natural diet, supplemented occasionally with fish or crab or oysters she gathered herself, and eggs from a local farmer. Her clothes weren’t purchased for beauty but for functionality and durability. And her men, well, they were chosen to satisfy a very natural and powerful need. Like everything else in her life, sex, and the intimacy it brought, was essential to her existence. Like water...or oxygen...or warmth.
Reaching for the book on her bedside table, Annie tried to distract herself by reading. But it was impossible to think about anything but Rourke. She listened as he moved from window to window, closing the shutters and then fastening them with screws. As the last of the natural light disappeared, she crawled from the bed and began to light the kerosene lamps scattered around the room.
He left the two windows on the porch uncovered, probably choosing to wait until the wind got worse. Then she heard his truck start. Frowning, Annie crawled out of bed and hurried to the door, wondering if he’d chosen to leave after all. But just as she reached the door, it swung open again, nearly hitting her in the face. Kit, her dog, slipped in ahead of him.
“What
