Temptation Ridge (Virgin River #6)(75)

And then he heard her giggle. “Someone’s going to have to wipe up the floor…”

“Hmm.”

“Luke Riordan, you’re in a bubble bath.”

“Yeah,” he said, breathless.

“What would people think? Big, tough, womanizing Black Hawk pilot, in a bubble bath.”

“You better not tell or you’ll be punished,” he said, still catching his breath.

She giggled again. “That might be interesting. I never know what you’ll come up with next.”

Late in the night, long after dinner and some time in front of the fire, Luke was lying in bed, his head propped on a hand, staring down at the sleeping form of Shelby. She was curled on her side, her beautiful, smooth back and perfect bottom against him, and he could see her profile. She slept like a baby, content, peaceful and drunk on sex.

He had known from the moment he saw her that she was dangerous, but he’d had no idea how lethal. She had pulled feelings to the surface that he thought he’d been in control of and now it was here—he felt it all and he was completely lost. Terrified. He adored her. He couldn’t stand the thought of this ending.

He had felt something almost this deep and powerful once before, when he was much younger. He had been twenty-four when he found the beautiful, raven-haired Felicia. In her arms, in her body, he had come to life. He’d never fallen so hard before, and certainly not since. He had been surprised by the passion and commitment he felt, but he let it sweep him away. He loved her hard for a year, and then he had to leave on a mission. He went to Somalia. When the conflict was at its worst, it was her face in his mind that helped him get through, gave him purpose, something strong and powerful to fight for. He had pledged his life to her; he was going to love her till the day he died.

When he got home he found out it had all been a lie; she had never been his. She’d been unfaithful since before he left; she cut him loose the first day he was back. It had been an ugly, bitter parting that left everyone scarred—mostly him.

To say his heart was ripped apart didn’t touch it. For a couple of years at least the pain was so bad he thought it might kill him. When the pain stopped, he was empty inside. He made a firm resolution: that would never happen to him again. His involvement with women was purely recreational from that point on. He wasn’t about to be vulnerable to a woman, open himself to that kind of pain.

Yet beside him, all gentle and sweet, was an incredible woman. He wanted to pull her into his arms, tell her how much he loved her, how far he’d go to make her happy, beg her to either change her plans or include him.

But he wouldn’t. It was too risky. Another deal like the last one would kill him. He wouldn’t give his heart.

The problem was, without meaning to, without wanting to, he had.



Walt Booth had watched the evolution of Muriel’s renovation for almost six months; he’d helped with some of it, but she was extremely protective of her work and wanted to be able to take credit for doing it herself. As he witnessed, he learned a few things. One—gutting and remodeling, upgrading, modernizing, might be expensive, but it was easy. And such houses, like his, were a dime a dozen. All you needed was money and a builder. What Muriel was doing—restoring it to its former pristine beauty—was an art. Well—it was largely restored. She had new appliances and wasn’t about to be sitting on spindly settees or sleeping on a hundred-year-old mattress. She couldn’t wait to get her flat-screen TV, stereo and DVD equipment, all of which would be kept in antique wardrobes.

It was mid-November when she called him and said, “What are you doing?”

“I’m babysitting while Vanni runs into town. She’ll be back soon. Why?”

“I want you to come over,” Muriel said. “As soon as you can.”

She never had to ask him twice. When he pulled up, she was all bundled up and standing on the porch of the big house, waiting. Her hands were plunged into her pockets, she was stamping her booted feet and her breath was swirling in steam around her.

He got out of the Tahoe. “What’s the matter?” he asked, walking toward her.

Her face lit up in that brilliant smile of hers. “Matter? God, nothing! Walt—it’s done. Done.”

Muriel had the upstairs finished to her satisfaction at least a couple of months ago, but she’d never moved out of the refurbished bunkhouse; she hadn’t wanted to move that furniture out and live in a mostly empty house when she was perfectly comfortable where she was. She just kept working away.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready,” he said.

She swung open the front door and he was standing right in a living room—no fancy foyers in old farmhouses. The dark wood floor gleamed; the baseboards and crown molding were the same dark, varnished color. She’d needed his help to lift the heavy sections of crown molding, but she’d fit it herself, using her very own circular saw. The walls, textured by her own hand, were painted green. The banister had been stained and varnished to match the walnut trim and molding, and the wall of the open staircase was a dark beige, the ceilings a lighter beige. Straight ahead, the same color scheme as the living room, the dining room was framed by a walnut arch. She must have recently installed the sheer, lacy curtains that were pulled back from the windows. The hearth was framed in the original, thick dark wood mantel.