“That’s nice.”
“I mean it.” The brandy and his own weakened system were taking over. Because his mind felt as if it had been fried in a solar blast, he didn’t fight it. She had little trouble easing him into bed. But his arm stayed around her shoulders long enough to keep her close, just close enough to brush his lips over hers. “The very best.”
She jerked back like a spring. He was asleep, and her blood was pounding.
***
Who was Caleb Hornblower? The question interrupted Libby’s work throughout the evening. Her interest in the Kolbari Islanders didn’t even come close to her growing fascination with her unexpected and confusing guest.
Who was he, and what was she going to do about him? The trouble was, she had a whole list of unanswered questions that applied to her odd patient, Caleb Hornblower. Libby was a great listmaker, and a woman who knew herself well enough to be aware that all her organizational talents were eaten up by her work.
Who was he? Why had he been flying through a storm at midnight? Where did he come from and where had he been going? Why had a simple paperback novel sent him into a panic? Why had he kissed her?
Libby pulled herself up short there. That particular question wasn’t important—it wasn’t even relevant. He hadn’t really kissed her, she reminded herself. And whether he had or hadn’t wasn’t the issue. It was gratitude, she decided, and began to nibble on her thumbnail. He’d only been trying to show her that he was grateful to her. Libby certainly understood that a kiss was—could be—a very casual gesture. It was part of Western culture. Over the centuries it had become as unimportant as a smile or a handshake. It was a sign of friendship, affection, sympathy, gratitude. And desire. She bit down harder on her nail.
Not all societies used the kiss, of course. Many tribal cultures... She was lecturing again, Libby thought in disgust. She looked down at her hands. And she was biting her nails. That was a bad sign.
What she needed was to get her mind off Hornblower for a while and fill her stomach. Pressing a hand to it, Libby rose. She wasn’t going to get any work done this way, so she might as well eat.
Since Caleb’s room was dark, she passed it by, telling herself she’d check on him when she came back up. Sleep was undoubtedly more essential to his recovery than another meal.
There was a low rumble of thunder as she descended the stairs. Another bad sign, she thought. At this rate it would be days before she could get him down the mountain.
Perhaps someone was already looking for him. Friends, family, business associates. A wife or a lover. Everyone had someone.
She groped for the kitchen light as the sky cracked with the first bolt of lightning. It was going to be another boomer, she decided as she opened the refrigerator door. Finding nothing that appealed to her, she rummaged through the cupboards. A night like this called for a nice bowl of soup and a seat by the fire.
Alone.
She sighed a little as she opened the can. Recently she’d begun to think about being alone. As a scientist she knew the reason. She lived in a culture of couples. Single—unmatched, she remembered with a quick smile—single men and women often found themselves dissatisfied and depressed in their own company. The entertainment media subtly—and not so subtly—drilled into them the pleasures of relationships. Families added pressure for the single to marry and continue the family line. Good-natured friends offered help and advice, generally unwanted, on finding a mate. The human being was programmed, almost from birth, to search for and find a companion of the opposite sex.
Maybe that was why she’d resisted. An interesting analysis, Libby mused as she stirred the soup. The desire for individuality and self-sufficiency had been ingrained in her from birth. It would take a very special person to tempt her to share. She had dated only rarely in high school. The same pattern had held true in college. She’d had no interest.
That wasn’t precisely true, she thought. She had had interest—the trouble was, it had usually been scientific. She’d never met a man who dazzled her enough to stop her from making lists and forming hypotheses. Professor Stone, they’d called her in high school. And it still rankled. In college she’d been considered a professional virgin. She’d detested that, had struggled to ignore it, pouring her energy into her studies. The appeal of her personality had made her friends, both male and female. But intimate relationships were another matter.
When all the data had been analyzed, there had never been one who had made her... well, yearn, Libby decided. That was the appropriate term.
She supposed there wasn’t a man on the planet who could make her yearn.
Wooden spoon in hand, she turned to take out a bowl. For the second time she saw Cal framed in the doorway. She gave a muffled shriek, and the spoon went flying. A flash of lightning lit up the room. Then it was plunged into darkness.
“Libby?”
“Damn it, Hornblower, I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Her voice was breathless as she rummaged through drawers for a candle. “You scared the life out of me.”
“Did you think I was one of the mutants from Andromeda?” There was a dry tone to the words that had her wrinkling her nose.
“I told you I don’t read that stuff.” She closed a drawer on her thumb, swore, then wrenched open another. “Where are the stupid matches?” She turned and bumped solidly into his chest in the dark. Lightning flashed again, illuminating his face. It took only that instant for her mouth to go dry. He’d looked stunning, strong and dangerous.
“You’re shaking.” His voice had gentled almost imperceptibly, but the hands on her shoulders stayed firm. “Are you really frightened?”
“No, I...” She wasn’t a woman to be scared of the dark. Certainly she wasn’t a woman to be afraid of a man—intellectually speaking. But she was shaking. The hands that had reached up to his bare chest trembled—and intellect had nothing to do with it. “I need to find the matches.”
“Why did you turn the lights off?” She smelled wonderful. In the cool, unrelieved darkness he could concentrate on her scent. It was light and almost sinfully feminine.
“I didn’t. The storm knocked out the power.” His fingers tightened on her arms, hard enough to make her gasp. “Caleb?”
“Cal.” Lightning flashed again, and she saw that his eyes had darkened. He was staring out the window into the storm now. “People call me Cal.”