Granite Man by Elizabeth Lowell

Cash saw both the heat in Mariah's cheeks and the trembling of her fingers as she handed him dry jeans without looking around.
     "Sorry," he said, taking the jeans from her and stepping into them. "In these days of co-ed dorms, I didn't think the sight of a man in underwear would embarrass you."
     "There's rather a lot of you," Mariah said in an elaborately casual voice, then put her face in her hands. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. It's just that you're bigger than most men and … and…"
     "Taller, too," Cash said blandly.
     Mariah made a muffled sound behind her hands, and then another.
     "You're laughing at me," he said.
     "No, I'm strangling on my feet."
     "Try putting them in your mouth only one at a time. It always works for me."
     Mariah gave up and laughed out loud. Smiling, Cash listened to her laughter glittering through the drumroll of rain on the roof. He was still smiling when he went down on one knee in front of the fire and stirred it into life.."
     "What do you say to an early dinner and a game of cards?" Cash asked.
     "Sure." What kind of game?"
     "Poker." Is there any other kind?"
     "Zillions. Canasta and gin and Fish and Old Maid and—"
     "Kid games," Cash interrupted, scoffing. He looked over his shoulder and saw Mariah watching him. "We're too old for that."
     The gleaming intensity of Cash's eyes made Mariah feel weak.
     "I just remembered something," she said faintly.
     "What?"
     "Never play cards with a man called Cash."
     "It doesn't apply. My name is Alexander."
     "I'm reassured."
     "Thought you would be."
     "I'm also broke."
     "That's okay. We'll play for things we have lots of."
     "Like what?"
     "Pine needles, smiles, puddles, kisses, raindrops, that sort of thing." Without waiting for an answer, Cash turned back to the fire. "How hot do you need it for trout? Or do you want to cook them over the camp stove?"
     Blinking, Mariah tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Cash couldn't have mentioned kisses, could he? She must have been letting her own longing guide her hearing down false trails.
     "Trout," she said tentatively.
     "Yeah. You remember. Those slippery little devils you cleaned." He smiled. "The look on your face… Never bet anything you mind losing, honey."
     Abruptly Mariah was certain she had heard his list of betting items very clearly, and kisses had definitely been one of them.
     And he had nearly gotten away with it.
     "Cash McQueen, you could teach slippery to a fish."
     He laughed out loud, enjoying Mariah's quick tongue. Then he thought of some other ways he would like to enjoy that tongue. The fit of his jeans changed abruptly. So did his laughter. He stood in a barely controlled rush of power and turned his back on Mariah.
     "You'll need light to cook," he muttered.
     He crossed the shack in a few long strides, ignoring the puddles, and yanked a pressurized gas lantern from its wall hook. He pumped up the lantern with short, savage strokes, ripped a wooden match into life on his jeans and lit the lantern. Light pulsed wildly, erratically, until he adjusted the gas feed. The lantern settled into a hard, bright light whose pulses were so subtle they were almost undetectable. He brought the lantern across the room and hung it on one of the many nails that cowhands had driven into the line shack's walls over the years.

 "Thank you," Mariah said uncertainly, wondering if Cash had somehow been insulted by being called slippery. But his laughter had been genuine. Then he had stopped laughing and that, too, had been genuine.
     With a muffled sigh Mariah concentrated on preparing dinner. While she worked, Cash prowled the six-foot-by-nine-foot shack, putting pans and cups and other containers under the worst leaks. Rain hammered down with the single-minded ferocity of a high-country storm. Although it was hours from sunset, the light level dropped dramatically. Except for occasional violent flashes of lightning, the hearth and lantern became