Warrior by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

burnished orange flames leaped above the wood, sending heat into the room. With the competence of a man who has spent a lot of time cooking over open fires, Nevada went to work putting together a rich soup.
    When Nevada turned back to Eden, she had drifted into a feverish sleep. Frowning, Nevada sat on his heels next to her, watching her intently. Though Eden’s skin and lips were dry, she showed no sign of real dehydration. And while her color was chalky, it had none of the ash-gray or yellow tones of serious illness.
    When Nevada put his palm on Eden’s forehead, she made a murmurous sound and turned toward him as though seeking more of his touch.
    Baby whined and nudged his mistress.
    “She’ll be all right,” Nevada said, gently pushing the wolf’s long, narrow muzzle away from Eden’s cheek. “Let her sleep while I bring in the rest of the supplies. She won’t be hungry when I wake her up, but she’ll eat.”
    Eden slept on while Nevada came and went, emptying the truck and filling the cabin with the fragrance of food. She stirred several times when the sharp sounds of an ax striking wood came through the cabin’s log walls, but she didn’t awaken until Nevada pulled her half-upright across his lap, propped her against his chest and held a steaming mug of soup under her nose.
    “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”
    “Not
    beautiful,” she mumbled.
    Nevada disagreed, but he did it silently. “It’s just as well, honey. I’m no genteel prince with a magic kiss for you.”
    Eden grumbled sleepily about being disturbed, yet even as she complained she turned and snuggled against Nevada, trusting him as completely as Carolina had. Without intending to, Nevada found himself setting the soup aside and holding Eden close while one big hand smoothed over her hair and forehead and cheek. He told himself that he was simply seeing if her temperature had dropped, but he didn’t believe it. Nevada had never been very good at lying to himself.
    “If you’re not Sleeping Beauty,” he said in a deep voice, “you must be Little Red Riding Hood. Wakeup, Red.”
    Long, sable eyelashes stirred. Eyes that were green and gold and blue and gray, the color of every season, looked up at Nevada.
    “You don’t look like my grandmother.”
    “That’s because I’m the wolf.”
    “Goody,” Eden sighed, smiling and rubbing her cheek against Nevada’s bearded jaw. “I’ve always had a weakness for furry beasts.”
    “The weakness is in your head,” he retorted, his voice both hard and deep. He forced himself to turn away from the vulnerable spot just behind Eden’s ear. “Furry beasts always have sharp teeth to use on tempting little morsels like you.”
    “Sounds exciting,” she said, yawning. Then she made a sound of contentment and let her weight rest fully against Nevada. “Know something? You’re much more comfortable than my mattress.”
    Eden smiled dreamily and curled more deeply into Nevada’s lap. As she moved against him, the sleeping bag, extra blankets and coat slid off her shoulders, revealing the firm, curving lines of her breasts against the deep red of her ski underwear. When the chilly air seeped through red cloth, her nipples tightened.
    Nevada’s heartbeat hesitated for an instant before it resumed at a harder, quicker rate.
    “Damn it, Eden, sit up.”
    “Sheesh
    what a grouch.”
    Eden’s attempts to sit up involved bracing herself against Nevada. Fever and sleepiness made her clumsy. Her hands slipped and fumbled down the length of his torso before coming to rest on his hard thighs. Even harder male flesh rose insistently only a fraction of an inch away from her right hand.
    Nevada closed his eyes and told himself he was glad that Eden’s hand hadn’t come to rest a fraction of an inch to the left. He didn’t believe that lie, either.
    Her slim fingers braced themselves on the clenched power of Nevada’s thighs, but he sensed that Eden’s balance was still uncertain, that her hands were