"Oh, I see. You can take the boy out of the newsroom… That's nice," she said, and walked over to where the wood was beginning to crackle and spark.
"There's another fireplace upstairs." He took her bag and gestured toward the steps that led to the loft.
The second floor held one large bedroom that echoed the simple furnishings of the main room. A sitting area in front of a window contained a love seat in deep hunter green, another rocker, a low pine table and a three-footed stool. The gleaming brass bed was covered with burgundy corduroy and faced a small stone fireplace. There was a pine dresser and a roomy armoire.
"Bath's through there." Finn indicated the door with a nod of his head as he crouched to set the fire.
Curious, Deanna nudged the door open. Staring, she stood on the threshold unsure whether to laugh or applaud. Although the rest of the cabin might have reflected rustic elegance, in the bathroom, Finn had gone for dramatic.
The ebony, oversized tub was fitted with jets and surrounded by a ledge that snugged against a wide window. The separate shower was constructed of glass block and white tile. The wall over the sink was mirrored and hugged by a long counter of black-and-white tiles, as neat as a chessboard. A portable television sat on it, facing the tub.
"Some bathroom."
"If you're going to relax," Finn commented as he rose, "you might as well relax."
"No TV in the bedroom?"
Finn opened one door of the armoire. There, atop a trio of drawers, was the blank eye of a television screen. "There's a shortwave in the drawer of the nightstand." When she laughed, he held out a hand. "Come down and keep me company while I cook dinner."
"You, ah, didn't bring your bags up," she said as they started down.
"There's another bedroom downstairs." "Oh." She felt the tension dissolve, even as she was pricked by regret.
He stopped at the base of the steps, turned, put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her lightly. "Okay?"
She rested her brow against his a moment. "Yes," she said. "Okay."
And it was, sitting at the breakfast bar putting a salad together while Finn sliced potatoes into thin strips for frying, listening to the high March wind blow through the evergreens and tap at the windows. It was easy, relaxing in the country kitchen while potatoes fried and chicken grilled and laughing at his stories of adventures in the marketplaces in Casablanca.
All the while the kitchen TV murmured, keeping the world in the background, and somehow making the atmosphere they shared more intimate.
The room was warm and cozy, with dark curtaining the windows and candles flickering on the kitchen table. "It's wonderful," she told him after another bite of chicken. "You're as good as Bobby Marks."
"And I'm cuter."
"Well, you've got more hair. I suppose I should offer to cook tomorrow."
"That depends." He curled his fingers around hers, grazed his teeth over her knuckles. "How are you at broiling fresh fish?"
"Is that what's on the menu?"
"If our luck holds. We should be able to pull a couple out of the lake in the morning."
"In the morning?" She blinked. "We're going fishing in the morning?"
"Sure. What do you think I brought you up here for?" When she laughed he shook his head. "Kansas, you don't understand the master plan. After we've dropped line together for a couple of hours, pulled in trout together, cleaned them—"
"Cleaned them?"
"Sure. After all that, you won't be able to resist me. The excitement, the passion, the elemental sexuality of fishing will have overwhelmed you."
"Or will have bored me senseless." "Have a little faith. There's nothing like man — or woman — against nature to stir up the juices."
"That's quite a plan." She tipped back in her chair, amazingly relaxed. "Have you had much success with it?"
He only grinned and topped off their wine. "Want to look at my lures?"
"I don't think so. You can surprise me tomorrow."
"I'll wake you up at five."
The glass froze an inch from her lips. "At five? A.m.?"
"Dress warm," he warned her.
Deanna had been certain she'd be restless, had been sure her nerves would resurface the moment the house was quiet around her. But the instant she'd snuggled under the blankets, she'd dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep. A sleep that was rudely disturbed by a hand shaking her shoulder.
She opened her eyes, blinked into the dark and closed them again.
"Come on, Kansas, rise and shine." "Is there a war?" she mumbled into the pillow.
"There's a fish with your name on it," Finn told her. "Coffee'll be ready in ten minutes."
She sat up, blinked again and was able to make out his silhouette beside the bed. And she could smell him — soap and damp skin. "How come you have to catch fish at dawn?"
"Some traditions are sacred." He leaned down, unerringly finding her warm, sleepy mouth with his. Her sigh of response had his muscles tightening, and his mind skidding toward an entirely different morning activity. "You'll want that long underwear I told you to pack." He cleared his throat, forced himself to step back before he gave up and crawled under the blankets with her. "It'll be cold out on the lake."
He left her huddled in bed. He hadn't slept well. Big surprise, Finn thought wryly. She needed time, he reminded himself. And care. And patience. What she didn't need was for him to unstrap the desire that was clawing inside of him. It would frighten her, he was sure, if she understood just how much he wanted.
It very nearly frightened him.
There was fog on the lake. Light fingers of it tore like cotton in the breeze and muffled the sound of the boat's motor. In the east the sky was struggling to light, and the silver sun glanced off the mist, hinting at rainbows. She could smell water and pine, and the soap from Finn's shower. Deanna sat at the bow of the small boat, her hands resting on her knees, the collar of her jacket turned up against the chill.
"It's beautiful." Her breath puffed out in smoke. "Like we're the only ones around for miles."
"The Senachwine gets plenty of campers and hikers." He cut the engine and let the boat drift on water as calm as glass. "We've probably got company on the lake already."
"It's so quiet." But she did hear, in the distance, the putt of another engine, the call of a bird and the faint lap of water against the hull.
"That's the best thing about fishing." After dropping anchor, he handed her a rod. "You can't rush it. You can't crowd it. All you have to do is sit in one spot and let your mind rest."
"Let your mind rest," she repeated.
"What we're doing here is float fishing," he began. "It takes more finesse than bait fishing."
"Right."
"No sarcasm, please. It's an art." "Art? Really."
"The art," Finn continued, "is to lay the float gently on the surface so that it entices the fish as you skillfully reel it back."
Deanna glanced up from her study of the pretty lures and looked out over the water. "I don't see any fish."
"You will. Trust me. Now you're going to cast the line out. It's all in the wrist."
"That's what my father always says about horseshoes."
"This is every bit as serious." He moved surefootedly to her end of the boat.
"Horseshoes are serious?"
"Christ, Deanna, don't you know anything? When a man needs to relax, to unwind, it doesn't mean he doesn't want competition."
She grinned when he shifted her hands on the rod. "My father would like you."
"Sounds like a sensible man. Now keep your hands firm, wrists supple." He steadied her, casting the line out so that it landed with a quiet plop in the still waters. Ripples ringed magically around the lure, spreading, delighting her.