Page 80 of West Wind

Bart stepped aside, and Travis’s eyes landed on Annabelle. He relaxed when he saw her. “Jesus, Annie. You scared the hell out of me. You’re supposed to be in bed.”

She smiled faintly. “I was looking for you.”

Travis didn’t spare a glance for Dorothea, or for Bart. He crossed the room to Annabelle and took her hand. “Let’s go. Back to bed with you.”

“I feel much better, really,” she insisted even as he bent to pick her up. “You don’t have to carry me.” But she smiled as he lifted her and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Travis finally turned to Bart and Dorothea with Annabelle in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder. “Hello, Thea,” he said, giving her a halfhearted glance. “Bart.” He glared, a little. “Later.”

With that Travis turned his back on them and strode away with Annabelle in his grasp as if it were an ordinary, everyday occurrence to carry her from place to place. Near the doorway he lowered his head to whisper in Annabelle’s ear. In response she laughed, low and intimate, while she swung one foot lazily in the air.

Bart maintained his composure, but it was difficult. He couldn’t have choreographed it better himself. Dorothea fumed. Travis had all but ignored her. Annabelle had been gorgeous and enchanting, and it was clear Travis didn’t have eyes for anyone else.

He followed as Dorothea stormed from the room, moments after Travis and Annabelle disappeared from sight. From the foyer they heard heavy footsteps in the upstairs hallway, then the sound of a door being kicked shut.

With her hand on the doorknob, Dorothea turned to face him. “Tomorrow, Bartholomew.” It was clear she’d taken Annabelle’s presence as a challenge.

“Eightish?” he asked blandly, even though his emotions were in turmoil. Annabelle might be winning, but Dorothea was not one to be dismissed lightly. She was a shrewd, calculating woman.

After a moment of faltering, she’d regained her composure. Annabelle had taken her by surprise this afternoon, but tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, Dorothea would be prepared.

“I’ve waited too long for Travis to come home to allow some little twit to steal him away,” she said coldly. Then she smiled at him confidently. “See you tomorrow, Bartholomew.”

Her smile chilled him to the bone. What had he done?

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Annabelle opened her eyes, suddenly wide awake. The big house was completely quiet. She turned her head to the side and there he was, sleeping in the chair by the window, the moonlight behind Shelley casting soft light over his tawny hair. Her dreamcatcher was propped in that window, its weblike form eerie in the moonlight.

He insisted on staying with her, though whenever she commanded it he reluctantly left the room. When she woke he was there, having slipped in quietly while she slept.

As she watched he turned his head so the moonlight hit his face. A muscle twitched in his cheek. The smile that had stolen over her face as she watched him faded, and she swung her bare legs over the side of the bed. She still slept in one of his old shirts. It was long on her, falling to her knees, and was more comfortable than any nightdress she’d ever worn, cool, open at the neck, loose and soft.

She stood over him for a moment, watching. He was restless. His mouth was twisted into a frown and his eyes moved frantically beneath their lids.

“Shelley,” she whispered, crawling into his lap, her legs dangling from the arm of the padded chair, her arms snaking around his neck. She pressed her lips to his cheek, then rubbed her cheek gently against the bristles there. “Wake up,” she whispered again.

He came awake slowly, not startled or jumpy as she’d expected. His arms found their way around her as if it were the most natural thing in the world to wake and find her in his lap, kissing his cheek, whispering his name.

“You were having a bad dream.” She snuggled against his chest. Where she belonged.

“I was?” Shelley leaned back his head and closed his eyes. He was going to miss her too damn much. “I don’t remember.” It was true he could recall nothing of the nightmare that had plagued him. He only knew that he hadn’t slept well in the house of his birth since Sarah had died here. If he’d believed in ghosts, even a little, he would’ve thought himself haunted by his little sister.

Annie slithered up, kissing the base of his throat and the side of his neck with faint brushes of her lips. She slid her arms down from his neck and started unbuttoning his shirt. Her lips traveled up his neck to his strong jaw and finally to his mouth.

Her lips on his were like an electric shock; the skin on his chest burned where her fingers played. “What are you doing?” he whispered when she pulled her lips away from his to kiss his bare torso.

“If you don’t know I must be doing something wrong,” she breathed huskily. “Make love to me, Shelley.”

“Dammit.” He jumped out of the chair with her in his arms. “Don’t do this to me.” He tried to drop her onto the bed, but she refused to unlock the arms which held him firmly around the neck.

“I’m not trying to do anything to you. I’m trying to do something with you.” She held her face close to his. “I can’t believe you don’t want it, too.”

He tried again, and failed, to deposit her on the bed. “You’ve been sick.”

“I’m all better.”

“Everything’s different…”