Something akin to panic swirled in his chest. He didn't know how to deal with tears. His instincts told him to walk away. But with Addison, he knew he couldn't. He wanted to comfort, to protect, though he wasn't quite sure how to approach this angry, hurting woman. The only thing he was certain of was that he wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her and make her pain go away.
Cautiously, he reached for her, feeling her stiffen an instant before he turned her to him and pulled her close. His arms went around her. Her head fell against his shoulder. The clean, sweet scent of her filled his nostrils and titillated his senses.
When her arms went around his waist, he closed his eyes, rested his head against hers, and forgot about everything except the moment between them. She felt like heaven against him. Soft and small and ... precious. He was acutely aware of her warmth, her scent, the way her body conformed to his with such utter perfection.
"Go ahead and cry if you need to," he said.
"I didn't want to lose it like this." She sniffed. "I hate crying."
"You're entitled."
"I didn't realize how hard this would be."
"You don't have to hold it in. Not for me. Not for yourself."
A sigh shuddered out of her. "Thank you."
"As long as you realize I'm a little out of my element here."
She choked out a laugh: "You're doing a good job. The hug is a nice touch."
Uncomfortable, he shrugged, wishing she'd stop looking so damn sad. "We need to talk about what we found today."
"And what we're going to do about it." She gazed up at him, tears glittering in her eyes.
He stared at her, willing himself not to want her when she was at her most vulnerable. Lust, he thought, shifting from one foot to the other to accommodate the ache in his groin.
It's just lust.
Damn, lust had never done this to him before.
Giving himself a mental shake, Randall reminded himself that she wasn't the only one who was vulnerable at the moment. His life wasn't exactly in order. He couldn't let himself get tangled up with a woman and spend the next year pining for her from D.C.
Chapter 12
"I found soup!” Bent over a large corrugated moving box, Addison snatched up the can and waved it.
"What kind?"
She looked up and spotted Randall stacking the last of the firewood next to the hearth. "No label." Twisting the manual can opener, she walked into the living room and sniffed the open can. "Chicken noodle, I think."
He grinned. "I was hoping for alphabet soup."
"Sorry." It wasn't easy rummaging through the boxes she'd packed at the height of her grief. Her heart clenched each time she ran across an item that stirred even the smallest of memories. The wicker napkin holder she and her mother had bought at a nearby antique shop. The electronic chess set that had kept her father entranced for hours while she and her mother had cried buckets over Titanic.
Shaking off the memories, she looked up to see Randall pull an old cast-iron skillet out of a box. He hit her with a devastating grin. "Will this do?"
Unable to keep herself from it, she grinned back. "Perfect."
Despite the mussed black hair and five o'clock shadow, he looked almost domesticated standing there in his jeans, T-shirt, and gray flannel shirt. He was too damn handsome for his own good, she decided. Granted, a little rough around the edges. Edges could be smoothed with just the right touch.
Knowing they were dangerous thoughts leaping through .her mind, she carried the soup to the hearth, with its furiously burning fire, where Randall was digging through another box.
"Some spoons would be nice," he said, setting a toaster aside.
"Or we could just slurp."
They spotted the unopened bottle of cognac simultaneously. Randall froze, staring at it. His hands gripped the sides of the box so tightly his knuckles turned white. Several seconds passed before he moved. He reached for the toaster, set it back inside the box, and closed the flaps.
Addison's heart skipped a beat as the significance of his reaction dawned on her. He'd wanted a drink, she realized, wanted it badly. And a pang of concern for him tightened her chest.
"I think I saw a package of plastic spoons in the kitchen drawer," she said quickly.
His gaze swept to hers, and a silent understanding passed between them.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah." He looked away. ''I'm fine."
''I'm glad." She smiled, then went to get the spoons.
She returned to find the skillet full of steaming soup. He'd arranged napkins and two mismatched glasses on the coffee table. The setup couldn't have looked more appealing. They'd gone most of the day without food. After the grueling trek into the ravine, she was famished.
They sat on the floor with the coffee table between them. Addison hadn't let herself think too much about what had happened to her parents. But now, having set her emotions aside, a hundred questions rushed at her like daggers. Questions about her parents' deaths and how that was going to change the case. Questions about the dark mystery she faced back in Denver. And questions about the troubled man sitting across from her.
"You're quiet."