At least they should be relatively safe from discovery here in the old farmhouse. Felicity, or whatever her real name was, had stated the owners were overseas, so they weren't likely to suddenly drop in on them.
And if Felicity had the keys, then she was no doubt looking after the place for them, which implied no relatives. He'd moved Kirby's rental car into the shed, out of sight. As long as they kept the lights off, they shouldn't draw any attention from the neighboring farms, and he doubted Felicity herself would come back until she thought he was dead.
They were probably safer here than they would be anywhere else. Surely this was the one place Felicity would not think to look for them. Or so he hoped.
Closing his eyes, he went to sleep.
Movement woke him some time later. He lay on his side, facing the windows. Outside, the wind had picked up again, and the nearest trees tossed and groaned. The old house creaked in response, shuddering slightly under the impact of the oncoming storm.
The bed shifted, and he turned around. Kirby climbed out, her pale skin almost ghostly as she padded naked out of the bedroom.
'You okay?' he asked softly.
She didn't answer him, and her thoughts were distant, almost sleepy. Frowning, he rose and followed her down the hall. She hesitated in the living room, then headed for the back door, battling to open it.
Sleepwalking, he thought. But why was she attempting to go outside? He reached past her, unlocking the door. She showed no awareness of his presence, and though her eyes were open, it was obvious she wasn't seeing anything beyond whatever images filled her dreams. He grabbed his coat to wrap around her once the dream had ended and followed her outside.
Sure-footed as a cat, she walked down the steps and out into the wildness of the night. The wind spun around her, snagging her warm brown hair and playing with it wildly. She raised her hands, as if reaching for the wind, then laughed, a soft sound of pleasure that sent a shiver of desire running through him.
She moved down the hill, a slender, almost ghostly figure in the night. He followed her past the black patch of grass that was the remains of the zombie, to the trees. There she sat cross-legged on the grass, staring up at the tossing trees.
Communing with the wind, he thought. He stopped behind her, watching the goose bumps chase across her pale skin, wishing he could hear what the wind was telling her. Wishing he knew why this was happening. She wasn't a storm witch, and talking to the wind was not something she'd been able to do before now. He knew that from her earlier thoughts and words.
She raised her hands again, as if reaching for someone. Sorrow ran through her, through him, and he knew without looking that there were tears on her cheeks. Maybe it wasn't the wind she was talking to after all. Maybe it was the ghost of her dead friend.
The wind played about her again, briefly including him in its wild dance. For an instant he heard the song, a gentle, melodious sound of love. Then it died, and Kirby collapsed sideways to the ground. He tucked his coat around her and carried her back inside.
She snuggled back under the blankets and sighed contentedly. He caressed her cheek, wondering if she'd remember her nocturnal journey in the morning. Wondered if she'd remember what the wind and her dead friend had told her—and whether she'd pass that information on to him.
He glanced at his watch. It was barely three o'clock, and he really needed to get some more sleep. But that wasn't going to happen just yet, especially if he tried to lie down beside her. Good intentions were all well and good, but right now he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anyone in his life. Time, he thought, for a shower. A very cold shower. He bent and kissed her cheek, then headed into the bathroom.
Kirby dreamt of warmth and desire. It wrapped around her, pressed heat against her, providing a security, a tenderness, she'd never felt before.
She sighed and turned toward it. An arm wrapped around her, pulling her close. Breath whispered against her skin, sleepy and warm. Lips sought hers, lips that were tender yet sensuous. Lips she just wanted to keep tasting forever.
Desire ached through her, and in that instant, she fully woke, realizing with shock that it was no dream.
She was indeed lying in bed and kissing a man. And she was naked to boot.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she pulled back abruptly. We couldn't have , she thought, not daring to open her eyes. Surely she would remember if she and Doyle had made love…
'I would certainly hope so,' he said, his voice gravelly and sexy as hell.
She opened her eyes. His face was inches from hers, blue eyes filled with mischief, warmth and desire.
'How are you feeling this morning?' he asked.
'Fine.' A little on the weak side, maybe, but that was probably due to lack of food more than anything else. She touched his smooth cheek, running her finger down to his chin. 'You've shaved.'
He was also fully dressed and lying on top of the covers, rather than underneath. Relief ran through her, though it was touched by an odd sense of disappointment.
His sudden grin sent another shiver of desire through her.
'I thought I'd better,' he said. 'Didn't want to give you whisker burn, if I ever got the chance to kiss you again.'
She raised an eyebrow. 'What made you think you were even going to get another chance?'
'You're a woman. I'm a man. We're in a dangerous situation, and we're mutually attracted.' He brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, his touch flushing warmth down to her toes. 'The odds are on my side, you know.'
'Pretty damn sure of yourself, aren't you?' she muttered. Trouble was, they both knew he was right.
'Sure of myself, yes.' He stared at her for a moment, blue eyes intent, thoughts suddenly troubled. 'But sure of you? That I'm not.'
He caught her fingers and kissed them lightly, then rose swiftly from the bed. 'Breakfast?' he said, walking away.
She blinked at his abrupt departure. 'Sure.'
'Your bag is in the bathroom. Don't get those bandages wet if you decide to take a shower.'
Bandages? She glanced down, and saw that that she was indeed wrapped in bandages, from just under her breasts to her waist.
'Why am I wearing bandages?' she called after him.
'Long story. Get dressed, and I'll explain.'
She cursed him silently, but didn't move, for the first time taking in their surroundings. If they were in a hotel, it was certainly the dustiest hotel she'd ever seen. And the furnishings were so old and worn they looked ready for the dump.
She looked up, saw the pitched roof and the strings of cobwebs trailing the length of room, and frowned. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear they were inside the old farmhouse. But that didn't make any sense. Surely it would be too dangerous. Their murderer would come here, if only to make sure that Doyle was still in her trap.
She climbed out of bed and walked across to the window, peering out. Trees swayed beyond the roof of the veranda, and on the ground to her left, a patch of black soil in a sea of yellow-green grass. Zombie remains, she thought with a shiver. They were definitely at the farm house, then.
She wrapped a blanket around herself, and headed down the stairs. Doyle looked around as she entered the living room.
'Nice outfit,' he commented, eyes bright in the hazy light. 'I especially like the teasing flash of thigh as you walk.'
She blushed and tugged the blanket around. 'Why are we still here?'
He turned away, stirring the contents of a bubbling pot. 'Why are you not getting dressed?'
'Because I want answers.'
'You'll get them when you get dressed.'
He moved across to the freezer and opened the lid, then hesitated and met her gaze. Heat trembled
