Storm Winds by Iris Johansen Read Free Book Online Page A

the foolishness of—” He broke off as another shudder ran through him. “Give—me another blanket.”
    “You have three already.” Juliette abruptly made a decision. She stood up. “Move over.”
    “What?” He gazed at her blankly.
    She drew back the covers, lay down beside Jean Marc, and drew him into her arms. “Be at ease,” she said impatiently as she felt him stiffen against her. “I’m not going to hurt you. I only seek to warm you. I often held Louis Charles like this when he had the night chills.”
    “I’m not a child of two.”
    “You’re as weak as a puling infant. What difference does it make?”
    “I believe a great many people would be happy to enumerate the—differences.”
    “Then we shall not tell them. Are you not warmer with me here?”
    “Yes, much warmer.”
    “Good.” His shivering had almost stopped, she noticed with relief. “I’ll hold you until you go to sleep.” She reached up and gently stroked his hair as she did Louis Charles’s. A few minutes later she said impatiently, “You’re not at ease. I can feel you hard as a stone against me.”
    “How extraordinary. Perhaps I’m not accustomed to females slipping into my bed only in order to ‘ease’ me.”
    “As you say, the situation is extraordinary.” Juliette levered herself up on one elbow and gazed sternly down at him. “You must not think of me as a female. It’s not good for you.”
    His lips twitched. “I’ll endeavor to dismiss your gender from my mind. I’ll think of you as a thick woolen blanket or a hot, warming brick.”
    She nodded and again lay down beside him. “That’s right.”
    “Or a smelly sheepskin rug.”
    “I do not think I smell.” She frowned. “Do I?”
    “Or a horse lathered from a long run.”
    “Do you have the fever again?”
    “No, I was merely carrying the image to greater lengths. I feel much more comfortable with you now.”
    “You laugh at the most peculiar things.”
    “You’re a most peculiar fem—sheepskin rug.”
    “You
are
feverish.”
    “Perhaps.”
    But his brow felt only slightly warm to the touch, and the shaking of his body had stopped almost entirely.
    “Go to sleep,” she whispered. “I’m here. All is well.”
    A few moments later she felt him relax, his breathing deepen.
    At last he had fallen into a deep slumber.

THREE
    Y ou’ve painted long enough. Come here and play a hand of faro with me.”
    Juliette didn’t look at Jean Marc as she added more yellow to the green of the trees in the painting on the easel before her. “What?”
    “Play cards with me.”
    She cast a glance over her shoulder at Jean Marc lying on the bed across the room. “I’m busy.”
    “You’ve been busy for four hours,” Jean Marc said dryly. “And will probably be at that easel for another four if I don’t assert my rights.”
    “What rights?”
    “The rights of a bored, irritable patient who is being neglected in favor of your precious paints and canvas.”
    “In a moment.”
    She was aware of his gaze on the middle of her back as she resumed painting.
    “Tell me what it’s like,” he said suddenly.
    “What?”
    “Painting. I watched your face as you worked. Your expression was extraordinary.”
    Juliette was jarred out of her absorption into uneasiness. He had been lying in that bed watching her for hours every day and never before made comment. Her art was a private, intensely personal passion, and realizing he had been studying her emotions as she worked made her feel oddly naked. “Painting is … pleasant.”
    He laughed softly. “I hardly think that’s the correct term. You looked as exultant as a saint ascending the steps to heaven.”
    She didn’t look at him. “That’s blasphemy. I’m sure you know nothing of how a saint would feel.”
    “But you do?” He coaxed, “Tell me.”
    She was silent a moment. She had never tried to put her feelings about her work into words, but suddenly she realized she wanted him to know. “It’s