A Very Merry Christmas: WITH "Do You Hear What I Hear" AND "Bah Humbug, Ba (20 page)

She dropped the blanket and wriggled into her jeans. They were toasty warm from the dryer. She relinquished the blanket reluctantly. It had afforded a certain amount of protection.

She picked up one of the coat hangers and speared a duo of plump marshmallows. Grant already had one toasting deep within the fire. When he extracted it, it was a deep golden brown. He blew on it and then held out his hand. “Open your mouth.”

She obeyed like a spineless puppet. The sweet, gooey sugar melted on her tongue.

Grant’s finger seemed trapped somehow between her lips, and he flushed as her teeth grazed it when she sucked the last of the residue from his skin. She managed to swallow without choking. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Her own breathing was jerky.

“Delicious,” she said, shivering as he traced her bottom teeth with his fingertip.

“Damn.” His sudden exclamation shocked her until she followed the direction of his gaze. The marshmallows she held over the fire were an unrecognizable black glob. Grant took the coat hanger from her hand and raked the burning mess off onto a log. He glanced at her wryly. “I take it you weren’t a Girl Scout.”

“Hey,” she said, frowning. “That wasn’t my fault. You distracted me.”

“I
distracted
you?”

She nodded vigorously. “You’re the one who was feeding me. I can’t help it if I got sidetracked.”

He stared at her mouth, making her stomach quiver with nerves and something else much more dangerous. “Your lip is sticky,” he muttered, leaning forward.

She froze, afraid to respond. He moved slowly, closing the gap between them. When his lips brushed hers they both sighed. It was sweet and delicious and scary as hell. Her heart was pounding and her legs trembled.

“You taste better than the marshmallows,” he muttered. He stepped back and turned on a lamp, flooding the room with additional light.

She walked to the sofa on unsteady feet, unsure if she was disappointed or glad that he had called a halt. The man was a stranger. Despite the confidences she had shared with him, he had offered nothing of his own background.

She watched moodily as he put on his snow gear and took the dog out. The silence in the cabin when they left seemed overpowering. She wandered down the hall and found a bathroom. After taking care of her most urgent need, she glanced in the mirror and winced. She looked like a cat dragged through a bush backward. She washed her face and found a comb in a drawer. She took down her hair, straightened it as best she could, and then resecured it with the rubber band.

Listening carefully for Grant’s return, she rummaged in a small zippered pocket of her pack and found some flavored gloss. It wasn’t nearly as yummy as the marshmallows, but it put a faint shine of color on her lips. After a quick call to reassure Daphne and Mimi, she returned to the living room.

When Grant and the dog entered some minutes later, she was sitting on the sofa reading the latest
National Geographic.
She looked up as they came in, feigning an expression of mild interest. “How is it out there?”

Grant looked at her like she was demented. “It’s snowing,” he said, irritation in his voice. “What did you think?”

“You don’t have to be so grumpy.
I
didn’t make it snow. By the way, what’s the dog’s name?”

“Van Gogh.”

“But isn’t the dog—”

“A female? Yes. But the dog doesn’t know who Van Gogh is, and I happen to like the name.” He said it as though daring her to challenge him. She wasn’t about to go there. His mood had turned surly.

He poured food and water in the dog’s dish, then settled in a chair across from her, his jaw clenched with determination. “No more stalling, Maddy. If your parents weren’t the reason, I want to know why you didn’t go back with your friends.”

She gnawed her lower lip, not wanting to reveal all her secrets, but sure he would spot a prevarication. Oh, what the hell…She tossed the magazine on the table. “I needed to figure out how to murder someone on the AT and dispose of the body.”

Grant’s jaw dropped. He felt it hit his chest. He was locked in his own cabin with a psychotic killer. And she looked so normal. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He walked casually toward the door. He wasn’t sure he could actually shoot a woman, but the rifle might dissuade her from causing him bodily harm…if he was lucky.

His pretty little wacko burst out laughing. “Oh, Lord, Grant, if you could see your face.” She was grinning from ear to ear, and he wondered if hysteria often preceded cold-blooded murder.

He took a step closer to the rifle, resting his shoulder casually against the door. “What do you mean?” he asked, wincing at the crack in his voice.

She left the couch and approached him. His pulse quickened, and not in a good way.

She put her hands on her hips, a move that thrust her small but shapely breasts against the thin fabric of her burgundy turtleneck. “You can relax,” she said, still grinning. “I’m not really going to murder anybody.”

He shifted uneasily from one foot to another. Wasn’t that what the killer said right before you got whacked?

She put a hand on his arm and, to his shame, he flinched. She rolled her eyes. “Open my backpack, Grant. Tell me what you see.”

He eyed her warily. “Okay.” If the murder weapon was in there, perhaps he could dispose of it quickly. He opened the bag, ready to encounter a knife, a gun…perhaps a vial of poison. His hands closed on a slim, rectangular object. He pulled it out and stared at it blankly. A laptop. It was a laptop.

She started laughing again. “I write murder mysteries, Grant.”

Understanding dawned, and he felt his face flush with embarrassment. Had he really thought, even for a second, that this delicate little woman was capable of murder? He looked up, seeing the amusement on her face. Amusement at his expense. “Ha, ha…You got me,” he said, tucking the computer back in its hiding place. Now he understood why she’d asked him to make a foray into the storm to retrieve her bag.

He tugged her ponytail. “You did that on purpose.”

She shrugged, unrepentant. “You were badgering me for information. I simply told you the truth.”

“Brat,” he muttered. “I ought to put you over my knee.” He said the words lightly, jokingly, but the careless comment took on a life of its own. Maddy’s eyes widened and he watched in fascination as her nipples thrust against her sweater. The room was quite warm.

He tried to swallow, his throat suddenly parched. “A writer, huh. Tell me about that.”

She ignored his inane attempt at conversation. Her hands crept up to his shoulders. Her head tipped back, her golden eyes filled with purpose. She stepped closer, and her soft breasts teased his chest. “Are you interested in having sex with me, Grant Monroe?”

His eyes narrowed.
Yes, hell yes.
His cock jumped to attention. Grant ignored his importunate body part and reminded himself he was an honorable man. He removed her hands and checked her forehead. “You’ve had quite an ordeal, Maddy. Don’t make any rash decisions. You need to rest.”

“I can’t believe this. Several million sex-starved men in Virginia and I find the only one with scruples. Unbelievable.” She frowned. “And I’m not delirious, darn it. Surely you’ve been propositioned before.”

His lips quirked. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who goes in for casual sex. Is this about almost dying?”

She ground her teeth. “No, dammit. I said I hadn’t been in
love,
not that I haven’t had sex. I’ve had sex…lots of sex…great sex.”

He grinned and remained silent.

She threw up her hands. “How hard is this to understand? You’re here. I’m here. We can’t leave. Why not enjoy it?” She paused, clearly struck by an unpleasant notion. “You’re not a priest, are you?”

He chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m not a priest.”

“Believe me, Grant, I feel fine—well, maybe a little tired, but that’s to be expected.”

He shook his head, unsure if he was trying to convince her or himself. “You’re off balance from coming so close to…well, you know.” He couldn’t say it out loud again. The thought of Maddy lying dead in a snowdrift made him feel sick.

Her expression cleared. “If you think this is about that whole dying-without-love thing, you can rest easy. I’m not asking you to be my soulmate. This is about sex…two adults enjoying carnal pleasure.”

She said that last part with a defiant toss of her head. He grinned, pretty damn sure this intriguing woman was not really so cavalier about sex. Despite her question that tested his self-control to the limit, he couldn’t help but believe this was not her usual style.

He doggedly changed the subject. “I want to hear about Maddy the novelist.”

Her smile told him he wasn’t off the hook, not by a long shot. “What do you want to know?”

“The usual. How did you get started? When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”

She perched on the arm of the sofa. “I always knew I wanted to write. My great uncle was a fairly well-known mystery writer in the sixties. By the time I was a preteen he wasn’t publishing much anymore, but he would let me read all of his books. Pretty inappropriate for a twelve-year-old, let me tell you. But I devoured them. I majored in journalism in college, but after a stint as a reporter during my senior year, I realized I wasn’t cut out for
just the facts, ma’am.
I was lucky. I won a couple of fiction competitions. And one of my professors had a relative who was an editor. He got my first manuscript read, and the rest is history.” She cocked her head.
“Now
can we discuss sex?”

He glanced at his watch, refusing to be drawn in again. “It’s late, Maddy. You need sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. I’ll bunk down in here and you can have my bed.”

“No way.” Her response was adamant.

He raised his eyebrows. Was she really going to offer to share his bed? His noble intentions would carry him only so far.

She waved a hand. “You’re huge. I’ll be fine on the sofa. No arguments.” Her outthrust jaw defied him.

He shrugged. “Fine. I’ll get some bedding.”

A half hour later she was tucked in a nest of blankets with the lights turned out. He added more wood to the fire and replaced the screen. “I’ll tend to it during the night,” he said. “We can’t afford to let it go out in case we lose power.”

He couldn’t read her face. The firelight cast heavy shadows, and she had pulled the covers up to her chin. He stood, irresolute, reluctant to walk away from her. “Are you comfortable?” he asked, his voice husky with the effort not to say all those other, less-appropriate things that were buzzing in his brain.

Her nod was barely visible. “Yes.”

He approached the couch, his feet at odds with his brain. He sat on the edge of the coffee table. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” Her voice was sulky.

He leaned forward and stroked her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth. He wanted her with a driving urgency that had nothing to do with her artless invitation and everything to do with the warmth she had brought into his home. And he hadn’t even realized he was cold. Such sudden emotion was suspect. He wasn’t in the habit of jumping into relationships, sexual or otherwise.

But Maddy touched him deeply, made him yearn for things he had given up on a long time ago. He slipped to his knees and knelt over her. “Can I kiss you good night?” he whispered.

Her eyes were dark and mysterious. “I think that was pretty much included in my earlier blanket offer.” Humor laced her unsteady response.

He felt his pulse jump and gallop. Part of him—most of him—was still ready to take what was offered and consequences be damned. He brushed her lips. “I’m glad I found you.”

Her tongue peeked out to meet his. “Technically, I found you,” she muttered. She moaned as he moved down to nibble the underside of her jaw.

He didn’t stop her when she shoved the heavy blankets aside. “I’m hot,” she complained.

“Hell, me, too,” he groaned as his hands slipped under her shirt and skated north. His palms closed over warm, plump feminine curves. He started to shake.

She arched her back, murmuring incoherent pleas and demands. He pushed her top out of the way and sucked one of her nipples deep into his mouth. Her response was electric. She jerked and cried out as an orgasm ripped through her body.

He laid his head on her shoulder and stroked her hair as she quieted.

Her voice when she spoke was a tiny thread of sound. “Well, that was embarrassing. I guess we know now who’s the sex-starved one.”

“Not embarrassing, Maddy. Amazing. Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

She turned on her side and raised up on her elbow. “Then why?” she asked, her cat’s eyes gleaming with confusion.

He toyed with a curl that had escaped the rubber band and lay tumbled against her creamy breast. “We have several days. Let’s get to know each other. Then, if you’re still of the same mind…well…”

“You’ll jump my bones?” she asked hopefully.

He shook his head. “You really are a brat, aren’t you? Go to sleep, honey. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

Maddy lay awake for a long time, watching the dancing flames. It should have felt strange to be here in unfamiliar surroundings. But instead it felt safe, warm. Here in Grant’s cozy cabin she could ignore the shambles her personal life had become. With her parents acting like children and her last boyfriend a distant memory, facing the holidays had been more than she could bear.

Now fate and Mother Nature had given her a reprieve, and she intended to make the most of it. Grant Monroe was kind and gentle and so sexy he made her ache. He was also apparently unattached. Her brazen invitation had shocked her as much as it had Grant. But she didn’t regret it. Who could blame her for stealing this little slice of heaven? She closed her eyes and sighed. Van Gogh lay on top of her feet, the dog’s weight and warmth a comforting presence. For the moment, one simple, wonderful moment, life was perfect.

Grant slept fitfully, waking every hour or so to tend the fire and to check on his charge. She slept deeply, the lines of exhaustion still etched on her face. He sent up a prayer of gratitude for her safety. She said he had saved her life, but she really had saved her own. Only her dogged courage had given her the strength to make it as far as she had. She could so easily have died.

He touched her occasionally, just to reassure himself that she was real. He came to the cabin seeking answers. And Maddy dropped into his lap. What did it mean? He wasn’t much of a believer in fate, but life was funny sometimes. He’d known Maddy less than a day, but already she had a hold on his heart. Maybe because of the dramatic way they met. Maybe because she was the kind of woman he had been looking for, deep in some unacknowledged part of his psyche.

He snorted. Holy hell. He’d need a shrink if this kept up. He brushed a butterfly kiss across her lips, careful not to wake her. Whatever the reason, Maddy was his…at least for the next few days. What was that old saying? If you saved a life it belonged to you? He would gladly take credit for rescuing her if it meant she was tied to him in some way. He might not have all the answers yet, but he would soon.

And in the meantime, he would do his best not to take advantage of her vulnerability. She was hurting from her parents’ divorce, feeling lost and alone, and on top of that, she had survived a dangerous ordeal that could have ended her life. She was off balance, emotionally overwrought. Only the lowest kind of worm would agree to her artless invitation. Heck, by morning she would probably have changed her mind. He wondered why that thought didn’t give him the least bit of satisfaction.

Sometime before dawn the storm finally blew itself out, leaving twenty-two inches of pristine, powdery white snow. He took Van Gogh out early, using the back door, so Maddy could sleep on.

By nine-thirty he was getting a little worried. He shook her shoulder. “Maddy, honey…You about ready to wake up? I’ve got bacon and eggs and pancakes almost done.”

Her face scrunched up and she pulled the blankets completely over her head. “Go away.”

He grinned. Clearly his houseguest wasn’t a morning person. “That’s not what you said last night.” He chuckled, sliding his hand beneath the mound of covers to tickle her belly.

She yelped and uttered a word that was not at all ladylike. “I’m liking you less and less, Monroe.”

He waved a steaming cup of coffee near the bump that was her head. “Hot coffee, no waiting.”

She struggled to a sitting position, her hair a riot of auburn corkscrews. “Give it to me.”

He surrendered the mug without protest and watched amazed as she drained the contents in short order. “What? You have an asbestos-lined mouth?”

She flopped against the back of the sofa, nodding. “I don’t do mornings very well. Caffeine’s my salvation.”

“I’ll make a note of that.”

Suddenly she remembered to be shy with him. Her face went beet red and she flapped her hands at him. “Get lost. Scram. I look a fright.”