by Jill Shalvis
iced. “I guess you were all prettied up for the honeymoon.”
No. She’d prettied up for herself, to feel sexy, but she was not going to argue with a man when her pants were around her ankles; when she had a vibrator bouncing on the couch next to her, taunting her; when she had bigger worries, such as her panties, and what they still weren’t covering. Shoving the sweatshirt down as far as she could, which was to the tops of her thighs, she leaned forward to hurry the process along.
While she worked on one boot, Cooper continued to work on the other, his fingers managing to work faster and far more efficiently than hers. His bowed head was close enough to her thighs that he could have lifted his head and drunk his fill, but he kept his gaze on her boot, pulling it off, pushing her hands aside, then removing her other as well. Finally he hooked his hands into her jeans again and peeled them away. Her legs were pink and mottled from the cold, and when his knuckles brushed against her, she flinched. Without a word he stood, once again turning his back to her, staring into the fire, looking a little more tense than he had a moment ago.
“A little late now,” she muttered, pulling on the sweat bottoms.
He didn’t respond to that.
“Done,” she said, and stood.
Only then did he turn back to face her, his gaze sweeping from top to bottom, taking in the way his sweats looked on her. The only sign of strain was a tic in his jaw. “You want the couch in front of the warm fire?” he asked. “Or the cold honeymoon suite? We can start you a fire there.”
She couldn’t concentrate with the vibrator continuing to hum and jump on the couch, but she knew she didn’t want to go further into the depths of the dark house. With an annoyed sound, she reached for the vibrator, desperate to turn it off.
Cooper beat her to it, turning it off himself before handing it back. “Keep it. You never know when you might need a friend.”
She rolled her eyes, but the thing provided a tiny bit of light so she grabbed it. Plus, given that she was off men, it might be sooner than later before she’d need a friend of the battery-operated variety.
“’Night,” he said with an irritating, knowing smile. He began to walk away.
“Wait!” When he turned back to her, she had to come up with something to say. “We . . . can’t both really stay here.”
He just raised a brow.
“And I think you should be the one to leave,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Why me?”
“You said it yourself—I had a bad day.”
“Hell, Princess, I’ve had a bad year, and you don’t see me whining about it.”
She wondered how bad was bad, and if it could possibly match hers.
“You want to trudge out in the snow and try to get into town?” he asked.
With the coyotes, bears, and God knew what else? “No. I thought . . .”
“That I’d do it.” He shook his head. “I was here first.”
“That’s gentlemanly.”
He laughed. “Yeah, well, you’re not stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, in the storm of the century, with any sort of gentleman.”
For some insane reason, that caused another flicker of heat to spiral through her.
Which proved it, really. She had lost her mind.
“We both know the roads are closed by now,” he said. “And I for one am not snowshoeing into town. In fact, I’m not going anywhere.”
“This is not how it was supposed to be,” she said softly.
“No kidding. But shit happens, and we deal with it. Now are you going to pick a spot, or am I?”
There weren’t many people who’d argued with her. Not her four older brothers, or the father she’d long ago wrapped around her finger. Fact was, she’d been getting her way since birth.
Aside from her family, the other men in her life had also let her get away with just about anything. Her first fiancé, Barry, had spoiled her rotten. Even Dean, King of Rat Bastards—whom she hoped had choked on his own tongue—had never so much as crossed opinions with her, but that was probably because he’d been too busy.
So the fact that this strange man was not only quarreling with her, but telling her how things were going to be, surprised her into momentary silence.
“Nightie-night, Princess,” he said.
She looked around and once again panicked at the thought of being alone. Damn him, but he truly was the lesser of two evils. “Wait!”
He turned back, propping up the doorway with a shoulder as if he didn’t have a care. “Yeah?”
She opened her mouth, but her pride ran away with her good sense. “Nothing.” She casually dropped to the couch but something must have given her away, whether it was the sudden panic pumping her heart loud enough to wake the dead, or the renewed tension that gripped her body, because he sighed. “Are you going to be okay?”
Was she? She wished she knew. Alone, she’d go back to obsessing about spiders and coyotes and bears, but if he stayed, she’d have new things to obsess about . . .
Still, he’d stuck by her side, even helped her when she’d needed it, and hadn’t once thrown it in her face as any of her brothers might have.
Not that he was remotely brotherly . . . And yet he’d had her at every disadvantage and he’d not tried to press himself on her in any way.
“Breanne?”
Even more unnerving, she liked the sound of her name on his lips. “Seriously, I’m fine. Don’t give me another thought.”
“No?”
“No. I certainly won’t be giving you one.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
He looked at her for a long moment, then pushed away from the doorway, moving toward her like a long, lean cat totally at ease with himself, confident that he was at the top of the food chain. He had a nice gait, the kind a woman could watch all day if she was admitting such things. Which she wasn’t. Besides, she’d given up men. His toes touched hers, then he crouched down, his face level with her belly.
Push him away, her feminist brain demanded.
Pull him close, her body countered.
“You’re not going to give me another thought at all?” he asked silkily, and she knew damn well he was purposely invading her space.
She managed to shoot him a smile that she’d perfected before she’d ever left her crib. It was an I’m-fabulous, I-couldn’t-be-better smile, an I’ve-got-the-world-by-the-balls smile. “Nope. Not another thought.”
Reaching out, he settled a long finger to the base of her throat, where she imagined her pulse was about to leap right out at him. “So then what’s this?” he murmured.
Only a moment ago it had been unease, even fear about her situation here, until he’d touched her.
Now it was arousal, plain and simple.
What kind of a woman was aroused by a perfect stranger? “Nothing but a physical reaction,” she informed him.
“Ah.” His fingers stroked over her racing pulse and then again. In the glow of the fire, his expression was one of curious intent as he watched the path of his fingers. “Because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
His lips curved slightly. “Then what?”
Damn it, he’d caught her. “I’m tired and hungry and still cold.”
“And that’s making your heart pound?”
“Sure.” They were so close his exhaled breath warmed her breasts through the tank and sweatshirt, so close that she could see his eyes weren’t a solid azure blue at all, but had flecks of midnight dancing in them, holding secret all his thoughts.
He shifted then, his big, warm hand lightly cupping her throat, skimming to her shoulder and down her arm before gliding back up again in a gesture that could have been meant to warm. And it might have, if he’d been her brother or her father.
And she did get warm. Hot, actually. But something else as well, something far more.
“Still cold?” he murmured.
“Um, no. Thanks.”
“No problem.” His gaze dipped once
again to her pulse. “It’s still racing, Princess. How come?”
“Don’t know.”
“Want me to guess?”
Her pulse sped up even more. “No!”
“Because if you were still cold, or even afraid, we have an easy solution.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“We share this fire.”
“You mean with you on the floor and me on the couch?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “No.”
Damn if her nipples didn’t go happy at his low, rough voice. And other reactions occurred as well: her thighs tightened, and between them came a deep tingle. “We’re perfect strangers,” she reminded herself as well as him. “I’m not sleeping with a perfect stranger. I’m supposed to be sleeping with my husband.”
“But there is no husband.”
“Good night, Cooper.”
“Yeah.” He sighed, then shot a hopeful look at her carry-on. “You don’t by any chance have any food in that bag of yours, do you?”
“No.” Just two sexy nighties. “But Dante brought you a hot chocolate.”
“Great. Hot chocolate.” With one last stroke of his finger over her throat, he grabbed the mug and left, shutting the doors behind him.
Breanne let out a slow, careful breath and sank back. The man was potent, she’d give him that. But he was also domineering, and just alpha enough to make her want to scream.
And yet . . . and yet there was more. She didn’t know what, and told herself she didn’t want to. Curling up into a ball on the couch, she stared into the flames while the weight of the day began to drag her down, along with her eyelids.
But the problem with relaxing, even marginally, was that everything came back to her, beginning with being left at the altar.
How could she not have seen that coming? Seriously, her radar should have at least blipped a warning, but she’d gotten nothing.
She’d met Dean at work. As an investor for one of the companies her accounting firm handled, he’d sauntered by her cubicle, stopping to smile at her. Other than his most annoying habit of humming Elvis tunes at inopportune times—such as when he made love to her—he’d had a suave sophistication she hadn’t been able to resist, even knowing he was a player. Foolishly, she’d let herself go for it, and for some reason that had always mystified her, he’d reciprocated.
But everything he’d ever told her—such as those three words, I love you—had turned out to be a lie.
And here she was. Alone. She looked around the large room, into the far corners and the shadows there, managing to convince herself she was fine. She’d even started to relax, at least enough that her muscles didn’t ache. And then—
SNAP!
At the loud crack, she fell off the couch and landed on all fours, eyes wide, heart ricocheting off her ribs as she searched the room.
Just the fire crackling. Forcing herself to laugh, she climbed back up on the couch and let her eyes drift shut again. Everything was good, she was going to stay good—
A soft creaking sound had her leaping to her feet. She tried to tell herself she was still fine, but that was hard to believe as she watched the handle on the double doors turn. “Who—who’s there?”
The door slowly opened, revealing the large, dark cavern that was the foyer.
“Cooper?” Her heart hit her throat. “This isn’t funny.”
A small, blond woman appeared. Mid-twenties, maybe, with a petite frame and a sweet, angelic smile. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
Was she kidding? Who could sleep in the haunted horrors of the honeymoon house? “No.”
“Oh, good. I’m Shelly, the cook. I came for the mugs I sent here with Dante.” She came further into the room, passing Breanne’s empty mug, heading directly toward the fire, where she held up her hands. “Darn, it’s cold between the kitchen and here.” She laughed. “Some storm, huh?” She wore dark jeans and a soft-looking white turtleneck, her blond hair neatly pulled back in a ponytail. “And welcome, by the way,” she said with a smile when she caught Breanne staring. “I hope you had a nice trip here.”
Her honest, hopeful expression seemed so completely innocent, Breanne found she couldn’t say what was on her mind, which was Are you kidding me? “Uh, yeah. Nice.”
With a sigh, Shelly moved away from the flames, scooping up the mug. “You’re on your honeymoon, right?”
Breanne felt her smile congeal. “Yes. Alone.”
“Oh.” That startled her. “So the wedding, it went . . . badly?”
“You could say so.”
“I’m sorry,” Shelly said with true regret. “And now this huge, unbelievable storm . . .”
“Until you got here, I was trying to convince myself this is all a bad dream.”
“You poor thing.” Shelly sat down on the couch next to Breanne. “Did you get your heart broken?”
The question, coming from someone Breanne had known all of a minute, should have irked her. It should have, at the very least, brought her great pain. Instead, she leaned back on the sofa, nothing but exhausted. “Maybe it’s been a little stepped on,” she finally admitted. “But not broken, no.”
“Good, then you can try to enjoy your trip in spite of him. You don’t need a man to have a good time.” Shelly laughed at herself. “That’s what my mom always told us, anyway. I don’t really have a lot of experience to go by.”
Breanne blinked at the easy familiarity with which Shelly had spoken. Breanne had family, coworkers. Friends. But truthfully, most were men. Girl talk had never really been her thing. “I don’t know what I was thinking to do this, to come here alone. It was stupid.”
“Oh, you’re going to enjoy yourself, I promise you. And someday you’ll find another man. A better one.”
Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt, thought Breanne. “Would you know where I could get a few blankets?”
“Of course—I’ll get them for you. But first, I came to bring you into the formal dining room.”
No way was she going to be lured anywhere in this dark, haunted house. “I think I’ll just stay here, thanks.”
“I was spooked when I first got here, too,” Shelly said kindly. “This place scared me to death.”
“But not anymore?”
“Well . . .” Shelly hugged her enviable petite body for a moment, running her hands up and down her arms as if chilled. “I got used to it,” she finally said. And then smiled. “And anyway, you’re not alone in your fears. We all feel a little off tonight.”
“We?”
“Me, and the rest of the staff.”
“How many of you are there?”
“There’s five of us. Myself, Lariana, Patrick, Edward, and Dante.” She stopped with a faraway look in her eyes and sighed dreamily. “You’ve met Dante.”
This pretty, innocent little thing was sighing over the hooded butler?
At Breanne’s baffled expression, Shelly let out a laugh. “He’s thrilling, isn’t he?”
How about terrifying? “He’s . . . something.”
“He doesn’t say much, but when he does, he’s just so smart, so kind. And funny, too. I just think he’s the sexiest man alive, don’t you?”
“I didn’t get to see much of him,” Breanne said tactfully.
“I know, I’m sorry.” Shelly’s smile was tremulous, making Breanne realize the cook was just as nervous as she was. “All this dark is getting to me. It makes me talk too much. I should go finish my chores before I get myself into trouble with the boss.”
“Speaking of that,” Breanne said, “do you know where the manager is?”
“Edward?” Shelly lifted a shoulder. “I’m not sure, exactly. He’s usually scarce at this time of day. You let me know if you
