By Firelight

by Janice Maynard

  They fought in earnest, neither giving any quarter. Her best and most entertaining shot hit directly between his legs. His face went slack with surprise, before he winced in discomfort. He grinned up at her, rubbing his crotch. “You might keep in mind that damaging the equipment could impact your plans for the weekend.”

  She laughed and pelted him again, prudently avoiding the zone below the belt. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  Unfortunately, her battle position was inherently flawed. While Grant had the entire expanse of snow-covered ground to mine for ammunition, Maddy had quickly cleared the porch, steps and rail. Her base was wiped clean and her opponent was just getting started.

  She backed toward the door. Grant made chicken noises. She stopped, her pride at stake. “I’m out of snow,” she pointed out.

  He hit her shoulder with a thwack. “Should have thought of that earlier.” Then he fired with both hands at once.

  Snow coated her hair and dripped into her eyes. She glared at him. “This is entirely outside the Geneva Convention.”

  He shrugged. “Never been to Switzerland, myself.”

  The next snowball hit between her breasts. Desperate times called for desperate measures. She peeled off her coat, her sweater and her bra in quick succession. Her skin was hot and damp from exertion. The cold air slammed into her chest, stealing her breath and furling her nipples into tightly peaked buds.

  But any momentary discomfort was well worth it. Her attacker stood frozen, seemingly stunned, his mouth opened but mute, his eyes glazed. She walked down the four steps into the yard, sinking in snow up to her knees. She lifted her chin. “Open your coat.”

  He seemed befuddled, but he cooperated, dropping the snowballs he still held. When he had unzipped his heavy parka, she waved a hand, scarcely noticing the cold. “Unbutton your shirt.”

  He complied, more rapidly this time, revealing the golden brown skin of his chest. Her breath hitched in her throat. “Lie down on your back.”

  He crouched and fell backward, letting his hood cushion his head. She lifted her knees and struggled toward him, her eyes locked on his. She straddled his hips and leaned forward, pressing her freezing breasts to the warm, hair-roughened planes of his torso.

  He started to embrace her, but she pushed his arms back. “Make me a snow angel.” He held his arms stiff, moving them up and down as she asked. She smiled sweetly. “Now you can hold me.”

  Grant slipped his arms from his coat, then snuggled her close, his flannel shirtsleeves rubbing over serious amounts of gooseflesh. He nuzzled her neck. “You’re certifiably crazy. You know that, right?” He arranged her legs on top of his, so no part of her body was touching the snow. “And just so you know, your dirty tactics would never hold up in military court.”

  She licked his collarbone. “Are you complaining?”

  “Hell, no.” He slid his hands beneath the waistband of her jeans. The feel of her tits on his chest was making him light-headed, but one of them had to exhibit some sense. “Come on, Mata Hari. I’m taking you in.”

  “For questioning?” she asked demurely, sucking his bottom lip, and then nibbling on it.

  He held her head in his hands to steady her, and drove his tongue into her mouth, perilously close to losing control. Only the knowledge that she was half-nude in twenty-degree weather kept him from taking her in the snow. He kissed her wildly, roughly, shaking with a level of arousal he had never experienced.

  Finally, with one last thread of self-control, he tucked her head to his chest and held her tightly, his breathing jerky. “This is insane.”

  She licked his nipple. “I like insane . . . I haven’t been insane enough in my life.” He blinked his eyes against the red haze obscuring his vision. He could have his cock inside her in sixty seconds flat, if she cooperated. But then he felt her shiver, and his brain was back in control.

  “Up, woman.” He rolled them both to their feet, practically lifting her through the snow and depositing her on the steps. As she was picking up her discarded clothing, he salvaged the burlap bag he’d dropped earlier.

  Inside, he stared at her, shaking his head. “Now, all your clothes are wet and dirty.”

  She rummaged in her pack, triumphantly holding up a scrap of red nylon. “One last pair of clean undies,” she announced with glee.

  He swallowed, consigning her tiny underwear to hell and back. He sent her to the bathroom. “Strip off. I’ll find you something . . . if I’m lucky.”

  He returned with one of his flannel shirts and some gray, fleece-lined sweatpants. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Hand me your stuff.”

  Her slender arm appeared, thrusting a pile of wet clothes into his hand. In exchange, he passed in her new wardrobe. When she came out a few minutes later, he smothered a grin. She had tried to roll up the shirtsleeves, but they were already drooping. She was holding up the voluminous pants with her hand, and the green woolen socks on her feet clashed horribly with the turquoise shirt.

  “I look like a hobo,” she groused.

  “Good,” he said fervently. “Now maybe we can get through dinner.”

  * * *

  They worked amicably, side by side, fixing chili and store-bought sourdough bread. Fortunately, Grant had brought more than enough food, so there was no chance they’d go hungry. While they were washing up afterward, Maddy noticed the bag he’d dropped by the back door. “What’s that?” she asked curiously.

  He smiled sheepishly. “Mistletoe.”

  She laughed. “You really thought we needed mistletoe?”

  He poured the leftover chili in a container and stuck it in the fridge. “It’s traditional. It’s seasonal. It’s ambiance.”

  She just shook her head. “Okay, Martha Stewart. If you say so.”

  * * *

  While Grant began to set up his easel and paints, Maddy began having serious second thoughts. It was one thing to flash a guy during a snowball fight. It was another thing entirely to sprawl out buck-naked on a sofa and let him stare at you for a couple of hours. Her eyes returned again and again to the painting over the mantel. Grant’s ex-wife made a stunning model, her lush sensuality a perfect subject for any painter. Maddy, on the other hand . . . Well . . . She certainly wasn’t Rubenesque. The great artists of that era would have passed her by without a glance. As her feelings of unease mounted, Grant, in contrast, seemed remarkably comfortable. He added log after log to the fire, until the room began to feel like a sauna.

  When he began to sweat, he stripped off his shirt and kicked off his boots and socks. No fair, Maddy wailed inwardly. How was a woman supposed to show good sense in the face of such blatant provocation? Half-dressed, he seemed even larger, more powerful. Sleek muscles in his arms and back glistened with a sheen of perspiration.

  Her throat went dry.

  She wandered around the room, keeping her distance. “Be careful you don’t start a chimney fire,” she warned weakly.

  He smiled absently, intent on positioning his workspace. “I’m making it warm in here. You’ll be nude for a couple of hours, and we can’t have you getting cold.”

  Cold? She was burning up.

  She nibbled her lower lip. “Do you mind if I take a shower first?”

  He looked up, his brow creased in concentration. “Hmmm? Oh, sure, whatever you want.”

  She escaped to the bathroom. She washed her hair during a twenty-minute shower and would have lingered longer, but the water began to run cold. Shutting off the faucet and stepping out, she towel-dried her hair, shivering despite the wall heater. She found a hairdryer underneath the sink and, after combing out her tangled tresses, began blow-drying her unruly mane a section at a time.

  * * *

  Grant positioned a swath of fern-green cloth over the sofa. Velvet was a bit cliché, but the color would be spectacular with Maddy’s hair. He was making his preparations on autopilot, one-half of his mind on familiar routines, the other centered down the hall where Maddy was so obviously hiding out.

>   He admitted reluctantly that he had no right to pressure her into posing for him, but he wanted it badly—badly enough to ignore his gentlemanly side. He could soothe her nerves. He would be blasé if it killed him.

  But first he had to pry her out of the bathroom. He went down the hall and knocked on the door. The dryer stopped. “Open up, Maddy . . . if you’re decent—or even if you’re not,” he added with dry honesty.

  She eased the open door a crack. “I’m not finished with my hair.”

  He could see she was dressed, so he shoved the door wider. “Come into my bedroom. I’ll help you.”

  Her eyes blinked, her expression wary. “I can do it,” she insisted.

  He tugged on her hand. “It’ll be more fun this way.”

  He coaxed his unwilling model a few more steps down the hall and into his bedroom. He watched, amused, as she catalogued its contents.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Kind of bare, isn’t it?”

  He tried to look at the furnishings through her eyes. The cabin was strictly a vacation home. He’d spent the majority of his money outfitting the kitchen and living room. Since he only slept in the bedroom, and since he never brought women here, he’d figured throwing a quilt on the bed and a rug on the floor was enough.

  He brushed her cheek. “You could have a go at it,” he said softly. “You know . . . Give it a woman’s touch.”

  Her face closed up. “It’s fine, Grant. I didn’t mean to criticize.”

  He sighed inwardly. She was a prickly creature. He tugged her toward the bed, positioning her between his legs and leaning his back against the plain pine headboard. “Give me your comb.”

  She handed it over reluctantly, her back poker straight. He worked carefully, allowing the silky strands to curl around his fingers. By the time he finished, only a bit of dampness remained. He buried his face in the back of her neck, smelling his shampoo and her feminine scent. “I love your hair,” he said huskily. “It’s like holding sunshine in my hands.”

  A bit of the starch left her spine, enough that he was able to pull her against his chest. Her butt pressed firmly into his groin. He was rapidly losing interest in painting her. He cleared his throat, resting his hands loosely beneath her breasts. He hated not being able to see her face. “You can’t put it off forever, sweetheart.”

  She huffed. “Sure I can. How would you like to be naked as a jaybird and have me stare at you for two hours?”

  His cock stirred urgently beneath her. She wriggled her butt just the tiniest bit. His hands trembled. “If it was you looking at me, Maddy, I’d find it damned appealing.”

  He cupped her breasts deliberately, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples. He felt the ripple that went through her body.

  She answered him with her usual sass, but the rasp in her voice gave her away. “You’re only saying that because you know I can barely draw a stick man.”

  He slid his hands down the soft curve of her belly, delving into her heated warmth. Slick moisture welcomed him. Her head lolled on his shoulder, her eyes tightly closed. He opened her with one finger. “Maybe I can take the edge off your nervousness,” he said, sliding over her most sensitive, swollen spot with a delicate but firm touch.

  He felt her quiver, and a rush of testosterone-laden, caveman satisfaction gripped him. Maddy Tierney was his woman. He refused to think about any other man who might have seen her like this. Fate had brought them together. She had come to him through the storm, and he would not let her escape him now.

  He stroked her urgently, taking cues from her moans and sighs. She was beautiful in her abandon, the flush on her cheekbones and the arch of her neck sheer poetry. But flowery words were her expertise. His job was to capture her fragile loveliness on canvas.

  He slid three fingers inside her without warning and felt her vaginal muscles grip him as she crested, her voice caught in her throat, her hands gripping his forearms. Long moments passed before he removed his hand slowly, hugging her to ward off the possibility of escape. If she looked at him now, with invitation in her eyes, he was a goner.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t bear to be in this room and not fuck her. Shaking, almost sick with hunger, he rolled away from her and muttered some inane excuse before exiting the room and, moments later, the house.

  * * *

  Maddy heard the front door slam and lay stunned, her body still humming with the aftermath of incredible pleasure. The level of sexual heat between the two of them could light up a small city. All he had to do was touch her and she spun out of control. It was as frightening as it was miraculous. Such intense feeling had to burn itself out eventually, and then what? He had a life outside this cabin, as did she. They each had jobs, families, obligations.

  Questions swirled unanswered in her head, but the one that occupied her most was: when? When would Grant make love to her? Fully. In every way. Not knowing was driving her crazy, and if her recent aberrant behaviors were any sign, she didn’t have far to go.

  She tiptoed back down the hallway, listening intently. The cabin was silent, empty. It was dark outside, and Grant’s shirt and shoes were still on the floor. The idiot man had gone outside half-dressed. She opened the door six inches or so, shivering when the gleeful wind found an opportunity to invade.

  She peered into the darkness. “Grant . . . Are you out there?”

  His voice came from the end of the porch, closer than she had expected. “Go away, Maddy.”

  She retreated momentarily and gathered up his shirt, socks and boots. She tossed them to where she thought he was standing, feeling slightly foolish. “What are you doing out there?” she whispered.

  His reply was laden with sarcasm. “Having a smoke. Beat it.”

  “But you don’t smoke . . . do you?”

  “How would you know? You met me yesterday.”

  Ah, that was the problem. They were back to the same old issue, both of them distrusting the wild, almost violent nature of their physical response to one another. Too much, too strong, too fast.

  How was he standing the cold? The night was bitter. She shifted from one foot to the other.

  His voice was sharper this time, commanding. “Shut the door, Maddy, or suffer the consequences.”

  * * *

  She scuttled into the kitchen, her heart pounding. But she was smiling. Grant Monroe was more man than she had ever hoped to find. She rummaged through the cabinets. She would enjoy making him her one and only culinary masterpiece, a banana cream pie but, given the limited ingredients at hand, it would have to be microwave popcorn.

  She heated milk and filled a couple of mugs with chocolate mix. He would be cold when he came in—or maybe not, she thought, grinning smugly. She put two bowls of popcorn and the hot chocolate on a plain wooden tray, adding two paper towels at the last minute in lieu of napkins.

  When she pushed open the kitchen door, the living room was still empty. She set the tray on the coffee table and curled up in an armchair, avoiding the velvet-decked sofa. She glanced at the clock. He’d been outside twenty-five minutes. She shifted into a more comfortable position.

  Fifteen minutes later her smile had faded, and the hot chocolate had cooled. This was ridiculous. She stood up, ready to drag him in by his hair, if necessary.

  The door swung open suddenly, causing the fire to shoot up the chimney with bright, dancing flames. Grant filled the doorframe, his jet-black hair tousled from the wind, his cheekbones red with cold. He did not look happy.

  Her pseudosmile faded and she took a step backward. “Grant?”

  He shut the door and folded his arms across his impressive chest, pinning her with a dark-eyed stare. If tough, no-nonsense masculinity had a poster boy, Grant was it.

  She tried a conciliatory smile, but it melted into uncertainty.

  He flipped off the lights, plunging the room into firelit intimacy. “Take off your clothes, Maddy.”

  Four

  She froze. Her heart started pounding. Now? He was going to make love to her now?
>
  Grant ignored her and went to the fire, adding more logs and poking the coals until he had achieved the original level of intense heat. Once again, he ripped off his shirt and shoes and kicked them aside. He turned to look at her. “It’s getting late. Undress, please.”

  Despite the polite words, it was a command.

  “I thought artists needed a well-lit studio.”

  “I want to paint you by firelight.” The words were a promise, a verbal caress. His voice was deep, whiskey smooth.

  She hesitated still. “I made popcorn and hot chocolate.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “We could do this tomorrow,” she said, grasping any opportunity to postpone the inevitable.

  “I have other plans for tomorrow.”

  His meaning was clear. She flushed from her collarbone to her hairline, and it wasn’t from the fire’s wicked heat. She licked her lips, her mouth and throat as dry as the Sahara. “Will you turn around, please?”

  “No.” His response was unequivocal. Buried beneath his impassive expression was a dare. He expected her to be confident and daring. She wasn’t sure she had it in her.

  She slipped off the floppy clown socks one at a time and dropped the bulky sweatpants. The turquoise flannel shirt covered her respectably, but her legs and feet were now bare.

  A muscle in his granite jaw flexed, but otherwise his face didn’t change. “Keep going.”

  Which would be easier? Panties first or the top? Deciding that the long shirttails provided the most protection, she reached under and dragged her underwear down her legs.

  He was waiting patiently, but she stalled, shaking with nerves. He had seen her breasts only hours before. Why was it so difficult now? Perhaps because he was staring at her with all the hungry intensity of a young cowboy eyeing his first hooker. Not that Grant would ever have been forced to pay for a prostitute. He would have been the kind of Western hero who got the preacher’s daughter and the brothel owner and every other woman in town.

  She unbuttoned the shirt, her fingers clumsy and chilled, despite the room’s toasty temperature. When the fabric hung free, she managed to look at him. His chest rose and fell with his breathing, and his hands were clenched at his sides. She shrugged her shoulders and the shirt slipped to the floor.