Stevie Lee

by Tara Janzen

  “Come on, Stevie”—his breath was enough to make her faint—“lay those lips on me, honey.”

  “Ah . . . ah,” she couldn’t breathe. Her right hand slapped the desk behind her in a frantic search for something to hit him with. The adding machine fell under her grasp. Not the adding machine, Stevie! She kept searching, and gasping.

  “Sweet, sweet, Stevie Lee,” he crooned, his hand groping up her leg.

  That did it. She went back for the piece of office equipment, wrapping her fingers around the side and swinging it up in a desperate arc. But before she could connect it with his head, he released her. Stevie slid to the floor with a thump. Kong was less than a second behind her.

  Pulse racing, lungs burning, she stared at the mountain of man sprawled on the floor in front of her. What in the world had gotten into him? And what in the world had happened to him? she wondered. Had he had a heart attack? A stroke? Passed out?

  “Are you okay?”

  Stevie’s head jerked up at the sound of a rough, masculine voice—and her heart stopped for an eternally long instant. Never, ever, not even in her wildest dreams had she seen anyone like the man towering over her.

  Standing in the rubble strewn across the floor, he blocked the light with his broad shoulders and powerfully built body, an ancient warrior come to life. Shaggy, golden hair swept away from his shadowed face like a lion’s mane, layering over the quilted fabric of a white parka. One of his hands was still clenched into a fist, the imprint of which she was sure she’d find on Kong’s jaw.

  Speechlessly, Stevie followed the dark line of his T-shirt down to a bright silver buckle and a pair of ragged jeans hanging low on his hips. A thigh-length tear in the denim revealed thickly corded muscles beneath the dark, bare skin of his left leg. Melting ice dampened the lower half of his pants and pooled around his scuffed, heavy boots.

  “Are you okay?” he repeated, hunkering down on one knee and filling her world with the barest of smiles and strangely compelling dark blue eyes.

  Okay? she wondered, her own eyes widening in disbelief; she couldn’t even breathe. Halsey Morgan was alive. The mountains outside were beautiful and strong, and this man had the same natural beauty—clean and pure, and as wild as the places he’d seen, as untamed as the mountains he’d climbed. Pale lines, no doubt caused by days of squinting into the sun over an endless sea, feathered the corners of his eyes. The broad, masculine features of his face were burnt brown by the same tropical sun, a rich dark color shining with vitality.

  “. . . and I thought you were dead,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off him.

  “Yeah, well, a lot of people probably wrote me off. It’s not the first time.” His easy grin broadened into a dazzling smile. The heat of it warmed the faraway depths of his eyes, and melted Stevie’s socks.

  Whoa . . . The thought slipped through the back alleys of her mind, catching at her heart and slowing her pulse to a long cadence. His was a midnight smile, the kind you wanted to find on the pillow next to yours when the world was dark and quiet. The kind you wanted to feel against your throat while he whispered something, anything, against your skin.

  Hal read the emotions as they crossed her face, and what they told him triggered every sensual avenue in his body. There were a lot of things he wasn’t ready to face yet: Freeway traffic, junk food, and anything resembling a shopping mall. But in the space of a breath, he realized how ready he was for a woman, this woman.

  Silky waves of hair tumbled over her shoulders, half in and half out of the braid hanging to her waist. The honey-brown ribbon draped across her full breasts and bisected the word “Dynamite” embroidered on the clingy, red cotton of her shirt. Silently he agreed. She was pure dynamite.

  She’d spoken as if she knew him, but one look at her face—creamy skin blushed by the sun, a full wide mouth, and clear gray eyes shadowed by nothing more than her thick, dark lashes—and he knew he never would have forgotten her. All those hours on the beach, dreaming of the pleasure of a woman in his arms, were coming back to him with an intensity he was finding hard to resist.

  Stevie felt the slow, heated track of his gaze lingering on her breasts. She felt his eyes on her like a touch as they drifted to her face, and she knew the time had long since passed when she should have gotten a grip, any kind of a grip on herself. But it was too late.

  Gently, he reached out and cupped her chin in his palm. The warmth of his hand, the brush of his thumb below her mouth, caused her lips to part, and her heart to stop.

  The slight gesture was all the encouragement he needed. He leaned forward, pulling her closer, the golden length of his hair slipping over his shoulder and melding with hers. For a moment, his lips grazed her cheek, warming her skin; then his mouth claimed hers, lightly, sweetly.

  Her soft intake of breath told him of her surprise, and her hesitation—and the even softer feel of her mouth told him of her willingness. Hal knew what he was doing was wrong, but it didn’t stop him from running his hand along the curve of her jaw, tunneling his fingers through the silkiness of her hair, and losing himself in the tender delight of her kiss.

  From the outside in, all of Stevie’s awareness pooled into the lazy, sensual track of his mouth over hers, leaving no place for her shock to take hold. She raised her hand to his shoulder, meaning to push him away. But the moment she touched him, his tongue slid into her mouth. A hundred emotions instantly collided in her chest and fragmented into a thousand demanding desires. They made her curl her fingers around the downy material of his parka. They forced her mouth open and beckoned to long-forgotten sensations.

  Hal felt the emotions coursing through her body, and he wanted nothing more, and nothing less, than to lower her to the floor and ease his months of loneliness away, to rediscover the special joy of a woman, to discover the mysteries of this special woman. But however compliant she seemed in his arms, he knew he’d taken advantage of her in a weak moment and that all too soon, she’d realize it. To save himself from certain condemnation—and maybe a slap in the face, or worse—he slowly pulled himself from her.

  When he lifted his head, his eyes were dark, his face flushed beneath his tan. “Sorry about that,” he said softly, not sounding the least bit repentant.

  Stevie had no such apology to offer. Halsey Morgan was definitely, incredibly alive. Her lips tingled with the knowledge. His body, so hard beneath her hands, so close to hers, tempted her to pull him back down for another kiss.

  Get that grip, Stevie, or you’re going to make a fool out of yourself. The voice of reason stayed her hand in the nick of time.

  “I need a drink.” She choked the words out around the huge lump of embarrassment forming in her throat. What was going on in this town tonight? she wondered. Had the storm unleashed everybody’s primal urges? First Kong, then Halsey Morgan. She hadn’t seen this much action since . . . since she didn’t know when. Her knees trembled as she struggled to her feet. Nobody hit on Stevie Lee Brown; that was rule number one—and it had just been busted up and tossed around like so much confetti. “I really need a drink,” she repeated more forcefully.

  “Sounds good.” He smiled and rose with her, helping her with a hand around her arm. “What about him?” He nodded at the sprawling giant.

  Stevie followed his gesture, took one look, and said, “I think he’s had enough.” Then she stepped over the size-fourteen logging boots and made a beeline for the bar,

  Hal’s grin broadened from ear to ear as he followed her through the narrow hall. The lady had remarkable recuperative powers. She also had a remarkable body. Somehow, he’d forgotten how a pair of stone-washed jeans looked on a pair of long legs belonging to someone of the feminine gender. This lady had just reminded him in no uncertain terms—they looked great. His appreciative gaze told him the term “Dynamite” had more to do with the way she put one foot in front of the other than with anything under the hood of the Mustang. And her kiss? Well, her kiss defied any comparison on either side of any ocean. His gri
n broadened. The end of the trail had never looked, or felt, so good.

  How did she get into these messes? Stevie wondered, holding her head with one hand and groping in the well for the whiskey bottle with the other. Finding it, she poured herself a healthy shot and finished it in one long swallow. Her nose wrinkled as she set the glass back on the bar. She preferred gin, but gin made her crazy. Years ago she’d figured out it must be all those juniper berries used to flavor the gin. Once, in a fancy restaurant down in Denver, she’d seen a high-priced item on the menu that was made with juniper berries. She’d steered clear of it too.

  But she’d done a darn poor job of steering clear of Halsey Morgan. She heard him come up behind her, and a jolt of panic stopped her heart cold. For an everlasting moment, she held her breath, her hand tightening on the shot glass. On a night as crazy as this one had been, anything that happened once could easily happen twice.

  His heavy boots creaked across the old wooden floor step by step but thankfully kept going to the other side of the bar. Best place for him, she thought with relief, following him out of the corner of her eye, not at all sure what to do about him. Stevie Lee Brown wasn’t used to being rescued, and she sure wasn’t used to being kissed, by anyone, not in a long time—and never the way he’d kissed her.

  Barely refortified by the whiskey, she waited for him to sit down. “What’s your pleasure?” she asked, straining to keep her voice steady.

  The immediate quirk of his mouth gave the familiar request an entirely new meaning, and much to her dismay, she felt an equally immediate reaction—the faint heat of a blush stealing over her cheeks.

  She wanted to run and hide from the teasing glint in his eyes, from her own emotional confusion. Instead she reached way down deep inside herself for the strength to hold his gaze. He’d already breached far, far too many of her invisible barriers, and the few she had left were dangerously close to buckling under. Had she really allowed him to kiss her? To touch his mouth to hers? To hold her?

  “Wh-what would you like to drink?” she stammered into the silence, needing desperately to take some kind of control.

  He was still smiling, and Stevie wished he’d stop. Then maybe she could get her brain back in working order.

  “Whatever you’re having is fine,” he replied, easing down on a bar stool.

  His acquiescence, however slight, gave her confidence a boost. “Not quite. The man who punched out Kong Kingman deserves better than well liquor. How about a shot of Chivas?” she asked, but inside she wondered if his voice had always been so gravelly, or if the tropical sun had burned the softness out of it the same way it had burned the color out of his hair. The comparatively bright light in the bar showed a darker color under the white-blond, a sable-brown to match his eyebrows and the hair feathering over his ears.

  When he said “Fine,” she picked the bottle off the shelf.

  “Kong Kingman?”

  She poured his drink and hesitated, smoothing a swath of dishevelled hair behind her ear. “Jerry, actually,” she explained. Then she threw caution to the wind and poured herself another shot—of the good stuff this time. “But he fancies himself a big ape, and no one’s ever disagreed. Least of all me, especially tonight. Thanks . . . I owe you.” The admission came hard and caused her heart to sink a little lower in her chest.

  A quick smile tugged at Hal’s mouth; the pretty lady with the deadly curves had given him the perfect opening. “How about a ride home then? My truck conked out in the middle of Main Street. I don’t live too far out of town, only about five—”

  “County Road Four,” she interrupted. At his immediate look of confusion, she plowed ahead, deciding that her best defense in this situation was to lay her cards on the table—one at a time, of course. “We’re neighbors. Won’t be out of my way at all. But even if it was, I’d give you a ride home. You saved my—me a pile of trouble. Stevie Lee Brown.” She lifted her shot glass in salute.

  “Halsey Morgan,” he replied, his mouth curving into another one of those wonderfully alarming, midnight smiles.

  “Salud.” Stevie quickly dowsed the flutter of her pulse with a shot of premium Scotch. False courage, they called it, but Stevie wasn’t in any position to quibble.

  Hal followed suit, wincing as the liquor burned a path down his throat. Months of coconut milk and rainwater had hardened him in some ways, but obviously softened him in others.

  “I don’t remember having a neighbor,” he said when he found his voice again.

  “You didn’t the last time you were here. Your property borders my dad’s ranch.” Her voice didn’t sound the least bit strained by the straight shot of alcohol. It flowed melodically, her western drawl lengthening all of her vowels and slurring the harder edges off of her consonants. Hal liked the sound. “He built the cabin for me two years ago. I’m at the top of the meadow, just above your place.” She paused, taking a deep breath and slanting a wary look up at him from under her lashes. “I’ve been—uh—I’ve been . . . do you want a beer to chase that with?” she asked in a rush.

  “Please.” He nodded, wondering what in the world she’d been doing, and why, if it was so nerve-wracking, she wanted to tell him. She reached behind her and scooped a beer mug off the shelf. For a second he thought she wasn’t going to get a grip on it, but she did without even a second glance.

  “Light or dark?”

  “Dark.” Like the lashes shadowing your soft gray eyes, he thought, then instantly wondered where the fanciful thought had come from. Shifting uneasily on the stool, he attempted to steer his mind in another direction. “Have you had a lot of trouble around here with guys like Kong?”

  “Only once,” she replied, seemingly absorbed in filling the stein. With a practiced move, she floated a cocktail napkin precisely in front of him and landed the beer without spilling a drop.

  Despite the slender curves, the long tumble of gold-streaked hair, and the intense memory of the softness of her kiss, Hal believed her. When she spoke, the firm set of her mouth had no-nonsense stamped all over it. He wished he could say the same for his imagination. It was going hog-wild behind the calm exterior of his face, fantasizing about her breasts and legs, and her hair spread out and falling through his fingers.

  Say something, Hal, he told himself. Say something before you do something stupid—like lean over and kiss her again, and this time get yourself coldcocked by a Chivas bottle.

  “So we’re neighbors, but we’ve never met.” The slight lift in his voice turned the statement into a question.

  “I know you by reputation and exploits, but no, we’ve never met.”

  Hal knew there were a few women here and there around the world who latched onto mountain climbers and river runners, looking for vicarious and not so vicarious thrills, but this lady didn’t seem the type—which left him still mildly confused.

  “And yet you were worried when you thought I was dead?” he asked, lifting the stein to his mouth.

  Guileless gray eyes met his squarely, and her sweet, no-nonsense mouth delivered a shocking blow. “Hoping is more like it.”

  Hal choked on his beer. It sputtered out of his mouth, ran down his chin, and soaked the last dry spot on his body—the front of his shirt.

  “Sorry about that.” Stevie handed him a bar towel and gave herself a mental kick. Sure, she wanted to be the one to tell him, but even on her worst days she usually showed more tact.

  What in the hell had he gotten himself into? Hal wondered, mopping away and feeling like a fool. He’d only been in town one day and already he’d been looked at strangely, lost his only transportation, ended up in a bar fight, and gotten turned on by a woman who wished he was dead. Civilization certainly had taken a turn for the worse since he’d left.

  He wiped up the beer pooling in the creases of his jeans, and felt a cold trickle run down his thigh through the ripped cloth. Dammit, he thought, he was half-frozen already. Maybe it was time to call in his debts. Big John still owed him a few plane tickets for
the endorsement Hal had given his ski area. He’d ask for one to the other side of the earth. Maybe things would look better down under, where Chauncey Keats would be good for a month of room and board in the outback, considering that Hal had damn near died testing his newfangled tent in Alaska. He’d learned one thing from that venture—never trust an alpine tent built by someone who lived in a desert.

  “It’s nothing personal.” Her soft reassurance broke into his thoughts.

  “Nothing personal?” He jerked his head up, his voice rising to an incredulous pitch. “A woman I don’t even know wants me dead, and it’s nothing personal?”

  “I didn’t want you dead. Lost worked out just as well.”

  He was lost all right. “What in the hell did I ever do to you?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  “Nothing, but lost . . . or dead . . . you’re worth about seventy grand to me. On the hoof you’re worthless.”

  Hal slumped back on his bar stool. Worthless? Well that was a fine how-do-you-do from a woman he’d saved from the clutches of a big hairy ape. “You beat all, lady. You really beat all.”

  “You asked.” She shrugged and set another beer in front of him, but Hal wasn’t at all sure he wanted it. “Go ahead. It’s safe. I wouldn’t do you or anybody else in for money. Not even seventy thousand dollars.”

  Seventy thousand dollars? The thought wrinkled his brow. How could he possibly be worth that kind of money to anyone—dead or alive? Hell, he’d probably have to pay somebody to take the damn truck off his hands, and the only other thing he owned in the whole wide world was . . .

  “My cabin,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes and pinning her with an accusing glare. “You’re after my cabin.”

  “Not only after it, but almost got it. You haven’t paid your taxes in two years.” There, she’d done her good deed for the night. It felt awful.

  “Taxes?” He looked at her as if she were crazy. “Sorry to disappoint you, lady, but I haven’t had any income in two years. Maybe longer. Besides, what do my taxes have to do with you?”