by JoAnn Ross
“Yes, dammit.”
Nine
She closed her eyes, expecting the former Marine to ravish, to take what she was so willingly offering. But instead, she felt the curve of his lips against hers.
“Well”—his voice, husky with lust, but tinged with humor, had her toes curling in her Uggs—“since you put it that way.”
Needs. Hunger. Lust. They surged through Gabe, battering away at his hard-won self-control, demanding satisfaction.
In response to her demand, he crushed her against him as his lips turned hard. Fueled by his own burning hunger, driven by her uninhibited response, he wanted to devour her—her warm, ripe mouth, her hot, peach-scented skin, which was practically melting beneath his now roving hands.
His tongue was in her mouth, his hands were beneath the sweater on her breasts, and as he pressed against that soft, womanly place between her thighs, he felt about to burst all five metal buttons beneath his fly.
Too fast, he told himself as her mouth clung to his and her silky soft hands dove beneath his sweatshirt. Too soon. Although his aching body was shouting at him to take her the hell to bed, now, when he did make love to her, and Gabe had every intention of doing exactly that, he wanted to be able to take his time. To give, as well as take.
When her greedy touch went lower, her fingers slipping between denim and skin, he grasped hold of her wrists.
Not yet ready to quit, he pinned her hands to the wooden post of the bed and slowed the pace, lips plucking at hers again, rather than devouring, his tongue leaving the lush hot moistness of her mouth to skim a slow, tantalizing circle around her parted lips.
“Dammit.” His breath was rough. Ragged. His body ached and his damn heart hadn’t pounded against his ribcage this hard since the last time he’d been on a battlefield. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”
And because he did want her, more than was either reasonable or safe, he let go of her and backed away.
“I think that was fairly evident.” Her eyes were wide, and just a little unfocused, which was sexy as hell, as she rubbed her wrists.
“You didn’t say no,” he reminded her.
“Would it have mattered?” On a flare of heat, she tossed up that stubborn, pointed chin.
“Hell, yes.” She might as well have slapped him. “I’ve never been into forcing women.”
“Like you’d ever have to,” she muttered.
The mood was disintegrating. Like morning mist that rose from the lake each summer, only to be burned away by the sun. But her tone, rather than sexy warm, or even annoyed hot, had turned as chilly as the icicles hanging from the cabin’s eaves.
Women, Gabe thought. From five to twenty-eight—and he knew exactly how old she was because he’d taken the time to Google her while she’d been in the kitchen with his mother—they could all be as capricious as the damn weather.
“You met my mother.”
Because it was impossible to be this close to her and not touch, he linked their fingers together and led her out of the room and down the stairs, away from the temptation of that king-size bed.
Not that the lack of a bed would stop him if he put aside principles and just went for what he wanted. Especially since he was really, really tempted to drag her down onto the rug in front of the stone fireplace.
But hadn’t he learned the hard way that people could get hurt when you only thought about your own sexual needs?
“Do you think she’d have raised a guy who didn’t respect women?” he asked.
“No.” Holly blew out a breath as they reached the front door. “And it’s not just her. I watched you with your daughter. You’re a nice guy, Gabriel O’Halloran.”
“Terrific.” Because his body still wanted her, still ached with the need for her, and because she’d just reminded him that Emma was waiting in bed for him to read the Grinch story to her, Gabe laughed. A harsh, rough sound from deep in his throat. “Kittens are nice. Boy Scouts and TV weathermen are nice. Believe me, sweetheart, a lot of the things I want to do with you don’t begin to fit into that category.”
He skimmed a finger beneath the eye that, despite the ice pack his mother had given her, was still blossoming into one hell of a shiner.
“You’ve had a stressful day.” His mother’s response to stress came to mind. “Why don’t you take a long, hot bubble bath and relax?”
Hell. The words had no sooner come out of his mouth than Gabe regretted them. Because they stirred up images of being naked with her straddling his legs in that oversize tub. And afterward, smoothing lotion the scent of ripe peaches over every inch of her porcelain-pale skin.
“Get some rest.” He plowed forward before she might just go insane and invite him into that bathtub with her. “Since breakfast comes with the cabin, and you obviously haven’t had time to go shopping, I’ll see you in the morning.”
He skimmed a finger down her nose. Then, before he could change his mind, he turned and walked out of the cabin into the dark and snowy night.
Ten
Holly stood at the door, watching him walk out of the yellow circle of light from her own porch back to the inn. White flakes continued to fall, shawling silently over the land, and once he’d been swallowed up by the snow-swirled darkness, she could have been the only person in the world. Which was all it took to kick Holly’s imagination into high gear.
She hadn’t been all that wild about the cookie murders, anyway, having already written a black widow killer. But six weeks ago, although she’d never allowed herself to believe in writer’s block, she’d run smack into it.
She’d always read three newspapers a day looking for story ideas. Desperate, and with a deadline approaching, she’d added two more papers and more magazines than anyone could read in a lifetime.
She began taking tabloids home with her frozen dinners from the supermarket. Okay, her audience might not want to read about bat boy being found on a melting glacier at the North Pole, or the Titanic being discovered by a lunar rover in a previously uncharted sea on the moon, but there were a lot of crimes profiled between those newsprint pages. Unfortunately, none had gotten her balky muses—who seemed to have gone into permanent PMS—to cooperate.
Neither had Court TV. Nor any of the other true-life crime shows that seemed to run 24/7 on cable. It had been desperation, and a need to be anywhere away from home on Christmas, that had had her driving over the Cascades to Leavenworth.
And that same desperation had landed her in the arms of a hottie ex-Marine who had her feeling things she’d forgotten she could feel. Tingling in places she’d never known she could tingle.
But now, as she closed the heavy wooden door, she thought about all the things that might be lurking out there in the dark winter night.
Mountain lions, perhaps? Although bears were supposed to hibernate, surely once in a while a rogue one might come out of its den to go searching for food. Or wolves, which, thinking about it, the wind in the top of the trees sort of sounded like. Did they have wolves in Washington?
But even as that idea caused the hair to rise on her arms, she didn’t write about killer animals. Well, actually she did, but Holly had always thought human animals could be far more terrifying due to their propensity for evil.
What if a woman was alone here in this very cabin while a serial killer lurked outside, armed, with a huge hunting knife—with a serrated edge and ugly blood groove—hidden in his boot?
But what was the woman doing here, out in the middle of nowhere? Perhaps her car had broken down?
No.
Holly shook her head as she took the plastic lid off the takeout cup and sipped the buttered rum, which while no longer exactly hot, was still warm. That was too close to real life. It wasn’t always easy keeping fact and fiction separate, and bringing her own experience into her story could very well blur the line.
So...
She began to pace the wooden plank floor, her mind spinning with possibilities. What if it just wasn’t a lone woma
n at risk—which brought to mind all those Halloween slasher stories—but a young mother? With a small son.
No. A little girl. With hair the color of a newly minted penny, who was clever and funny and chattered like a magpie.
Although Holly hated putting children in jeopardy, even in books, there was admittedly something visceral about the idea. Something that her readers could connect emotionally with.
“But what would they be doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” she asked herself out loud.
Running from something. Or someone. Hiding out. Perhaps to keep the little girl safe?
Holly felt a stirring in the far reaches of her mind and realized that she’d just hit on something that had appealed to one of those bitchy muses who’d been refusing to cooperate.
“That’s it. She’s running from her husband.” A dangerously possessive psychopath who’d do anything, stop at nothing, to get her back.
Of course, she considered as she took another sip of the cooling rum, even if her beleaguered heroine knew every martial art in the world, and was armed to the teeth, she’d still be in danger.
Unless . . .
“There’s a hottie sheriff in town.” That worked, she thought. So long as he was self-assured enough not to overpower the heroine’s autonomy. “Maybe former military.”
She nodded, liking that idea. “A former Navy SEAL.” Which was a possibility, but she’d also written SEALs in her second and fourth books, which had been set in San Diego and Virginia Beach.
“Maybe a former Marine.” Her mind immediately spun up an image of thick black hair and steely gray eyes. “Who’s come back to his hometown and taken on his father’s job as sheriff.”
That worked, Holly decided.
She went over to the kitchen table, where Gabriel had left her laptop, took it out of the case, and sat down to work.
As the words started flowing, like water from a magical well, and her muses finally began to cooperate, Holly decided that she wasn’t the only one who found the hunky inn owner an inspiration.
Eleven
It was the knock on the door that woke her. Sitting up, Holly looked around the unfamiliar surroundings.
It took her a moment to realize where she was. Aha! The inn out in the middle of the Cascade Mountains, where she’d landed after wrecking her Highlander. She squinted, trying to read her watch.
“Ten in the morning?”
She never, ever slept past seven. Except that time two years ago, when despite having a shot, she’d come down with the flu. Or, when she’d been writing madly until deadline. Which is exactly what she’d been doing last night.
She vaguely remembered saving her story. Then e-mailing it to herself, just in case some crazy electrical storm surge might come along to fry her laptop.
Then she’d dragged herself upstairs where, because even with the central heat there was a chill in the air, she’d put on her flannel pajamas, after which she’d fallen into bed.
Then crashed. That had been, what? Two hours ago?
She thought about ignoring the knock, rolling over, burying her head in the thick cloud of down pillow, and going back to sleep. But what if it was something concerning her Highlander? What if the tow truck driver had already arrived with it?
Rubbing the grit out of her eyes with her knuckles, she padded in sock-clad feet downstairs, opened the front door, and found herself looking a long way up into Gabriel O’Halloran’s apologetic gaze.
“Sorry. It looks as if we woke you up.”
“I worked late.” She ran a hand over her hair, which, if it was behaving in its usual bedhead fashion, was undoubtedly stuck up in all directions, looking as if she’d put her finger in a light socket.
A small bright head peeked around his jean-clad thighs. “Wow.” Bright eyes swept over Holly’s face. “Does your eye hurt as bad as it looks?”
Amazingly, she’d forgotten all about that. Lifting a finger to her face, Holly couldn’t quite refrain from flinching as she touched the bruised skin beneath her eye. “I don’t know how bad it looks,” she said, even as she feared the worst. “But it’s okay.”
“That’s good. I had a black eye in September, after I got in a fight with Jimmy Jones—he’s one of the big kids, in second grade—on the playground because he said Santa wasn’t real.” Pink lips turned down in a moue. “He’s not a very nice boy.”
“Doesn’t sound like it, hitting a girl,” Holly agreed.
“Oh, I hit him first,” Emma said casually. “Daddy said I was wrong, even though he told a fib about Santa.” She glanced up at her father, who nodded resigned confirmation. “Gramma was worried you’d be hungry. So we brought you breakfast. So you can eat before we go out and get your tree.”
The scent of fresh brewed coffee rose enticingly from the brown paper bag Gabe was holding. As uncomfortable as she was, letting the former Marine see her in her flannel jammies and spiky hair, not to mention whatever her eye must look like, there was no way she could resist a morning jolt of caffeine.
“That’s very considerate of your grandmother.” She moved aside, allowing them into the cabin, and folded her arms across her breasts. “What’s this about a tree?”
“It’s an inn tradition.” Gabe put the bag on the butcherblock counter, took out a tall cardboard cup, and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She took a sip and nearly wept.
“My pleasure.” He skimmed a look over her, and amazingly, instead of cringing, if the light in his eyes was any indication, actually appeared to like what he saw. “As for the tree, like I said, it’s an inn tradition. Everyone who stays here gets to choose their own from the farm.”
“Thanks,” she repeated as she took another, longer drink. It was hot, dark, sweet, and caused a much-needed jolt to her system. “But as soon as my Highlander gets fixed, I’ll be on my way.”
But not on to Leavenworth. After the nearly twenty pages she’d written last night, Holly had committed to her runaway wife and psychotic, possessive husband story. The cookie-baking black widow would have to wait.
“Ken Olson, of Olson’s Auto Repair, took his tow truck out to bring in your rig a bit ago,” Gabe said. “You’ve probably got at least a couple hours until he’s got it back to town and checked it out.”
“Well.” Holly supposed she couldn’t expect things to move as quickly up here in the mountains as they might in the city. “I appreciate your help with that. But I’m really not into the whole tree thing.”
“You don’t like Christmas trees?” When Emma’s eyes widened to saucers of disbelief, Holly felt like the Grinch who stole the little girl’s Christmas.
“I like them just fine,” she said. “It’s just . . . well, I’ve never had one.”
Emma gasped. “Never?”
“Well, not since I was seven.”
Gray eyes, replicas of her father’s, narrowed as they skimmed over her face. “Wow! That was a really, really long time ago.”
“Sorry,” Gabe said as Holly choked on her coffee. “We’re still working on the concept of tact.”
“It’s okay.” Holly wiped her lips with the back of her hand. When Gabe’s gaze followed the gesture, she knew they were thinking the same thing. Of that hot kiss they’d shared last night.
She could also tell that she’d hugely disappointed his daughter.
“Daddy grows the very bestest trees,” Emma said fervently. “We could find you the neatest one ever. To make up for all the Christmases when you went without one.”
“I think maybe Ms. Berry would just as well forgo the tree hunting experience,” Gabe told his daughter gently.
“But, Daddy, everyone else at the Ho Ho Ho Inn has a tree.” The little girl’s voice rose perilously close to a whine.
Something occurred to Holly. “Don’t you have school today?” she asked. Surely she hadn’t worked through an entire weekend?
“I’m in kindergarten,” Emma confirmed. “Which is just half days until I get to first grade next year. B
ut we had a snow day. Which is even more special because now I get to go with you to pick out the most perfect tree.”
Although the child was only five years old, it was like trying to stand up to a velvet bulldozer. Holly exchanged a look with Gabe. He shrugged, letting her know that it was her call.
“Let me get dressed,” she said. “And we’ll go see what we can find.”
“Awesome!” A small fist pumped into the air. “We brought you doughnuts, too. Since you missed breakfast.”
She held out the brown paper bag. There was a bear claw, a filled doughnut, and a flaky croissant.
“If I lived here, I’d be the size of Mrs. Santa within a week,” Holly said. Then, seeing the frown lines on the small forehead, she managed a reassuring smile. “They smell delicious.”
Emma nodded, the worry lines smoothing. “The lemon-filled doughnut is my favorite. That’s why I picked it for you.”
Holly lifted her gaze to Gabe again, who was watching her carefully. As if she’d hurt a little girl’s feelings? Holly didn’t know what the father and daughter’s backstory was, but she did know how it felt to be a child and have your life pulled out from under you. As Emma’s must have been.
“Lemon-filled are my very favorite kind,” she said, then watched him blow out a breath she suspected he’d been unaware of holding. She didn’t care what he’d said. Gabriel O’Halloran was a nice guy.
Holly took a knife from the drawer, cut the doughnut in half, and put one of the halves on a small plate from the open shelf over the sink. “But I don’t think I can eat them all myself. So why don’t we share?”
“Okay.” The cheerful child was back as she shrugged out of her coat and mittens and happily carried the plate over to the table.
“I’ll be right back down,” Holly said. “As soon as I get dressed.”
She’d just started up the stairs leading to the loft, when Gabe caught hold of her arm.
