He brushed past her, moving too fast for her to grab him and get her phone out of his pocket. He set down the groceries on the porch and fumbled with his keys.
She just stood there, gaping at him. “I am not leaving without my phone.” Her life was on that phone—her connection to the world. If she didn’t have it...well, she didn’t have anything.
He stopped as he got the door open and turned back to her. “You leave right now or you won’t be leaving at all.” He pointed at the sky behind her.
Reluctantly, Natalie turned her face into the wind. It was so bitingly strong that it was hard to keep her eyes open. Finally, she saw what he was talking about. It wasn’t just the gray sky that had washed the colors out of the landscape—it was a huge gray cloud. Suddenly, she could tell that it was moving—quickly. The cloud was bearing down on them, erasing the landscape underneath it. It was a living, moving thing—a wall of swirling white. She hadn’t noticed because she’d been too busy looking at her phone and then at him. There weren’t many buildings around here to use as landmarks, but it was clear now that the storm was almost upon her and that she was screwed.
For the first time that day, she felt real fear. Not just the everyday anxiety that she struggled with all the time—no, this was a true, burning fear. Storms in Denver could be a weather event—but there were snowplows and twenty-four-hour pharmacies. There were snow shovels and sidewalks, and sooner rather than later, she would be able to get out and move around her city.
But now she was in the middle of nowhere with a blizzard about to hit. This wasn’t the makings of a white Christmas. And given that she was already half-frozen, it wouldn’t take much to finish her off.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring at the cloud wall. Time seemed to slow down the faster the storm moved. Then, suddenly, she was in the wall of snow and wind. She tried to scream, but the wind tore her cries out of her throat and threw them away. Her first instinct was to curl into a ball and shield her nearly bare legs, but dimly, in the back of her mind, she knew she needed to move. Standing still meant death. Not the slow death of a ratings slide. A real, irreversible, not-coming-back-from-it death.
She stumbled to one side, but the wind pushed her back. Her car! She looked around but couldn’t even see the Mustang. There was nothing but gray and stinging snowflakes and blisteringly cold wind.
Then, unexpectedly, she felt something warm and solid at her back. Arms closed around her waist and physically lifted her into the air. Wesley. Her first instinct was to struggle—but the fact that he was warm overrode everything else. She let him carry her, trusting that he knew where he was and where he was going. After what seemed like an hour but was probably only a minute or two, a dark shape loomed out of the snow—the house. He carried her up steps and thrust her through the door, where she promptly tripped over the groceries. She landed with a thud on her bottom, dazed and freezing and wet.
She looked up and saw Wesley struggling to get the door shut. He put his shoulder into it and slammed it against the wind, and instantly, she felt at least ten degrees warmer.
“Thank you,” she said. Well, she tried to say it. Her teeth were chattering so hard what came out sounded more like a keyboard clicking.
Wesley loomed over her, his hands on his hips. At some point, he’d lost his hat, which meant that for the first time, she had a really good look at his face. His hair was a deep brown and his face was tanned. He had snowflakes stuck to his two-week beard. She couldn’t stop shivering, but he just stood there like an immovable boulder.
An angry immovable boulder.
She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, as if he could see exactly how worthless she felt. So, still shaking so hard that she could barely get her feet under her, she stood. It was then she realized she’d lost one of her shoes. Dammit, those had been Dolce & Gabbana.
“Thank you,” she said again. It came out less clicky this time. “I’ll just warm up and then I’ll go.” She swallowed. “I’d like my phone back, please, but I promise I won’t take any pictures of you.” It hurt to make that promise because her producer was expecting results and without them...
CJ Wesley had just saved her life. He obviously didn’t like her, but he’d still dragged her into his house. And for that, she was grateful.
“You don’t get it, do you?”
She could be grateful and still be irritated at the tone in his voice, right? “Get what?”
“The convertible of yours? It’s not four-wheel drive, is it?”
“No...”
He sighed heavily and looked toward the ceiling. “I send you back out in this, assuming you can even get to your car before you freeze to death in that getup,” he said, waving a dismissive hand at her outfit, “you won’t make it off the property. You’ll drive off the road, get stuck in a ditch and freeze to death before nightfall.” He leveled a hard gaze at her and all of her self-defense mechanisms failed her. She shrank back. “You’re stuck here, Ms. Baker. You’re stuck here with me for the duration.”
Three
“What?”
CJ had to stop himself from stepping forward and brushing the snowflakes from her eyelashes. She was an ice princess right now, the White Witch of Winter. If he wasn’t careful, she just might bewitch him. “You’re not going anywhere.”
She shuddered again and this time, he didn’t think it was entirely from the cold. Now what? Maybe he should have just left her out there, since he couldn’t seem to get rid of her any other way.
But even as he thought it, he felt guilty. That was not the Wesley way and he knew it. So now, it appeared he would be spending the next several days—possibly even Christmas—with Natalie Baker. The one woman who had not only figured out he was related to Hardwick Beaumont, but also wanted to use that knowledge for...for what? Ratings?
“I could...” She looked out the front window. CJ looked with her. It was a solid mass of gray. It could’ve been fog, except for the small particles of snow and ice pinging off the window.
“No, you can’t. I’m not going to let you freeze to death out there.” He gritted his teeth. How was he going to keep her out of his business if she were physically stuck in his house?
How was he going to keep his hands off of her if she were stuck in his house?
Hell, he’d already failed at that. He’d picked her up and all but slung her over his shoulder like he was a caveman, dragging her back to his cave. Her body had been cold, yes—but also soft and light and...
“You’re probably freezing,” he went on, trying to stay in the present.
Because the present was a wet woman who was criminally underdressed. He needed to get her warmed up before she caught her death. And given the way the wind was howling out there, he didn’t have a lot of time. “You better take a hot shower while we still have power. And if there’s anyone you need to call to let them know you’re all right, you should do that now.” She opened her mouth but he cut her off. “You can use my house phone.”
He wanted her to move, or at least do something—but she didn’t. Instead she looked at him with a mixture of confusion and anxiety. “Are you being nice to me?”
“No,” he answered quickly, even though it was a lie and they both knew it. “But I don’t want your death on my hands.”
That statement sobered her up. “Oh.”
She sounded small and vulnerable and dammit, that pulled at something inside of him. But he wasn’t going to listen to that something because he liked to think he wasn’t an idiot. And only an idiot would fall for whatever Natalie Baker was trying to pull over him. She’d spent weeks hunting for him and she’d already tried to use her fabulous body as an enticement on more than one occasion. For all he knew, she had decided raw sexuality wouldn’t work and instead was making a play for his heartstrings.
It wasn’t going to work. He was immune to all the vulnerability she was projecting right now. “Who do you need to call?”
He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she
seemed to get even smaller. “Well, I guess...” There was a long pause. “Well...” she said again, blinking furiously. “No one.”
He stared at her. “You’re probably going to be here for Christmas, you realize that, right?” Surely, there had to be someone who would miss her. She was a famous TV personality. He’d recognized her the moment she set foot in the feed store. Someone as beautiful and talented as Natalie Baker... Even if she didn’t have close family, she had to have friends.
She shook her head. Then she tried to smile. “I’m not going to lie, the shower sounds great. I don’t think I’ve ever been this cold.”
He eyed her clothes again. She kicked out of her other shoe, and suddenly, she barely came up to his shoulder. She had nothing on her legs but a tight, short skirt underneath a peacoat in a wild fuchsia color. He couldn’t decide if she was oblivious or just stupid about the weather. Or if she’d planned it this way—planned on getting herself trapped out here with him.
Either way, he was willing to get her some dry clothes. That skirt wasn’t going to keep her warm even if he got his fireplace cranked up. “All right. But,” he said before she could make a move deeper into his house, “these are the rules. I hold on to your phone for as long as you’re here and you stay out of my life. Otherwise, it’s a hell of a long walk to town in this weather.”
He wouldn’t really kick her out—but she didn’t need to know that.
For a second, a sign of toughness flashed over her face and he thought she was going to argue. But just then, the wind rattled the door and the color—what little of it she’d managed to regain—drained from her face. She nodded, looking almost innocent. “Understood. I’m sorry that I’m intruding upon your Christmas.”
He rolled his eyes. “Are you?”
It wasn’t a nice thing to say—thereby proving her wrong. He wasn’t being all that nice to her. Which bothered him, even though it shouldn’t. It especially bothered him when she had the nerve to look so...defeated. Sure, maybe that was the wet clothes and the straggly hair—and the mascara that had started to slide. The woman before him right now was anything but polished.
Before his guilt could get the better of him, he said, “This way.”
This was a mistake because someone like Natalie Baker—he didn’t even know what to call her. A journalist? A reporter? A talking head? Well, whatever she was, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep her out of his life, not if they were going to be stranded here for four or five days. Sooner or later, she’d stumble upon something he didn’t want her to see. His baby book or the awkward photo from eighth grade when he accidentally cut his hair into a mullet while trying to be fashionable.
He hoped she’d take a long shower so he could do a sweep of the house and hide as much of his life as he could.
He passed the thermostat and cranked it up. It might get warm in the house, but with the way that wind was blowing, they would lose power sooner rather than later. If he hadn’t been busy arguing with her, he could’ve gotten the generator going already. As it was, he’d have to wait until the snow stopped. And who knew when that would be.
Besides, when he glanced back at her, she had her arms wrapped around herself as she trailed after him. Her lips were blue—actually, all of her looked blue. Crap. He really did need to get her warmed up.
He led her back to the guest room, which had the advantage of being the room with the least amount of family pictures. As long as they had power, he’d leave her in this room. If he could, he’d lock her in it—but he knew that would only make matters worse. He could see the headline now—Long-Lost Beaumont Bastard Locks Beloved Celebrity in Guest Room.
No, thank you.
The guest room had an attached bathroom. “We’re probably going to lose power in the next half hour, so plan accordingly.” He thought she nodded—it was hard to tell, because she was shaking so hard.
God, what a mess. He went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. “Make sure you stay in there until you’ve returned to a normal temperature.”
The other alternative to get her body temperature back up was to strip them both down and crawl under the covers with her.
He looked at her legs again. Long and, when not borderline frostbitten, probably tanned. The kind of legs that would wrap around him and—
Whoa.
He slammed the brakes on that line of thought something quick. There would be no nudity, no cuddling and absolutely no sex. What he had to do right now, as steam curled out of the bathroom and she shrugged out of her fuchsia coat to reveal a thin silk blouse that was soaked at the cuffs and collar, was remember that every single thing he said and did from this point on was as good as public. He wouldn’t touch her and, what’s more, he wouldn’t allow her to touch him. End of discussion.
“I’ll bring in some better clothes for you,” he said as he headed out of the room. Because if he had a look at her walking around in that tight skirt and that sheer blouse for the next three or four days...
He was a strong man. But even he wasn’t sure he was that strong. Not if she was going to look all soft and vulnerable as well as sexy.
“Thank you,” she said again in that delicate voice.
No, he wasn’t going to think of her as vulnerable. Or delicate. It was probably just an act designed to get him to open up to her.
He hurried to his parents’ room and dug out some appropriate clothing—long underwear, jeans, shirts and sweaters and socks. His mom was a little shorter and a lot curvier than Natalie Baker, but her things should fit. Better than anything of his, anyway. She’d swim in one of his sweaters.
He knocked on the guest room door and, when no one replied, he cracked it open. Good. The bathroom door was closed and he heard splashing. She was in the shower, then. Standing nude under the hot water, maybe even running the soap over her body, her bare breasts, her...
He hoped she’d locked that damn door. He laid the clothes out on the bed and almost scooped up her things to take them down to the laundry room to dry. But then he caught sight of the lacy bra and matching panties—pale pink, like a confection that she’d worn on her body—and he drew back his hand as if he’d been burned. Okay, so now he was going to not think about her body wearing those things. And he also had to not think about her not wearing those things.
Oh, God. This was a disaster in the making.
He forced his thoughts away from the woman steaming up the shower. He had practical things that he needed to get done. It was obvious she had no idea how to ride out a blizzard, which meant it was up to him to keep them both from freezing to death.
He made sure that every other door on the second floor was shut, then he hurried downstairs, pausing to snag the family photos off the wall. He shoved those into the coat closet. Luckily, he’d laid a fire in the fireplace before he’d gone to town this morning, so all he had to do was light it. Once it was going, he went to the kitchen. He had a roast in a slow cooker, but he turned on the gas oven anyway, just to build up the heat in the house. Once the power went, the wind would sap any warmth from this room in a matter of minutes. And if he just left it on, he wouldn’t have to worry about lighting it with a match later.
He scrubbed a couple of potatoes and put them in the oven and then, after a moment of internal debate, dug an apple pie out of the freezer and put it in the oven, too.
Every fall, his mom went into a frenzy of cooking and baking. CJ had long ago figured out that it was her way of coping with the guilt of leaving her only son alone during the holidays. He had an entire deep freeze full of casseroles and cobblers and meals in bags that all he had to do was heat up in the oven or the slow cooker. Pretty much the only thing she didn’t leave him was pizza and beer, which was why he’d headed to the store this morning after sending his hired hands home for the storm and cutting his chores short. If he was going to be snowed in for Christmas, he wanted a couple of pizzas to round out the menu.
Then he did another sweep of the downstairs. He pulled more p
hotos from the wall and the mantel over the fireplace. These he carried back to the office—that had a door he could lock. If he could, he’d put the entire house in that room and bolt the door shut.
The parlor was where most of the photo albums were—it had a door, but not a lock. Well, he’d just have to keep her out of it. Much as he didn’t like it, he would have to stick to Natalie Baker like glue.
Finally, with dinner underway and as much of his life hidden as he could hide, he headed back up the stairs. Just as he reached the top, she opened her door and stepped out into the hall.
CJ’s breath caught in his throat. Gone was the too-polished, too-perfect celebrity. And in her place...
She’d pulled her hair into a low tail at the side. Her face was free of makeup, but somehow she looked even prettier. Softer, definitely.
That softness was dangerous. So was any question he was asking himself right now about whether or not she’d put the lacy pink panties back on.
So he did his best to focus on anything but that. “Better?” he asked in a gruff voice, but he didn’t need to ask because he could tell. The color had come back into her cheeks—a natural blush instead of an artfully applied one. Her hair was fair—more blond than it looked on-screen. Without the heavy layer of eye makeup, her eyes seemed wider, more crystal blue.
Bad. This was bad.
“Yes, thank you.” Even her voice sounded different now. True, she was no longer shivering with cold, but when she was on television, talking to the camera and interviewing stars, her voice had a certain cadence to it, low and husky. That was gone now.
CJ realized with a start that he might be looking at the real Natalie Baker. And he couldn’t do that. If he started thinking of her as a real person instead of a talking head, then he might get lost in those blue eyes.
Luckily, the storm saved him from himself. With a pop, all the lights went out. Natalie didn’t scream, but he heard her gasp in alarm.
“It’s all right,” he said, coming the rest of the way to get her. The hall was darker than normal because he’d shut the doors. “It’s okay. I’m right here.” He reached out to touch her—just to give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. But when he did so, she latched onto his forearm with a tight, fearful grip.
Rich Rancher for Christmas Page 3
