by Terry Spear
"Turn on the heat?" He cocked an arrogant brow, his lips neutral.
One of her medieval romance novels could have featured him as a brooding, striking--albeit a bit battered--hero. Or the villain. What did she know about him, after all?
"I would have already," she said, storming back down the hall, "if an intruder hadn't been in the--"
"The electricity isn't working."
She stopped, turned, and stared at him. It would be dark soon. And even colder. Hell, she hadn't even gotten one load of firewood from the beach yet.
Now, she was stuck in the middle of the ice storm with no electricity and no phone... with a total hunk of a stranger still standing in her hallway naked.
The man slipped her brother's sweatpants on, but the corded muscles of his chest were exposed, his skin tan, no longer blue, but bruised and cut. He yanked the sweatshirt over his head. "I checked the heater while you were getting the knife. Light switches, too. There's no electricity." He pulled on the pair of sneakers.
"Then I need to gather wood for the fire." Tessa shuddered involuntarily, both from the cold and her wet clothes. But also from the fact she would have to trek back down the hill alone when the prowler might still be out there hidden in the woods, watching, waiting.
The injured man swept his hair back away from his chiseled face, the planes edged in marble. "You need to slip into something dry. I'll get the firewood."
"But you... you were half dead."
"I heal quickly."
"Good." Her voice conveyed she wasn't convinced.
No one could heal that quickly--probably trying to sound macho to appease her. She took a deep settling breath and watched him deposit the knife on the tiled kitchen counter with a clunk. His hands were big and rough. Not an artist's hands like her brother's, but strong enough to pin her to the beach, not allowing her an inch to struggle. An annoying sliver of eroticism stoked a fire deep inside her, just thinking about the way his body had pressed against hers. He'd been delirious, for heaven's sakes, and didn't even realize what he had done.
"I'm going with you, just in case you begin to feel badly. You probably suffered from a concussion and should go to the hospital. But the road will be too icy and--"
He pulled the back door open.
"Wait! Let me get my parka, and I'll get Michael's field jacket for you."
She rushed into the living room, grabbed her coat from the couch, and pulled it over her wet clothes. The turtleneck and jeans clung to her skin like pieces of cloth soaked in ice water, and again she shivered. She would have changed clothes if he had given her a couple of minutes. But if they didn't get wood in a hurry, it would be soaking wet. Forget a warm fire then.
After retrieving her brother's jacket from the hall closet, she joined the stranger in the kitchen.
"I'm Tessa Anderson, by the way, and you are?"
His forehead wrinkled slightly and his jaw tightened. "Hunter's the name, although... I can't seem to remember anything else. My tumble in the ocean probably had something to do with it."
"You don't remember a last name?" Her skin prickled with fresh unease. A naked stranger without a last name washed up on her beach and no way to get outside help in the event he was unsafe--
"I'm sure it'll come to me after a while." He threw on the jacket and headed outside.
"Wait! Gloves!"
But he was already halfway down the trail. She grabbed a pair of her brother's fur-lined leather gloves from the hall closet and rushed after Hunter. As much as she didn't want to admit it, she was more afraid of staying alone in the unsecured house, than with chasing after a stranger. Even so, she sensed the driving power inside him, the danger inherent, something about him that made her think of--she wasn't sure.
"Wait! Here are Michael's gloves!"
Moving too fast on the icy ground, she slipped. Her heart tumbled and she threw her hands out to brace her fall on the rocky path. If Hunter hadn't leapt forward and caught her wrist, pulling her into his hard embrace, she would have landed on her face.
Heat suffused every pore, and the stranger showed more than a spark of interest. His gaze smoldered with passion as he looked into her eyes, lower... to her lips.
Her chest pressed against his, his heart beat as fast as hers, maybe faster, and for an instant, he didn't seem to want to let go, his arms holding her tight, lots closer and longer than necessary. More than that--he acted like he wanted to kiss her again. Although she knew the first time had to have been a mistake--a deliriously, delicious mistake. And for an instant, she envisioned the kiss. Possessive, demanding, and oh so hot. And she, too shocked to respond, but wondering if she had, how would he have reacted?
His gaze drew back to hers. His whiskey-colored eyes--like the wolf's.
A strange awareness crept through her--like she was looking into the eyes of a predator. But then he averted his attention and released her. "The path's icy."
"Right." As if she wasn't aware of the obvious. But that wasn't half as dangerous as what had just occurred between them.
So what had occurred between them?
Trying to keep up, she hurried down the path after him.
She didn't know him. He didn't know her. Hell, he didn't even know himself. Yet there was something about him that was driving her crazy. Almost like animal magnetism. Which really was nuts. She didn't believe in primitive sexual attraction, although her brother had always teased her that she would know when she finally met the right man--a sexual draw so compelling would exist between them, she wouldn't be able to resist.
That would be the day.
"You should have stayed behind." The stranger's gruff voice snapped her right out of her sexual fantasies.
He slipped Michael's gloves on and continued down the path to the woodpile where she had first found him.
A thank you would have sufficed, she grumbled silently to herself.
Even though he appeared to be all right now, his jaw tightened when he leaned down and lifted an armload of wood, and again when he straightened his back. As injured as he was, she wished he hadn't had to help. Gathering up as much timber as she would have in three trips, he returned to the path leading up to the house.
A little ways up the hill, he stopped, cast a glance over his shoulder, his dark brows pinched together, his eyes watchful while he waited for her.
She stumbled up the path with an armload of timber, miniscule compared to the load he was carrying.
He grumbled, "I told you that you should have stayed in the house."
"Yeah, well, we need all the firewood we can get if we're going to be stuck here without electricity. Besides, I do this all the time without anyone's help."
Although that had been the case only since her brother had been incarcerated. Otherwise, he had always been the one to get the firewood and do the other more manly chores around the place. At the thought she might not see him here again for a good long while, her eyes filled with tears and she sniffled.
But she wasn't going to sit in the house, worrying whether the stranger might reinjure himself on another trip to the beach or back alone. So he was stuck with her, whether he liked it or not. Besides, staying there and worrying about the intruder's return wasn't an option either.
He shook his head, yet the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward.
He walked the rest of the way to the house, moving slower this time, as if making sure she didn't slip again or fall too far behind. At least that's what she assumed. Unless he just hurt so much, walking was difficult.
They headed inside and he set his firewood on the rack. Taking the wood from her arms, he stacked it with the rest. Then like a good Boy Scout, despite looking too roguish to be one, he set up a perfect fire. Slowly, the flames began to crackle and throw off a curl of heat.
Crouching in front of the fireplace, he frowned up at her, his darkening gaze drifting again to her turtleneck. "Why don't you get into something dry."
"I'll be fine." She couldn't admit she was afraid to be by hers
elf.
"Your clothes are soaking wet. You're shivering. The house is freezing. You're not fine. Lock the bedroom door, if you're afraid."
She clenched her teeth. She wasn't afraid of the veritable god. Well, maybe a little. She yanked off her wet gloves and parka, tossed them on the coffee table so they'd dry by the fire, and then returned to the bedroom and locked the door--as a precaution. She tried the phone; still no dial tone. She glanced at her bedside table. The gun.
She jerked the drawer open. Her heart skipped a beat. No gun.
Blind rage filled her. Feeling violated, she collapsed on the edge of the bed. If someone used the gun to commit a crime, the police would trace it straight to her. Not to mention she couldn't count on it for protection now.
How had the man known where to find it? What else had he taken? Nothing looked like it was out of place.
Focus-- get warm and dry before pneumonia sets in. Shaking violently from the cold, she stood, peeled off her wet clothes, and dumped them on the floor.
She shoved on a pair of emerald fleece sweats, matching heavy-duty socks, and her fur-lined boots. Feeling a little warmer, she hurried down the hall and dumped her wet clothes in the dryer, her thoughts centered on the naked man.
Did he really have amnesia? Or was it just a ploy to keep his identity a secret? He seemed so dangerous, maybe because he was so powerfully built. Her brother and the men she had dated were scrawny compared to this guy.
She twisted the dryer dial to turn it on high. No response. Damn, no electricity.
Grumbling, she yanked her wet things out of the dryer and hung them in the shower to drip dry. But then a dark thought crossed her mind. What if the ice storm hadn't knocked out the electricity? What if the intruder had done something to it?
She hurried to the coat closet to check the circuit breaker, glanced in the direction of the living room and noticed the fire had caught hold, its golden flames throwing off some heat. But Hunter was gone. Her heart fluttered with fresh apprehension.
She rushed to the back door and saw him trudging up the hill with another armload of firewood as big as the first. Curbing her annoyance that he would sneak out and chance injuring himself further without her being there to rescue him, she glowered.
Even her brother couldn't carry that much, certainly not if he had had been injured like this man. He reminded her of a Highland warrior, his brow creased with determination, his face dark and brooding, his body hard and ready to win any battle no matter how much his enemy had beaten him beforehand. A kilt was all he needed to complete the look. A kilt, and nothing else.
He caught her eye and offered her a hint of a smile. Hell, she'd been ogling the poor man--again.
"Do you have anything in the house to eat?"
Walking past her while she locked the door, he smelled like the sea, pines, wind, rainwater, and a rugged outdoorsman. If they could bottle his scent, the cologne would drive women crazy. With a clunk, he deposited the wood neatly with the rest, shaking her loose from her insane thoughts.
"Uhm, let me check one thing." She returned to the coat closet and pulled the door open. She yanked on the light switch pull and then shook her head when the bulb didn't come on. When would she get it through her brain there was no electricity?
Before she could get the flashlight, he placed another log on the fire and said, "I already checked the circuit breaker."
He was way ahead of her. "You think the ice storm has brought down the lines?"
"Since your unwelcome houseguest didn't mess with the circuit breaker, that's what I assume."
She took a settling breath. If the intruder had shut off her electricity, it probably would mean he'd return. Hopefully, this meant he'd only come for the gun. Unless he realized she was alone and would return later to steal more. The newspaper had covered the press on her brother's story for weeks. Everyone knew she was by herself now. Instantly re-chilled, she rubbed her arms and returned to the kitchen.
"I have a rack that we can put over the fire and grill some steaks," she offered.
"Rare." He walked into the kitchen, sure of himself, no hint that he'd been mostly dead a half hour ago.
Her brother's sweats would never look the same. Whereas they hung off her brother's slim frame, they hugged this guy's muscled body.
She tried to get her mind off the man's physique and concentrate on dinner. She had never attempted cooking anything in her fireplace. Would it work? Or be a total disaster?
"Garlic? Lemon and pepper seasoning?" Wishing it was at least defrosted, she pulled the meat out of the freezer.
"However you prepare it is fine with me. As long as it's rare."
"What do you think happened to you?" She handed him the rack for the fireplace.
"Not sure. My skin feels tight, like I soaked for hours in a tub of salt water, so I imagine I took a swim in the ocean."
"Did you want a shower?"
"Would you have enough hot water?"
"Probably not."
She seasoned the steaks and carried them into the living room. "I've got candles and flashlights in one of the kitchen drawers, if you want to get them for later."
It wouldn't be dark for another hour or so, but if the electricity didn't come back on, she wanted to be prepared before nightfall.
"I'll watch the steaks."
"All right. Medium. That's the way I like mine."
She returned to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers, looking for the emergency candles.
"Is anything missing from your house?" he asked.
She headed back into the living room with an armful of lighting paraphernalia.
A shadow of dark stubble covered his square jaw, and his eyes looked haunted. No wonder, after all he had been through. His coffee-colored hair hung to his shoulders and dripped water. She needed to get him a towel.
"He stole my gun." She set two flashlights, two camp lanterns, and four candles on the coffee table.
The man's eyes widened. "You know how to shoot?"
"Of course. I have a concealed weapon license. Someone broke into our house a couple of times before because we're so isolated."
He flipped the steaks. "Where's your brother?"
Tears cascaded down her cheeks before she could stop them. "He went to prison for a murder he didn't commit." She grabbed a tissue from a box on the coffee table. Almost empty. Again.
Hunter studied her for a moment before saying anything. A hint of compassion showed in his eyes. For her? Or her brother? Or was she hallucinating?
"Have any proof?" He flipped a steak onto a plate. Barely cooked.
"No. He didn't do it. And I'll find the killer if I have to. Michael's girlfriend was seeing someone behind his back. What if he was the one who killed her? Usually the murderer knows the victim."
Hunter looked like he didn't believe her.
She cast him an annoyed look. After she saved his naked butt, the least he could do was pretend he believed her.
"I've got some rolls and canned asparagus we can eat cold."
She stalked down the hall to the guest bathroom, grabbed a fresh bath towel from the linen closet, and returned to the living room. "Here, to dry your hair."
He had a plate in one hand and was turning her steak with the other. She hesitated. If he'd been a friend, she would have offered to dry his hair. But he wasn't. Still, the house was cold, except for the part of their bodies directly exposed to the fire, and...
He tilted his head back and looked up at her, his mouth curving slightly upward. "Maybe you can towel-dry it. Icy drops of water keep rolling down my neck."
Rife with indecision, she stood next to him. The fire flickered light off his eyes, like a wolfish predator, tempting her to draw closer into his web of seduction. What was there about him that turned her insides into mush? No man had ever made her feel that way with just a look.
The thought of drying his hair seemed so... intimate.
Taking a deep breath, she moved closer, leaning over hi
m, sliding the fluffy towel over larger clumps of his dark hair, trying to dry it quickly. To not get caught up in the feel of him, the way his body's heat reached out to her, the way he smelled so masculine, so intriguing. But then she separated his hair into smaller sections and wrung the shiny strands as dry as she could to prevent his getting chilled. He leaned his back against her legs, relaxing his posture, and she couldn't help wanting to melt against him, too.
He looked up at her, his expression half gratitude, the other half pure tantalization, his eyes clouded with desire. She cleared her throat, switched her attention to his damp hair again, and massaged his scalp.
"Hmm, your hair is a little wet, too," he said under his breath, his rigid body relaxing as he set the plate down and reached up and touched a wet curl dangling over her shoulder.
She swore the heat from his touch could dry her hair in a flash.
"Thanks, Tessa. That feels much better. Got another towel?"
"Uh, you're welcome." She touched her sagging bun, damp trails of curls trickling down her turtleneck. "I'm okay."
"Bring me a dry towel."
How could he sound so sexy when he commanded her to do his bidding? If it had been anyone else, she would have stood her ground. Her hair wasn't that wet; she was fine. But she headed for the bathroom and hung up the wet towel in the shower and grabbed a dry one.
On the way back to the living room, she dropped the towel on the leather footstool. "I'll get the rolls, first."
"I can warm them." He poked at her steak again.
"So... how do you think you ended up taking a swim in the Pacific in the middle of winter?" she asked from the kitchen.
With the package of rolls in hand, she returned to the fire and handed them to him.
"Haven't a clue."
"Without any clothes?" Her cheeks heated, just thinking about how he'd looked in the raw--male perfection, buff muscles, dark curling hair trailing down his chest, tantalizingly seductive, his stomach flat and his butt--which she would die to have--toned and provocative.
His mouth curved up slightly.
Even though he said he didn't remember anything, she had the distinct impression he knew more than he was letting on. But then again, what did she know about amnesia cases? Nothing, except about some isolated cases she'd read in the news.
