Take My Breath Away

by Christie Ridgway

He was strolling toward her now and she retreated farther, until her shoulder blades met the wood of the door. Before she could find her way through it, the man had her hand in his. Heat ran like fire ants up her arm. “Ryan Harris,” he said, his gaze fixed on her face.

  The words barely registered as the burning touch overwhelmed all her other senses. His palm was warm and strong, its size enveloping hers—making her feel small and feminine. That’s when she understood. That’s when she could finally put a name to what he’d been able to do to her from that first glimpse.

  After more than five years, Ryan Harris reminded her of what it was to be a woman.

  “I have to go,” she said, ordering herself to step away.

  “You do,” he agreed, nodding. Then he replaced the warmth of his skin with a bundle of bills. “Rent.”

  Squeezing her fingers around it, she hustled out the door and into the cold sunlight.

  The scent of sage lingered in the air. She thought perhaps her ritual had worked. Maybe the negative energy was gone. That would be good.

  And bad. Because it had apparently left a vacuum in its place, allowing in an entirely different sort of energy—one that Poppy was much too uneasy to name.

  CHAPTER TWO

  RYAN HAMILTON WONDERED if he’d make it to the end of March, as surviving the month had been iffy the past three years. Each turn of those particular thirty-one days had exacted a price: he’d wrapped his Maserati around an elm tree the first year; blown up a meat smoker and almost himself while passed out on a lounge chair ten feet from it two years ago; and last year he’d lost most of his good reputation. Now, if it hadn’t been for the stunt-driving course he’d taken before shooting his final movie a decade ago, he might not have managed the escape from his own lakefront villa.

  But he’d successfully evaded the celebrity photographer who’d been camped outside the gated drive. Had he even known it was Ryan he followed in that roller skate of a car? Ryan had been forced to take a few hairpin turns at speeds that had set his heart slamming in his chest.

  He wasn’t sure how he felt about the reminder that blood still pumped through his veins and that he retained enough emotional IQ to experience even a small drop of fear. Most of the time he didn’t feel much of anything—except, of course, this was March. Fucking March.

  He found his way back to the road that led him through Blue Arrow Lake. While the body of water it was named after was private, and the boat docks only available to those with a deed to one of the pricey surrounding estates, the village itself welcomed tourists as well as the owners of the lakefront properties. Both were out in force, Ryan noted, as the traffic slowed passing the vaguely Swiss-styled buildings that held small specialty stores offering items like fancy cheeses, fancier chocolates and beers from around the world. Despite the snow left in piles here and there by the plows, warmly dressed people were seated under the clear blue skies amid patio heaters at small bistro tables, enjoying their designer coffees and flaky pastries.

  The cars in front of him continued at a crawl, but Ryan didn’t worry he might be spied by the photographer again. The road was a sea of SUVs in both directions, so his didn’t stand out.

  A ring sounded through the car speakers, and the touch screen in the dash signaled a familiar number. Ryan considered rejecting the call, but the person on the other end didn’t take hints well.

  He gave the voice command to answer and at the click of connection said, “What do you want, Linus?”

  His younger brother got right to the point. “I want to know where you are.”

  “How much is People willing to pay for that tidbit?”

  “Ha ha. Spill.”

  “It’s none—”

  “I worry, damn it.” Though Ryan couldn’t see the other man, he could imagine him forking a hand through his mop of dirty blond hair in a familiar gesture of frustration. Linus was a lankier version of himself, but with their mother’s light hair and their father’s brown eyes. “Ry, just tell me where you’ve gone to ground. Your assistant says you’re not planning on being back in the Studio City offices until April.”

  “I decided, spur-of-the-moment, to take a break.” Might as well try a new coping mechanism since he’d failed so miserably the past few years.

  “Okay. That’s good,” Linus said. “But where?”

  “I don’t want company.” A car pulled in front of Ryan’s, causing him to brake sharply. The vehicle at his rear honked in bad-tempered complaint. “Not my fault,” he muttered.

  “You’re in So-Cal,” Linus said, relief in his voice. “I would recognize the sounds of our happy traffic anywhere.”

  Ryan debated a moment, then decided giving Linus a little more info would do no harm. “I was actually at the lake house.”

  “Yeah? You think you can stay out of trouble there?”

  No, he thought, thinking of that photographer. “I handed over the keys to Anabelle and Grant for the weekend.” He didn’t need to add last names. They were one of Hollywood royalty’s brightest and most watched romances—“Granabelle.” Grant had been Ryan’s stalwart friend for the past four years, sticking by him when his mood was low, being the designated driver when he was looking for refuge in an alcoholic high. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I’ve never told anyone you grew up afraid of the purple-haired troll under the bed that only you could see, have I?”

  “Its hair was green and you were too much of a pussy to lift the bedspread and take a look.”

  Linus snorted. “I can keep a secret.”

  “They’re getting married at the house over the weekend. Spur-of-the-moment and strictly family. To keep things as quiet as possible, I’m not even attending.”

  “Good for them,” Linus said, then paused a moment. “How long do you suppose before one of their publicists spills the beans? Doesn’t Anabelle have a new movie coming out soon?”

  Having reached the end of town, Ryan took the turn that would bring him to the highway and ultimately his rental. “There was already a paparazzo hanging out at the gates.”

  “Shit,” Linus said. “Not that I’m surprised. But you’re going to stay clear of it now, right?”

  “Right. But once I offered the house to Grant, I found the idea of the mountains appealed. So I’ve found another place to stay.”

  “Yeah? Where—”

  “I’m using the name Ryan Harris.” It was his go-to alias when he was attempting to stay under the radar.

  “That’s all fine and good, but your face is as recognizable as your name.”

  “She never watched TV growing up. Her favorite form of entertainment is reading.”

  The silence on the other end went heavy, then ominous. “She?”

  Ryan gave a little shrug. “I’m telling you, the woman doesn’t recognize me—has no idea I’m somebody anyone would recognize. She’s got a handful of cabins for rent and I’m the first and only guest.”

  “She?”

  “In her sixties, with a little pot belly and her hair in some sort of turban thing,” Ryan said smoothly. “She’s a chain-smoker.”

  “For a famous actor, you lie for shit.”

  “I haven’t been a famous actor for a decade.”

  “You’re right. Now you’re just the famous part.”

  Or, after what went down last year, infamous, Ryan thought, which was degrees more uncomfortable. “Anyway, I should probably go—”

  “Like I’d let you get away with that. What’s she really like?”

  Her face is as fresh as the mountain air. At the grocer’s he’d thought her no older than the teen clerk, and when he’d caught her staring thought he’d been made. But at the cabins he’d immediately deduced she was well past jailbait. Yet still so...natural. Her cheeks and the tip of her cute nose had been pink with cold, and hangin
g over the shoulder of her oversize and clearly secondhand army jacket had been a messy braid of hair the mixed colors of honey, sunlight and brandy. Wide gray eyes and a soft pink mouth made him think young again. Her wary expression suggested life had disappointed her once or twice.

  “She’s not interested in me, if that’s your concern,” Ryan said to Linus. “I’ve barely glimpsed the woman in the three days since I had to bribe her with five times the going rental rate to take me in. Oh, and she has a dog she hints might kill me on demand. I’m pretty sure if the dog balks, she’ll be willing to do the job herself.”

  “I think I’m in love.”

  “Why am I not surprised.” At twenty-nine, Linus was always ready to play with the opposite sex...though when Ryan thought of it, he’d been remarkably woman-free for months.

  “Maybe I should come see her—develop my own impression.”

  “No.” His brother was fishing for a reason to check on Ryan. “I told you, I don’t want visitors.”

  “What are you going to do, then?”

  “Read books, hike around.” And if the past couple of days were anything to go by, stare out the window in case the wood nymph that lived next door made a rare appearance. “Nothing crazy this year.”

  Linus sighed. “That’s great, Ry. Really great.”

  But his brother didn’t sound convinced as he signed off, and Ryan had to admit he, too, had doubts about keeping the crazy at bay. Fucking March.

  Back at the cabins there was something to distract him from his morose thoughts, he discovered. His landlady was outside, dressed in a pair of skintight jeans, sheepskin boots and a nubby sweater that rode up and down her hips as she gathered lengths of wood from a pile then tossed them into a wheelbarrow. As distractions went, it was pretty effective.

  Nothing wrong with admiring a pretty sight, he told himself. Shutting off the SUV’s engine, he relaxed against the leather seat, taking in the whole scene: the backdrop of mountain, woods, snow. The foreground of the lovely lady. When her dog raced up to drop a clearly well-drooled-upon tennis ball at her feet, her obvious response—yuck—made him nearly smile. He couldn’t help but like that she scooped up the slimy ball and threw it, anyway.

  When she began trundling the wheelbarrow toward his cabin, Ryan jumped from the SUV and hurried toward her. “Let me do that.”

  She ignored him, continuing to push the contraption until it was right beside his porch. Then she set to stacking the wood against the cabin’s siding. As he bent to assist her, she slanted him a look. “I’ve got this.”

  “I can help—”

  “Part of the service.” The smallest of smiles poked a dimple in her left cheek. “You’re paying enough for it.”

  Though he supposed he should go into the house and leave her to it, he stood another moment, watching her efficient movements. When Grimm came bounding up—no ball this time, but a stick—he rubbed the dog’s sides then threw the piece of wood into the trees. “Go get it, boy. Go get it.”

  Still transferring logs, Poppy spared him another glance. “So...what is it you do?”

  Oh, hell. He should have concocted a cover story. Writer of the Great American Novel? No way could he pull that off. A trial period as a Trappist monk? Not that, either, because he thought that would mean a vow of silence, which he’d obviously already broken. “Uh...”

  “Forget I asked,” she said, her focus returned to the wheelbarrow. “None of my business, anyway.”

  See, it was that indifference that made her the perfect landlady. As he’d told Linus, she wasn’t the least bit interested in him.

  And it was stupid, how that rankled.

  Just another reason he should go inside to his books and his resolution not to let his emotions rule him this month. Still, he hesitated. Inside, alone, the tearing pain might find him as it had last night, when it dug its talons in him during a dark and flame-filled dream, leaving him to wake in a cold sweat and overcome by grinding grief.

  Poppy tossed another piece of wood on the stack. “Are you settling in okay? Our amenities are pretty stripped-down, I admit. Is there something else you need?”

  He didn’t know what made him say it, and say it in such a low, seductive voice. “Are you offering turn-down service?”

  A clear pink color rushed over her face and Ryan realized that was the response he’d wanted. Bastard that he was, this studied indifference of hers was annoying. When he’d arrived at the cabins, and especially when she’d shown him into his rental, he’d felt the thrum of awareness that had pulsed like electrified wire between them. She’d practically run from the place, run from him, and...

  And he didn’t know why that continued to bother him so and what he thought he was doing, teasing her like this.

  Remember? No crazy this year.

  It’s why he’d decided to go hermit.

  Ryan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sorry. It was a stupid thing to say.”

  “I won’t sic Grimm on you this time.” Clearly avoiding his gaze, she grabbed the last of the logs and placed them at the top of the stack. Then she seized the wheelbarrow handles and walked away without a backward glance, her color still high.

  Leaving his interest in her still as keen as the moment he’d taken her hand in his and felt a strong, sizzling, decidedly sexual jolt.

  * * *

  POPPY SHOVED HER cell phone in her jeans pocket, her son’s excited voice still echoing in her head. And then we saw Mickey at breakfast and Donald, too, and it was the best pancakes in my whole life.

  How could hearing such happiness make her heart ache so much? Trying to shake off the melancholy, she bent to yank the squeegee from the bucket of water at her feet and returned to the task of cleaning the outside windows of cabin three. She’d managed to extract the broken key from the knob with needle-nose pliers and was intent on getting it clean inside and out.

  Thanks to good weather, much of the snow in the clearing had melted, leaving slushy, continent-shaped patches. It was still dazzling white on the ski slopes’ mountaintop, but from her vantage point the sun was warm enough that she’d discarded her jacket and was working in a thermal T-shirt covered by a plaid flannel shirt. It was another hand-me-down of Brett’s, oversize and with a bleach stain on the front. She’d done nothing more with her hair than a loose side braid.

  The mascara and the pink lip gloss were her only concessions to vanity...and to the renter she hoped to engage in conversation if he emerged from his cabin sometime soon.

  It had been five days since he moved in, two since they’d had their last verbal exchange over the woodpile. She thought it was time she put on her friendly face and made nice. There was good reason for it. As the manager of the cabins, it was part of her job description to provide a pleasant environment. She knew this from her years running Inn Klein’s front desk. Every guest was a possible return guest, not to mention a point of referral. If Ryan Harris enjoyed his stay, he might spread the word about the cabins to family and friends. And if she was going to convince her siblings that she was right to do something more than ignore the abandoned ski resort property, she needed to show them it could be a moneymaker.

  At the moment she was a little concerned that Ryan Harris wasn’t enjoying his stay. Not that she’d been spying—she’d just been casually glancing out her windows—but she’d noticed the man had her same nocturnal habit. As in, not sleeping. She’d get up and go to the kitchen for water only to see that his interior lights were on, as well. Most relaxed and stress-free people weren’t up and about at 2:00 a.m. and 3:00 a.m. and 4:30 a.m.

  He’d looked tired when she’d seen him heading to his car the day before. Maybe he needed an extra blanket at night. Or perhaps the house’s furnace was working improperly. Wasn’t it up to her to address those needs?

  Are you offering turn-down service?

 
Her belly flipped at the memory of those words and for the millionth time she wondered why that harmless sexual innuendo had flustered her so. Her flushed reaction was mortifying to recall, and recall it she did, about once an hour. Each time she wished she could erase it from her memory, but since that wasn’t possible, she’d decided another interaction, one normal and congenial, would be the way to stop the other from establishing an endless replay loop in her head.

  It was damn silly to get so unnerved around him, she knew that. Sure, he was incredibly good-looking, but at twenty-seven, Poppy had encountered plenty of handsome men, including the one who had fathered Mason. But even Denny Howell hadn’t made the hair on her head tingle at the roots.

  Are you offering turn-down service?

  Her imagination ignited and her mind started off in a dangerous direction as her arm moved the squeegee down the dirty glass. But before any clothes were shed, she heard the click of her guest’s cabin door being opened. Showtime, she told herself, pushing other thoughts away. Pasting a smile on her face, she turned.

  “Mr. Harris!” she called, waggling her tool to get his attention. “Ryan!”

  Even from across the clearing his blue gaze knocked her back a little. Hot prickles rose on her skin and she considered scrubbing her face with a handful of snow.

  It would only make her mascara run.

  So she kept the smile pinned in place as he made his way to her side. Today, his jeans were as battered as hers, but he wore them with a navy wool sweater that had carved bone buttons riding along one shoulder. His jacket was thrown over his arm. He’d nicked his chin shaving, and a dab of toilet paper was stuck on the cut, drawing her attention to his perfectly formed lips.

  She swallowed her sigh and pointed with her forefinger to her own chin. “Um...”

  He cocked an eyebrow, clearly puzzled.

  She tapped her face. “Looks like your razor’s new.”

  With a stifled curse, he felt for the bit of tissue. For some reason that small sign of imperfection relaxed her. She could do this. They could have a simple conversation. Maybe she’d even invite him over for dinner...?