Snowed

by Pamela Burford

  He said, “Slap it on that board there.”

  She placed the photograph on a tilted board, where he carefully examined it under a bright spotlight as it drained.

  “Now just put it in that wire rack and you’re done.”

  As she did so, she felt his warm hand on her back. Just a fleeting pressure, but strangely reassuring.

  “Now that you’re an old hand at this, you want to do the next one yourself?” he asked.

  “Why not?”

  *

  “Shoot me,” Leah groaned as she slumped into a chair in the kitchen. She’d just deposited her borrowed skis, boots, hat, gloves, and jacket in the adjacent mudroom. The boy’s jeans she had on had been unearthed by James in the attic, and the oversize navy turtleneck was from his dresser.

  “Wasn’t that fun?” He followed her into the kitchen and started filling a kettle with water for tea. It was early evening and the sky had begun to darken as they’d completed their excursion around the grounds and made their way back to the house. “I told you you’d love it.”

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “Cross-country skiing is the best exercise in the world. Well, almost. Where in Arkansas do you live, Leah?”

  “Little Rock.”

  “Are your parents still alive?”

  She hesitated. “Yes. They live in Texarkana.”

  “The two-state city. What side are they on, Texas or Arkansas?”

  James knew his geography. “Arkansas,” she said.

  “What did your folks think about you slinging catfish at sixteen instead of going to school?”

  She shrugged. “We never had much money. It was time for me to get a job. And I did finish school—my shift started at four p.m., and I studied during my breaks.”

  “That’s a hell of a schedule for a teenage girl. Didn’t you socialize at all? Date?”

  “School and work took preference. After high school I went to college part-time.”

  He turned from the stove to study her face. The candid admiration in his eyes warmed her. “Well, it would seem your old-fashioned work ethic paid off. Not many twenty-four-year-olds are successful business owners.”

  “Work ethic, huh? Daddy always said it was pure cussedness. A revered family trait.”

  Grinning, he reached into a cupboard for heavy ceramic mugs. “Leah. That’s a pretty name. Old Testament. Do your folks have biblical names, too?”

  She studied his back. When the water boiled, he poured it over tea bags. “You’re right,” she said at last, “you are inquisitive.” She wasn’t about to provide him with her parents’ names. As a young boy, he might not have known that the gardener was named Douglas Harmony, but he’d certainly remember a housemaid named Merlina Moody.

  “How about siblings?” he persisted. “Let’s see. You wouldn’t have a sister named Rachel, by any chance? If I remember my Genesis correctly.”

  “My parents are religious, but not that literal.”

  He carried the mugs to the table. “But you do have a sister?”

  “I had a sister.”

  “Oh.” He took a carton of milk from the fridge and sat across from her. His voice softened. “Sorry. Was it recent?”

  “No. I never knew her.” She forced all her mental concentration into the task of lifting the tea bag, squeezing it, dropping it onto a saucer. It was preferable to thinking about Annie. She added milk and sugar to the mug and took a sip.

  Time to turn the tables. “Tell me about your family, James.”

  “I have two brothers, younger than me. Mark lives in Denver—he’s a writer. Luke’s a chef. He owns a restaurant in Boston.”

  “James, Mark, and Luke. Sounds like my mama’s not the only one who got bit by the Bible bug. And only you carried on the family trade,” she said. “That photograph of your mother is intense. She must’ve been some lady.”

  He smiled and she was struck by the change that came over his handsome features. She saw fond remembrance mingled with a hint of pain at his loss. She resisted the sudden urge to reach out and place her hand on his.

  “She was that,” he said quietly.

  “When did she die?”

  “Ten years ago.”

  An awkward silence followed while she thought about the things she’d learned that day. Don’t do it, she warned herself even as the demon inside her said, “So. No pictures of your father. No pictures of your late wife. You must admit that’s a bit strange.”

  He stared at her. “No one else makes it their business.”

  She shrugged. “Of course not. Everyone’s afraid of you.”

  “Maybe everyone knows me better than you do.”

  The implicit warning gave her pause until she remembered Kara. James’s agent probably knew him better than anyone, and to her he was all bluster. But then, maybe that was just Kara. Could be everyone else had more sense.

  “I’ll risk your wrath, Attila,” she said, with more bravado than she felt. “Come on. Satisfy my curiosity.”

  He was silent a long while. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Leah, have you ever been married?” When she shook her head no, he said, “I wish to God I never had.” His tone was frigid, unforgiving.

  “You sound so bitter. What did she do?”

  He was on the verge of answering her, she could tell, but then his face changed, like a door closing, and she knew the secret would remain inside him. “That’s ancient history.” He rose and went to the refrigerator. “Does the queen of southern vittles know how to do something with chicken?”

  Grateful for a chance to lighten the mood, she dredged up her thickest drawl. “Do Ah know how to do somethin’ with chicken? Why, sugah, this Dixie gal’ll fry you up a mess a’ cluckers that’ll bring a tear to your eye.”

  “You’re on.” He deposited a package wrapped in white butcher paper on the counter.

  Leah made them dinner—fried chicken, biscuits, and a salad—while James took a shower. He came back down looking fresh scrubbed and painfully handsome with his wet hair combed off his face.

  They took their meal and two bottles of dark ale into the dining room, where they occupied one corner of the enormous linen-draped table, sitting at right angles to each other. Their legs brushed under the table, sending a tingling current of awareness through Leah. The lingering smell of soap overlaid the essence of James himself, a heady combination.

  He pretended to bully her until she finally divulged the secret of her fried chicken: “Put lots of pepper in the flour, some butter in the shortening, and make sure that fat is hot.”

  “I think there’s some fudge ripple in the freezer,” he offered. When she declined dessert, he rose, lifting the plates. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”

  “What a man.” She helped him clear the table and then headed upstairs for a bath.

  When they’d been preparing to ski earlier, he’d found a variety of clothes that had belonged to him and his brothers when they were younger. He’d added some of his own flannel shirts that on her would be long enough for nightshirts. And of course, the red silk kimono. He’d deposited this pile of clothing in the room next to his own, a comfortable guest room that he’d said had once been his brother Mark’s.

  “I’m fresh out of lacy undies, I’m afraid,” he’d apologized.

  “That’s okay. I’ll just wash my things out tonight.” She hadn’t added that if her unmentionables weren’t dry by morning, she’d simply do without. No reason to put that fine a point on it.

  She luxuriated in the enormous claw-footed bathtub, letting the hot water soothe her sore muscles. First a savage battle with a would-be rapist, then two hours of cross-country skiing. Her muscles shrieked in rebellion. She noticed with disgust the large purple bruise on her hip from where she’d been thrown against the table, and the marks where Mike’s fingers had dug into her breast. She’d never been so terrified in her life.

  She thanked God James didn’t share the other man’s violent inclinations. In fact, the most disturbing thing about
him was her own reaction to him. She despised herself for the physical attraction she couldn’t manage to quash.

  She sighed. James hadn’t known how right he was when he’d called this blizzard nature’s “practical joke.” She stepped out of the tub and dried off. Of all the men in the world, this was the one she couldn’t even think of getting involved with, she reminded herself. It wouldn’t be easy, but she could handle the next two or three days. She had no choice.

  Leah donned a pair of baggy jeans and a pale blue vee-necked cashmere sweater. She slipped the sinfully soft garment over her head and rolled up the sleeves, then washed out her underthings in the sink and hung them over the side of the tub. With her wet hair hanging loose to her waist, she went downstairs.

  James was in what he called the Gold Room, a parlor designed by his maternal grandmother fifty years ago. The room still retained most of its original gold and pink furnishings, including the pink marble mantel over the fireplace in which a huge log now blazed. Stieglitz was curled in front of the fire, as near as he could get without actually singeing his fur.

  James didn’t notice her at first. He was standing in front of the fire, scowling into it, lost in thought.

  “James?”

  He turned abruptly, startled out of his reverie. A bottle of cognac and two filled snifters sat on a nearby table.

  “Do you happen to have a hair dryer?” Leah asked.

  “I never use one myself, but there might be one in a linen closet. Renee had a few.” He held out his hand to her. “Come here. You don’t need a dryer.” He pulled her down to sit cross-legged on the thick carpet, her back to the fire. “Move over, cat,” he ordered. Stieglitz didn’t look too happy at being forced to share the hearth.

  James sat next to Leah, facing her side. She felt his strong fingers burrow from the back of her neck over her head, loosening the strands of her wet hair. Her head dropped back, her eyes closed, and she groaned in contentment. He chuckled, a rumble from deep in his chest. “Tell me this isn’t better than an electric dryer,” he said.

  “Mmmm...”

  Long minutes passed as he continued to rub her scalp, fluffing her hair as it gradually dried. “Here.” He placed a snifter of cognac in her hand.

  “Mmmm, thanks.” The amber liquid spread its welcome glow into every limb, to the very tips of her fingers and toes.

  “You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you, Leah?”

  “Mmmm, uh-uh...” she assured him, and he chuckled again. It was hypnotic—the fire’s warmth, James’s pampering fingers, the cadence of his breathing. Leah felt transported.

  When her hair was nearly dry, he turned her in his arms so she faced the fire. She leaned back, cradled against his hard chest, feeling the even rhythm of his heartbeat against her back. His long legs, bent at the knee, bracketed her body. Lazily she opened her eyes, saw the shimmering flames of the low-burning fire, and closed them again. Never in her life had she felt so relaxed. So protected.

  After a few minutes he leaned forward to poke the fire, and like a rag doll, she moved with him. The muscles of his shoulder and chest flexed beneath her as he tended the blaze with one hand and held her securely with the other.

  What must it be like, she wondered, to share a life with a man like this? How many evenings had Renee lounged here with her husband and wallowed in the delicious security of his arms? She must have been very beautiful to have been a model. What could she have done to so blister her husband’s memory of her?

  And did he despise his father, too? Was that why he had no pictures of him in his home? She recalled what Douglas had said, that the senior Bradburn had been “real rough” on his wife and sons. Leah couldn’t help but wonder how rough.

  He twisted a little so he could see her left cheek. His warm breath fanned her face. With infinite tenderness he brushed his fingertips over the bruise and followed with his lips—a natural gesture, spontaneous and devoid of cunning. He repeated the kiss, his mouth firmer this time.

  In her half-aware state of languid contentment, she allowed him to turn her face, to brush his lips over hers. No alarms went off at that sweet contact. She only knew, from somewhere deep in her soul, that this was where she was meant to be, right here, right now. It wasn’t possible that something that felt this right could be tainted.

  He shifted, fitting her more closely into his embrace. His mouth became firmer, more demanding, and she felt the tip of his tongue on her closed lips. “Leah...open for me...” he murmured.

  She obeyed, parting her lips slightly under the pressure of his, drawing in an unsteady breath as the tip of his tongue slid between her lips. A trembling thrill coursed through her as he tasted her, opened her mouth to his. His tongue entered and retreated, each time plunging deeper, until she was left weak and pliant.

  Leah had dated men who’d tried to kiss her this way, but their efforts could not compare. Never had she felt anything like this delirious pleasure. Her response was spontaneous, eager. Hungrily she returned his kiss, tasted him in turn, letting him teach her, guide her. He pulled her nearer still. One strong arm circled her back in a possessive grip; the fingers of his other hand splayed in her hair.

  A warning voice intruded from somewhere deep inside.

  Don’t.

  With an effort she wrenched her mouth from his. “James...” It was a breathless whisper.

  He pressed kisses to her temple, her cheekbone, her throat. Abruptly he yanked at the neckline of her oversize sweater, pulling it down to expose her shoulder. She heard herself moan as his lips traced the line of her collarbone.

  Don’t. This is wrong.

  No, she thought, clutching him, arching into him. No, this can’t be wrong.

  His thumb stroked the side of her breast through the downy cashmere sweater. The caress sent an electric current of desire shooting deep and low within her, to the darkest secret recesses of her body. She whimpered with need as his fingers closed around her breast, molding its softness, testing its contours, circling the aching peak.

  Wrong, Leah...this is wrong...

  “Leah...” He tilted her head back. His teeth lightly grazed her jaw, followed the curve down her throat. All sensation became his lips and teeth and fiery tongue, as if he would consume her.

  “Leah, stay with me tonight.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. His fingertips plucked at the tight bud of her nipple through the sweater, causing her breath to catch.

  She trembled. Wrong...

  “James...”

  “Stay with me, Leah. Let me love you tonight.”

  This can never be. Never.

  Suddenly his hand was under her loose sweater, gliding upward over her rib cage to capture her breast. She gasped at the intensity of sensation, bowing into his heated touch.

  He started to lift her sweater, and it took more strength than she knew she possessed to make herself pull away from him. “Oh, James...I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Don’t say you can’t, Leah.” He seized her hands. “There’s no one here but us. It’s just us.”

  She wanted to say, You’re wrong, James. It’s not just us. It’s you and me and James Senior and a young girl named Annie. And there can never be an us. It’s unthinkable by anyone’s standards.

  But all she could utter was, “No.”

  “There’s someone back home.” He released her hands.

  “No—it’s not that.”

  “Is it what happened last night? With Carleton? Leah, you must know I’d never hurt you.” He tried to turn her face, to make her look at him.

  “I just can’t, James. That’s all.”

  After a moment he said, “I see.” He stood and grabbed his snifter, downing the contents in one swallow. The low-burning flames highlighted his bold features, making him look almost sinister. The snug jeans he wore did little to conceal his state of arousal.

  “Tell me something, Leah. Why did you come to New York?”

  “I—I told you—”

  “Don’t insul
t my intelligence. I don’t believe that tourist crap for an instant. You’re not a very good liar.”

  She swallowed hard. “My reasons for doing what I do and going where I go are my own. It’s none of your business.”

  “It’s my business when someone gets herself stuck in my home and proceeds to feed me lies.”

  “You’re riled because I won’t sleep with you, that’s all,” she blustered, coming unsteadily to her feet.

  “How did you end up at my house?”

  “I met Mike Carleton and he...he was coming here and he invited me. It was a date. You know that already.”

  “So.” He started pacing. “A lovely young woman comes to New York on vacation. Alone. She wanders into the Carleton Gallery. Mike Carleton—a man with the personality of a wet toilet seat—miraculously turns himself into Prince Charming long enough to talk her into accompanying him to a surprise birthday party for the gallery’s featured photographer.”

  She looked past his shoulder—anywhere but at those blue eyes that seemed to burn through her. “I don’t know why you find that so improbable.”

  “On its face it’s not, but as I said, you’re a lousy liar. And a bit too nosy about things that are none of your concern.”

  “Curiosity’s not a crime.”

  “A word of advice. Before you waste any more time or effort on your little scheme, whatever it is, let me warn you. You picked the wrong sucker. I have too much experience with lying females who are after something and think there’s one tried-and-true way to get it.”

  Her mouth dropped open at the ugly implication. “I told you I’m not going to sleep with you.”

  His smile was malicious. “Not tonight maybe. You probably figure you have the next two or three days to string me along, get me all worked up, ripe for the plucking.”

  “What on earth do you imagine I want from you?”

  “Money or some variation thereof usually tops the list. Followed closely by fame.” He eyed her appraisingly. “Though if you have your heart set on being the next supermodel, you should’ve started a few years ago.”

  Was that what James’s late wife had done? Used him to further her career?