She could feel him continue to size her up, not obtrusively, but it was there, his gaze scouring her face, her eyes. Trying to figure her out.
She didn’t want to be figured out. It wasn’t personal. She hadn’t left all her family and friends at Christmas—and put her whole life on hold—to disappear into the Alaskan wilderness in winter, just to be stuck with company.
But tarnation. There was a blizzard.
She had no choice. And neither did her stranded neighbor.
WELL, IF THIS WASN’T as comfortable as a nap in a beehive. Rick had never chosen a job in a remote area in Alaska on a whim. He had a good reason, the kind of reason he suspected an alcoholic would readily understand. If you’re not exposed to your particular poison, you didn’t have to worry about getting in trouble.
Rick’s poison was women, and although he’d told himself a million times to get over his ex-wife’s infidelity—he hadn’t. He’d taken a bullet in the service. Went through broken ribs and a leg in traction after a plane crash. Overall, he knew damn well he had a high tolerance for pain; he could keep on going when others caved. But nothing hurt the way his ex-wife taking off with his best friend had. The stab in the back should have healed, but somehow there seemed no way to take the knife out.
That had nothing to do with Emilie, of course. He’d just rather be stranded with a bear than a woman, that was all.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“You’re making the meal. Only fair that I do the cleanup.” He dug into the soapy water for another bowl. It was easy to see how this kitchen thing was going to go. In theory, she had a good idea, to use up the fresh food she’d brought in a stew that would last a few days. In practice, she was creating more messes than he could keep up with.
“Is there any food you’re allergic to?”
Personally, he thought it was a little late to ask the question, since she’d put everything but the kitchen sink in the big pot—including some foods he couldn’t identify and wasn’t sure he wanted to. But she left a dripping spoon here. A bowl there. Used a couple cutting boards. Opened a can of stewed tomatoes and left the can on the counter.
“No problem,” he said.
He watched her splash in some wine. Then some Russian salad dressing. She was starting to scare him.
“Do you live and work up here?” she asked.
“Yup. Started out as a civil engineer. Two years ago, took a job mapping minerals and water in certain remote areas for the state of Alaska. Can’t beat the hours, the pay or the free time. My cabin’s not as big as your lodge, but it’s more than comfortable.”
He liked her lodge, though. The loft bedrooms upstairs led to a lanai, then an open staircase down. The whole downstairs was open, with giant split-log walls. Place smelled of pine and oil. A plank floor was warmed up with thick native rugs. The dining table was long enough to sleep on, sturdy enough to do surgery. Pipes had been wired into the fireplace grate, so the fire alone could circulate at least nominal heat through the whole place. Someone had really thought through the construction.
The screaming wind drew his attention outside—not that there was anything to see from the windows but blinding white and ice. “Did you turn on a radio this morning?”
“Didn’t bother,” she admitted. “Hardly needed a forecaster to tell us there’s a blizzard going on.”
He didn’t raise an eyebrow, but he thought about it. Not counting the buildup of drifts and subzero temperatures, at least another foot of snow had heaped on the landscape since last night. Normal people tended to have their ears glued to the media in conditions like this.
“You’re set for firewood? Fuel?”
“My dad never left here without the woodshed completely filled. Same for the pantry. Always have to fly in freezer and fresh foods, but there’s plenty to eat.”
“Generator?”
She frowned. “I’m sure there is.”
He was sure there was, too. But was again surprised that she didn’t know—or care. He reached over her head to put away two mugs, and saw her instinctively back a few inches away from him. Not skitter. Not flinch. Just make a point of not being within touching distance.
That was okay by him. He crouched down, put away the cast-iron frying pan under the stove, felt his shoulder scream. The worst burn was there, on his back.
He ignored it, concentrated on her instead. He was still having a hard time recovering from the shock of finding a woman alone here. And even though he was allergic to women these days, it was impossible not to be curious about her.
She had an educated, well-bred look. Her hair was the color of pale wheat, all short and tousled, but still, distinctly city-styled. Even layers of warm clothes couldn’t completely conceal a slim, sleek build. Her face had classic fine bones, and that incredible skin had been creamed and pampered rather than ever exposed to frostbite and bitter winds.
Her prettiness didn’t really snare his attention. But her eyes did. They were bright blue. And haunted.
Not that he cared. But few women, that he could imagine, would choose to hole up over the holidays in a place as cut off from civilization as this lodge. Silver Bay was breathtaking in the summer. In the winter, it could be savagely wild. And she’d shown relatively little stress on finding a strange man sleeping in her house.
It was as if she didn’t care.
That was what kept striking him.
She didn’t care about the weather, about conditions, about her own safety in general. Didn’t seem to care about anything.
“Hunter,” she said, and then corrected herself. “Rick. I’ve seen you flinch a couple times. I’m going to curl up in front of the fire with a book, but I’ll leave a good salve for burns on the counter here. If you need it, use it.”
“May take you up on that. Thanks.”
“Also, feel free to wander around. Figure out where you want to sleep, raid the closet in the upstairs bathroom for pillows, extra blankets. Just take what you need.”
“Thanks. Again.” He watched her put the lid on the pot and turn around to aim past him.
It was just for that instant they were in each other’s breathing space.
Maybe even less than an instant when their eyes met.
A spark lit. Not in the hearth, but between them. She felt it, too, because a flush shot up her neck. And he felt it like a clutch in the groin, some stupid elemental awareness that she was one hell of an interesting woman, and his hormones knew it even if his head rejected the idea.
Out of nowhere, he said flatly, “You’re safe.”
As if his comment made absolute sense, she responded the same way. “I never doubted it for a second. We’ll both be fine.”
Maybe she believed that. He sure as hell wanted to.
Only just then, the lights went out.
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN THE LIGHTS WENT OUT, Emilie froze. The sudden crash of silence made her heart thud. Who knew the fridge and computer and furnace and clocks made so much white noise? But without it, the darkness seemed eerie and somehow menacing.
“Hey.”
It was her stranger’s voice, close by—Rick’s eyes had to be as blinded by the sudden darkness as hers were, but he seemed to sense she was having a teensy-weensy freak-out. His hand touched her shoulder, a groping movement as if to locate exactly where she was. And once he figured that out, he swung both arms around her. It wasn’t the hug of a lover, she told herself. It was more like, well, a holding.
His voice was as gruff and scratchy as his whiskery chin. “Emilie, it’s all right. Just take a few steps and you’ll be able to see the firelight. It’ll be warm and light in there. I’ll go find the generator, get it going.”
“Yes,” she agreed, but she didn’t move. She wasn’t afraid. She knew she wasn’t. But that darkness was so total, for those few seconds, that it struck her like loneliness. Being alone was one thing. Feeling alone without warmth or light was a huge something else.
Ever since�
��the crisis…she’d steered clear of company, family, friends. Maybe it had built up. The hunger to have someone there. To be hugged. Touched. Who knew how fierce that need could be?
The stranger’s arms were alien. Big, warm, strong. “Hey,” he said again, but this time it was a murmur, not a greeting. “It’s just the electricity. We were always going to lose power in a blizzard like this. It’s annoying. But not dangerous. We’ll have to do some things, to secure heat, think about food differently, water, sanitation. But it’s just a storm, you know?”
“Of course I know. I’m all right.” Still, she didn’t move. Slowly, her lungs allowed oxygen to seep in. Slowly, her heart stopped that thud of despair. “Darn it.” His skin, his voice, the feel and smell and sound of him were making her even more light-headed. It was like being held by a pirate, a stealer of hearts, a stealer of breath. A stupid image, for a woman who credited herself with being pragmatic and unrelentingly honest in every circumstance.
She stepped back, pushed back. “Well, that was my ninny move of the year. I’m sorry, Hunter, I don’t know what got into me—and you’re totally right. There’s a lot to do. I’ll get candles, a lantern…that pot of stew I made isn’t going to cook on the stovetop now. There’s a brick oven built into the side of the fireplace. I never used it, but I know my dad did—I’ve seen him. I’ll figure it out.”
His hand cuffed her wrist, just momentarily. “Are you all right?”
Emilie thought she should be the one asking him that question. He was the one stuck in a blizzard with her—a woman who’d practically glued herself to a total stranger…and a woman who was a murderer besides.
If he knew the whole story, Emilie figured she had to be close to his worst nightmare.
THREE HOURS LATER, RICK was sore, worn-out and confused. He stomped around looking for her—not that Emilie was hard to find. No matter how big the lodge was, it was still a confined space.
And Emilie was precisely where he’d seen her last. Whoever had designed the original lodge had opted to build a brick oven into the side of the massive old fireplace. An hour ago, when he’d passed by, she was transferring the contents of the pot into a cast-iron container meant for the fireplace oven. She was still there. Still trying to figure out how to make the oven work.
The last time, he’d had a prime view of her butt, since she was leaning her whole body into the oven. It was a tight butt. A little bony. Mesmerizing, if a guy was into bony butts—which Rick definitely used to be, before he’d given up women. Now, a woman’s behind was just something he noticed. He was still male, after all. That part of a woman’s anatomy always had been, always would be, worth intensive study.
What she thought she would discover inside the brick oven was another question.
And now, three hours later, she was sitting back on her legs. Three lanterns had been added to the scene, obviously so she could see the oven better. Her hair looked silky white with all the ambient firelight. The style was even more mussed up, decorated with a few—he was pretty sure—cobwebs. She was staring at the oven with pursed lips. A tool kit sat at her side, gaping open.
He had no idea what she thought she was going to do with all those tools.
“Hi,” she said, when she realized he was standing behind her. “When I heard the generator start, I yelled out a cheer.”
“I heard the cheer. I appreciated it.” He hunkered down next to her. “These are words I never thought I’d say to a woman…but I think we need to talk.”
For the first time, he caught a smile. A downright perky grin. It lit up her face, her eyes, turned her from a good-looking woman to a stunner. “Those are words I don’t usually like to hear from a guy, either.”
He figured they should start with something easy. “Are you looking for the button to turn the oven on?”
She nodded. “I’ve looked everywhere. There’s nothing here. Just this hole…”
He sighed. “You’ve never cooked on this before, have you?”
“No. But my dad did. I know it’s a great oven. Makes fantastic bread and potatoes…sometimes pies…”
He didn’t say, “There is no turn-on button, princess,” because he was pretty sure that would sound condescending. He didn’t want to aggravate her unnecessarily when there were so many things he had to cover that were all too likely to get her dander up. So right then, he just said, “I’ll get the oven going, so you can see how it’s done for the next time.”
“Great.”
“First, the oven either has to have a functional exhaust fan, or a flue. You have to make sure the flue is open, right?” Immediately she sidled up next to him, stuck her head right back in the oven again. He gave her credit for being willing to listen and learn. He gave himself credit for not jumping her.
Okay. Even if he was antiwomen—a vow for life—close proximity to an attractive woman could still produce the obvious, immediate reaction. He hadn’t been this hard this fast since he was around fifteen.
“Then…normally you’d use a fire-starter block. But we’re going to add a cupful of coals from the real fire, add a little kindling…see? I mean little. Now we’re going to watch to see if it takes. The coals should be hot enough to ignite the sticks without needing a match.”
“Okay. Got it.”
For a few minutes, there was nothing to do but wait, see if the kindling took, before they could start building the actual cooking fire. “You never use a lot of wood. Shouldn’t need to. You need a bed of coals, but the whole concept of a brick oven is the concentration of heat in a small space. You don’t leave it alone any different than you’d leave any other fire alone, okay?”
“I knew that,” she said wryly.
Yeah, right. If she’d ever been a Girl Scout—or built a fire—he’d eat Brussels sprouts. Not a risk he had to worry about. “You mind if I ask when you came up here?”
“I flew in, or was flown in, four days ago.”
“And you planned to stay how long?”
She looked at him, as she eased back on the closest couch edge, where she could watch her new oven fire. “Until after Christmas. After the whole holiday. I didn’t set an exact date, but the pilot said he’d leave January second free to come and get me. Nothing sacred about that day—particularly if there’s bad weather like this. But that’s the ballpark.”
“The ballpark,” he echoed, and hand-rubbed his eyes.
“Okay. Spit it out. What’s the problem.”
“Look, I don’t want to insult you—”
“But you’re going to, huh?”
“Not out of meanness. I’m just…startled, that’s all. Did you think you were well prepared to hole up for a while?”
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Are you kidding? There’s a full pantry of canned goods and staples. I brought bags of fresh foods with me. The shed’s loaded with stacked firewood. I’ve got a crank radio. Enough batteries and lanterns and candles to light up the whole place,” she added. “And my dad leaves a rifle here. It’s locked upstairs. I can’t imagine needing it, but it’s just one more way I felt prepared no matter what—”
He held up a hand, to shut her down.
“What?” She was starting to sound cross.
“Okay. To start with. That very pretty, very expensive generator has probably never been maintained. She started up, but she’s only got enough fuel for three or four days. And I don’t see any oil or lubricant around.”
“Oh.” Her voice lost some of its oomph.
“You think that’s a lot of stacked wood out there? There’s a huge supply of firewood, you’re right. But it isn’t cut. Somehow I can’t believe you’ve got a lot of experience with an axe, splitting wood. What you’ve got won’t last forty-eight hours.”
“Oh.”
“And that’s real good news about the rifle. But do you know where the bullets are? Do you know how to shoot if you had to?”
She sloughed off the first question, as if it were irrelevant. “Yes, I can shoot. My dad taught m
e.”
“When you were how old?”
“Eleven.”
“And you’ve shot a rifle how many times since then?”
She didn’t answer that question, just gave him A Look. He’d flunked the course in understanding women, but this particular look was easy to translate. He could continue to ask questions, but not if he wanted to live unscarred. He rubbed at the nape of his neck again. “That little crank radio you have is real cute. Bet you can pick up any station within ten miles.”
A little less glower. “Yeah. I was told it was a good one.”
“But there isn’t anyone broadcasting within ten miles, sweet pea. Or twenty miles. I strongly suspect there’s no possibility of your getting weather or news or information from that thing.”
“Oh.”
“I’m just confused. That’s all I’m saying. You came here for the holiday. All by yourself. About as prepared as a lamb in wolf country.”
For a moment the only sound was the crackle and spit of fire—and the howling wind outside. She looked at him, as if deciding how to respond. Rick figured she’d likely be annoyed, justifiably so, but they weren’t exactly at a picnic together. He wanted to know—could even need to know—what she was made of.
Finally she sat back and crossed her legs. “I’m thinking about knocking your block off,” she said mildly.
“You wouldn’t be the first woman who felt that way.”
“It’s none of your business how prepared I am—or not. What my story is. Or isn’t. On the other hand, I don’t have a reason in the universe not to tell the truth. I thought I was well prepared. In fact, since I tend to be downright fanatical about thinking through every detail—and certainly I knew bad weather was automatic at this time of year—I’m mortified that I flunked the job. So if you were making the point that I don’t know how to cope in the winter here, you’re darn right. I get it. You’re prepared. I’m not. But your being here doesn’t make any sense, either.”
Baby, It's Cold Outside Page 2
