by Lucy Francis
Suddenly, it dawned on her how awkward he might have felt afterward. She’d put on such a show in the midst of a crowd. He probably hadn’t appreciated that.
“Here, take this piece when I cut through it,” he said.
She eased the barbed metal away from the bison’s leg, careful not to tug or tighten the wire and cause more damage. Curran searched for another good place to snip. Her stomach quivered. If he recognized her, if he remembered Halloween night, heaven only knew what he might do.
“Your turn,” he said, handing the cutters to her, then pointing. “Cut through right there, where the wire is a bit loose.”
“Okay.” She worked carefully, and just as carefully avoided his gaze. Walking away after kissing him was one of the more difficult things she’d ever done, but she knew better than to risk involvement with a man like him. All her research told her Curran Shaw was accustomed to getting what he wanted, no matter how much pressure he had to apply to get it. He lived large, in a world she very much didn’t belong in.
“Damn, Peg, if you weren’t such a nosy thing, you wouldn’t be in this mess. Always wondering if the grass is greener on the other side.” Curran held his hand out for the cutters when she finished snapping the blades through another twisted section of wire.
“Or the snow whiter, in this case.” She examined the cuts and scrapes on the bison’s right foreleg as he cut wire away from the left leg. The animal was bleeding in places, but only a few of the wounds looked deep. “Do you ranch bison?”
“Nah, he’s my one and only. He was going to be put down, but I convinced his owner to hand him over to me instead. He’s friendly enough, just physically pathetic.” He patted the leg he was working to free. “This leg here is about an inch shorter than the right one, and his right hind leg is turned inward some. He’s an ugly bastard, but he has a good nature.”
Victoria grabbed the cut sections of wire and pulled them back, away from the bison. She ducked under the remaining wire, then worked her fingers along it, trying to feel whether the barbs were tangled in wool or flesh. She glanced at Curran through her sunglasses. He stood up on the other side of Peg-leg’s head, tossing the final piece of wire from the bison’s leg onto the pile she’d made.
“Almost done, mate,” he said. He cut the wire stretching across the bison’s neck.
Peg-leg jumped backwards, and Victoria found herself face down in the snow. The bison bawled and Curran cursed a blue streak as she was pulled by the arm and dragged deeper into the snow. Suddenly, the pulling stopped and she heard the lumbering footfalls and snorting of the bison as Peg-leg walked away. She put her hands in front of her and pushed herself out of the snow, but she could only get to a sitting position. She looked down her arm at the hole in her sleeve, from which barbed wire protruded.
“Peg felt the tension go when I cut that wire and he bolted,” Curran said, sinking into the snow beside her. “Your parka’s torn to hell back here. Did the barbs cut you?”
“I don’t hurt anywhere, so I’d say no. I’m freezing, though. Nothing like a face full of snow.” Victoria wiped the snow from her cheek and neck with one hand while he pulled the barbed wire free of her sleeve. Great, a ripped coat. Just what she needed. At least it was January. She should be able to find an affordable one at a clearance sale somewhere.
Curran worked a barb loose from the fake fur edging her parka hood. He tugged, and the hood slipped back onto her shoulders.
The air between them stretched taut as a fence wire. His gloved fingers snagged one of her curls. His other hand grasped her sunglasses, sliding them off her face. His hard gaze caught hers, the recognition in his eyes freezing the blood in her veins.
“Victoria.”
Her heart skipped a beat, then began to pound. “How did you know my name?”
“The waitress at Brindle’s suggested I give other men lessons on how to get you to kiss them.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. “Oh, yes. The club.” The dark, penetrating look in his eyes held her captive, unable to look away. Panic rolled over her like a backcountry avalanche—totally unexpected and overwhelming.
A whinny from Old Joe provided an escape. “I—I’d better go. My horse is getting up there in years and he’s been standing in the snow a little too long. I need to get him back to the stable, and you’ll want to go treat Peg-leg’s wounds.”
She scrambled to her feet and turned toward her horse, but Curran stood up as fast as she did, his fingers closing around her right arm. She swallowed hard, her knees shaking. She’d set a standard for herself with that kiss she couldn’t possibly live up to. What would he do now? Nate hadn’t been quite so physically powerful, and he’d still been more than she could handle.
She reached deep into herself, pulled out her inner cast-iron-bitch and slid into it. Squaring her shoulders, she met his hard eyes with her best attempt at an equally steely gaze. “Let go.”
He took a step closer. She clenched her fingers into fists to keep from shivering when he focused on her mouth. “If I release you, will you promise not to disappear?” His voice was deceptively gentle.
Her palms felt damp inside her gloves. He was bigger than she was, broader, a few inches taller. How fast could she untie Old Joe’s reins and mount up if she had to make a break for it? She willed her voice to be steady, strong. “It’s time for me to leave.”
His green eyes shifted to capture hers again, his gaze revealing nothing. “You started something I’d rather like to finish, Victoria, now that this little bit of serendipity has brought you back to my world.” His voice caressed her, sending a spark, bright and hot, trickling through her.
She’d expected something vulgar, blatantly suggestive. She fumbled for her next move, then took a step back, wrenching free of his grip. “You want to finish what I started? Look, I know I left you with a particular impression of me, but I’m not the casual hookup type.”
Curran’s eyes narrowed and for a moment she felt like he was looking straight into her soul. He stepped toward her again, but made no move to touch her. “Relax, Victoria. My memory of you has fed a number of fantasies over the last couple of months, to be sure, but I don’t have sex with strangers.” His voice dropped to a quiet, sultry level. “I appreciate your help untangling Peg, but that didn’t count as time spent getting to know you.”
She sucked in a breath, surprised at the hopeful part of herself shouting Yes! Hadn’t she learned anything? She couldn’t handle someone like him. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Mister—”
“Shaw. Curran Shaw.” He raised a hand, and she held her ground as the soft leather of his glove stroked along her cheek. “So, regardless of obvious positive chemistry, you’re resistant to getting acquainted. I’m guessing there’s bad past relationship baggage?”
Oh, he was good. The touch, the gentleness in his voice, slowly reeling her in. She tensed again. “You could say that.”
“You’re not the only one.” His intense eyes held her gaze.
She tingled inside, her heart pounded. She wanted to turn away, to run, but at the same time, staying right where she was felt so good. No. Bad, very bad. “I’m not looking for anything that would complicate my life.”
He laughed, a rumble that warmed her in the chill air. “Neither am I. In fact, I’m absolutely certain this is foolish, but I’m lonely, and you intrigue me.” He smiled, crinkling slight lines beside his eyes. He focused on her lips for a moment, his attention sending alternating currents of fear and yearning through her. “Come on, let’s make sure Peg-leg got to the barn. I called the vet when I went back for wire cutters, so he should be there to treat him.”
Her thoughts snagged on his words. “Hold on a sec, when you went back for wire cutters? What happened to riding with a pair? Because, and I quote, ‘with fences like these around, you should.’”
He shrugged and gave her a charming grin. “We both learned something today. Come with me. I’ll put on tea and we can talk.”
“What a
bout my horse?” Her voice sounded strange in her ears, small and wavering. She sensed the proverbial ice thinning under her with every passing moment.
“Bring him. There are extra stalls in the stable. After talking for a little while, we may decide this isn’t worth pursuing and you simply ride away. If we enjoy each other’s company, and it gets too late to ride, I’ll load him in the trailer and take you both home.” Curran took her hand, raising her gloved fingers to his lips, the gold flecks in his eyes glowing in the sunlight reflecting off the snow. “I want to get to know you, Victoria.”
She knew his reputation, and he occasionally unleashed a nasty temper. He’d had a volatile breakup with his last starlet girlfriend, but no one ever said he was physically violent.
Oh, yeah, right. Like she’d really have to think about how he’d treat her in a relationship. Men like Curran Shaw didn’t have anything beyond maybe a one night fling with women so far beneath their social strata. Besides, if he did by some strange miracle find her interesting enough to date, a few hours with her screwed up psyche and he’d beat a hasty retreat.
Still, he was offering to talk to her. Maybe she could discover the answers to her questions about him. If she could somehow swing this meeting into a formal interview and article, wow, what a serious career boost. She stepped off the edge of the precipice in her head. “All right.”
They found Peg-leg hobbled in a corral beside the barn, his eyes half closed under the gentle ministrations of the veterinarian. Victoria led Old Joe into a stall and made him comfortable, then waited beside the corral while Curran conferred with the vet.
A wind kicked up, chilling her through the torn parka. She shivered and wrapped her arms tight across her stomach, distracting herself by looking around his property. The corral and barn stood a hundred feet or so from a white brick single-story ranch house. A big red pickup truck sat in the drive, the ever popular snow blade attached to the front. The plowed driveway curved away from the house, beyond the barn, past a similar looking house a couple of acres away. His property looked to be the last one in the exclusive canyon, the mountains finally connecting a quarter-mile beyond his home.
Curran joined her and motioned toward the house. “Time for something hot to drink.”
“Is Peg-leg okay?”
“Got himself fairly skinned. There are some awful cuts, but he didn’t tear into anything too deeply. Barring an infection, he’ll be fine.”
When they reached the house and he ushered her through the door, the interior surprised her. She’d expected something horribly Western male, with decorating done in leather and antlers and Indian blankets, or worse, the artsy-cool, look-how-much-money-I-spent method of decorating she’d seen in too many TV specials on homes of the rich and famous. Instead, she found beautiful cherry furniture, an elegant Chinese carpet over polished hardwood floors, landscape paintings adorning the walls and a slight scent of pine hanging in the air. The décor made her cautiously revise some of her assumptions about Curran.
Since he wanted to talk, she decided to soothe her writer’s curiosity first. “So, what do you ranch? You have a nice chunk of real estate out there.”
He shrugged. “It’s not that big. Three hundred acres. I don’t really ranch per se. I just play around with the land. I’ve a few horses. A flock of ducks are rather fond of the pond west of the house, and I must have mice in the barn because a red-tailed hawk likes to hang around. I’ve had deer all over, and moose in the upper pasture lately. And you’re acquainted with Peg-leg.” He waved a hand at the cream damask sofa. “Have a seat. I’ll get us something to drink.”
Victoria shed her torn parka and grimaced at the huge tear across the back and down the arm. Yeah, she’d definitely need to buy a new one.
Too nervous to sit, she dropped the parka on the sofa and nosed around the room. Between paintings, shelves lined the walls, crammed with history books, biographies, atlases, and novels from Tolstoy to Tolkien, from Homer to Crichton. With this many books, he had to be a voracious reader. Major points for him.
She skimmed over the titles, until one she loved caught her eye. “You like A Christmas Carol?” she called to him, caressing the frayed edges of the cloth cover and the well-worn pages.
Curran’s voice reached her from the next room, the slight rumble in his voice carrying his words to her without an increase in volume. “We all need redemption, right? That story renews hope for mine.”
He leaned through the doorway and raised a hand, beckoning her. “Come in here. I’m making Death by Hot Chocolate, heavy on the vanilla and cream.”
Chocolate was such a girl thing—she’d yet to meet a man who could create a prime cup. Where had he learned? “Sounds positively sinful.”
He grinned. “Calorie-laden, and proud of it.” His eyes darkened, and he flicked his gaze over her. Awareness of his perusal made her skin tingle inside the snug black ski pants and white turtleneck sweater she’d hastily pulled on this morning. “Speaking of calories, you have a great body, but please tell me you’re not one of those women who diets every minute of their lives.”
Now there was a nice line. “No way. I love food.” She just didn’t make enough money to spend on restaurants, or stock up on her beloved junk food, but she certainly wasn’t going to mention that.
Victoria followed him into the bright, open kitchen. Lovely hickory cabinets, butcher block countertops, a big window over the sink. The kitchen opened into an entertainment area, with a huge flat panel TV on the wall, a stereo system that probably cost more than she spent in rent each year, racks full of movies and music, and a comfy looking blue leather sectional couch and recliner. Formal for the front room, decidedly informal in the back. Not bad. She liked his style.
“I’m glad you believe in food,” Curran said, crossing to the stove. “I like a woman who’s willing to eat and not throw it back up again.”
She pulled out a chair at a sturdy wood table. “Ugh. Had a lot of that in your life?”
“You have no idea.” He turned his attention to the pot on the stove.
She’d seen the list of models and actresses he’d dated. She had a pretty good idea. He probably had a better understanding of eating disorders and fad diets than any other man on the planet.
Curran came to the table with two tall mugs, each topped with a dollop of rapidly melting whipped cream and a dusting of cocoa powder, and set one before her. He sat across the table corner from her, turning his chair out slightly to face her. He waited while she tried hers.
Thick, perfectly hot, devastatingly rich chocolate caressed her tongue and melted her from the inside. “Oh, this is absolutely decadent.”
He nodded. “Mum’s recipe. Cheers.” He clinked his mug to hers, then sipped. “Tell me about yourself, Victoria. A surname might be a good place to start.”
“Linden.”
“Middle name.”
“Ashley.”
“Age.” Curran’s smile turned wicked. “I know a gentleman isn’t supposed to ask but it’s on the table now.”
She shrugged. “I’m not sensitive. I turned thirty last July.”
“Infant. I’m thirty-six.” He leaned back in his chair, drank deeply. “Family.”
“Not my favorite subject.”
His eyebrows raised. “You don’t get along with your family?”
Not since they reacted to her fight for her life by saying we told you so, you’re such a disgrace. “My parents and I had a falling out a couple of years ago.”
He winced. “My sympathies. Do you ever see them?”
She shook her head. “They moved to Texas a while back.”
“Any siblings?”
“Only child. Apparently, I was such a delight to raise, they decided against ever doing it again.” She gave him a half-hearted smile. “I have a cousin I like, but, yeah, I told you it was a negative subject. Move on.”
He tilted his mug back and finished his chocolate. Her stomach flip-flopped when he licked the residue from his uppe
r lip. She could have done that for him. Really.
“Where were you born?”
“In Salt Lake.”
He nodded. “All right. Family and some of the vital statistics are out of the way. What’s your profession?”
Oh, dear. If she said freelance journalist, she was dead in the water. She didn’t want to lie, so maybe she could downplay it. “I’ve done a lot of things. At the moment, I’m a professional house-sitter. It keeps me from starving while I write.”
Curran raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. What are you writing at the moment?”
Time to divert the conversation. “No, you see, at the moment I’m supposed to be writing, but instead I’m killing time sucking down incredible hot chocolate and playing the Getting to Know You version of twenty questions.”
She smiled at him, allowing herself to enjoy the sparkle in his eyes. The attention felt good.
The diversion didn’t last long. Curran shifted toward her, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Seriously. What sort of writer are you?”
The ice beneath her feet thinned and cracked a bit more. For a man who’d been out of the media spotlight for what, over a year, he was still plenty skittish. She’d have to tread lightly. As casually as she could, she said, “Right now, I have clients hiring me for website copy, ghostwriting, that sort of thing. And I’m trying my hand at a novel, but it’s intimidating me beyond belief.”
“What’s it about?” He sounded genuinely interested, and slightly relieved.
“It’s kind of a quirky love story, about a man and woman who keep meeting at various stages of their lives but each time is a near miss for them getting together.” She heard the enthusiasm in her voice, a little embarrassed about how gung-ho she sounded.
