by Terry Spear
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 him, 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.
“Who was seeing your brother’s girlfriend?” He turned the rolls.
“Michael didn’t know. And the police couldn’t locate him.”
Hunter gave her a skeptical look and served up her steak and the rolls.
“My brother couldn’t catch her with him, but he knew she was seeing someone else.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll get the asparagus.”
After she returned and served up the asparagus, but before he began to eat his meal, he scooted behind her while she sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, as if they had known each other forever. His legs stretched out beyond hers way too intimately, caging her in, and yet to be able to keep her arms from being pinned, she rested her elbows on his knees. She had never known anyone she could get this close to so quickly and feel just right.
He removed the pins from her hair, gently, careful not to pull it.
“Your dinner will get cold,” she admonished, feeling out of her element. No man had ever let her hair down and the experience was just as beguiling as the rest of his moves. “And if nothing else, you need a good hot meal after the ordeal you’ve been through.”
“I’m feeling pretty hot.” His deep baritone voice penetrated her defenses, offering protection and silky seduction. Warmed by the fire, his chest pressed against her back. “How about you?”
Sizzling, as in having one of those hot flashes her mother always talked about. But it had nothing to do with the fire, and all to do with the Greek god warming her backside.
He stroked Tessa’s hair with tender caresses, and she suddenly wasn’t hungry. Instead, she wanted to turn around and kiss him. She was pretty sure his kisses could melt the polar ice caps the way he looked at her and touched her, heating her from the top of her damp head to her boot-covered toes. The way his first kiss had done.
Despite the circumstances that brought them together, she felt a sense of relief that he was here. Well, more than a sense of relief. Here, she could have been sitting in the chilly house alone, without any electricity, still trying to get a fire going, worried that whoever broke into the house was lurking outside. She would never have imagined cooking a meal over the fire either, even though Michael had done so outside a number of times while she’d watched. If she’d been on her own, she probably would have fixed a tuna fish sandwich and sat in the cold, eating it while a flashlight illuminated the place, poking into the dark with a faint light, the rest in shadows. Worrying that the intruder would return.
Hunter stroked her hair some more with the towel, then leaned over and kissed the back of her head, his groin pressed hard against her backside. He was totally aroused and she was getting herself into hot water. What if the guy was married? He didn’t remember anything about his past. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but maybe in his occupation, he couldn’t. Or maybe he was the kind of man who refused to wear a ring, because it stifled his sex life. Like her father.
“Thanks so much for drying my hair.” Her tone was formal, an attempt at keeping her distance.
“A natural redhead.” He combed his fingers through the strands, inspecting it as if he had never seen anything quite like it, caressing, awed.
And for a minute in time, she felt adored, when no one had ever treated her that way. But then she shuttered her heart, reminding herself it could all be a show. He might be a womanizer extraordinaire and it was his nature to beguile women with his irresistible magnetism.
He moved his long legs and rose.
Instantly, the heat his body had generated faded from hers and the loss of their touching affected her profoundly, when her mind told her she shouldn’t feel a thing. But with her brother gone, the house so empty—hell, what was she telling herself? Hunter was the first man who’d made her feel like a real woman ever. It had nothing to do with her brother or an empty house and all to do with an empty life. The only thing that kept her busy was taking care of her brother, and photographing anything and everything for a living.
One look at Hunter and the lustful expression in his gaze, and she knew he wanted her. Or at least he was fully aroused and needed release. She figured any woman who was readily available would do.
He lifted a brow and she wondered what he was reading in her expression. Skepticism? Interest? He would be right on both accounts.
He gave her a small smile, then grabbed his plate and sat next to her in front of the fire, his knee touching hers. Did he practice seduction? Or did it just come naturally?
“You could hire a detective to look into your brother’s situation.”
“I have. He charged me lots and didn’t find anything.”
Hunter nodded.
“Michael’s innocent,” she said, her voice harsher than she intended.
He didn’t respond one way or another, and she knew there was no sense in trying to convince another disbeliever. He devoured his steak as if he hadn’t eaten in ages, but worked slower on the rolls and asparagus, and then gulped down two glasses of milk. When he snagged another roll, she studied his face again. She swore when she first saw them, the bruises were dark purple and cuts were deep and bloody in places. But now they looked like they were fading.
“Does your head hurt? Or anywhere else? I don’t have anything really strong but I’ve got headache and backache medicines.”
“No, I’m feeling better already.”
Now it was her turn to look at him unbelievingly. “Why would you have been swimming in the ocean? You must have some idea.”
“Two possibilities. I was pushed or I jumped off one of the cliffs up the coast. Probably drifted to your beach.”
Pushed? She couldn’t imagine him being the type to jump.
First, she’d put out the word she was going to locate Bethany’s killer, now an intended murder victim was staying with her? Bad things come in threes, her grandmother had always said. Michael was found guilty, the electricity was off during an ice storm, and she found a near dead guy on
the beach. Oh, and a guy had broken into her home and stolen her gun. That was four in her book. Now was past time for something good to happen.
“You don’t remember anything? Except that you like your steak rare?”
He smiled a hair. “I guess that’s instinctual.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t lose all your memory, including how to walk or talk like some do in really bad amnesia cases. Do you at least remember where you live?”
“No.” He finished another roll and sat back against the leather footstool, his knees bent, his legs spread, his posture openly sexual, stating he was available if she was, while he studied her with that intense way of his as though he could look into her soul. “So what were you and your brother doing living way out here?”
“Our grandparents gifted us the house when they died. I’m a professional photographer.” She motioned to the wall opposite the fireplace where around thirty framed photos picturing wildlife, both flora and fauna hung. “And my brother is an artist. He loves to paint the Oregon Coast in all its moods. His work is now in several galleries across the country. You might have seen a couple of his paintings in the hallway and in the dining room.”
“Both of you are very talented. I love the way you capture nature in all its beauty.” He observed her photos from where he sat, but the light was fading too much for him to see them well.
Maybe he had gotten a closer look at them earlier when she was changing.
“The way the light plays off the storm-driven waves. The deer eating undisturbed in the sun-mottled forest. Even the seals basking on the rocks near the caves below the cliffs. As if you were an unobtrusive observer preserving nature at its best with one click of the camera,” Hunter said, motioning to them.
She could tell he wasn’t just making small talk, that their work really touched him, which confirmed what she had assumed about him—he was a rugged outdoorsman. Probably a hunter. She didn’t see him as the fisherman type.
Yet something else flickered in his expression. A darkness, or concern. She wasn’t sure what.
