by Val Daniels
She blushed.
He offered her a hand. "I think we should be heading back. It's time to get out of the cold." He stood, pulling her with him, then stooped to pick up his bow.
The wind glued Jillian's damp jeans to her as they headed back the way they'd come. The sky seemed gray-brown, she noticed. She had no idea how long they'd been out, but it couldn't be that late. The bitter cold nipped at her face. "Is it going to snow again?" she wondered out loud.
"Probably." Matt increased his speed. "I doubt it'll be as rough as the storm last night." They didn't say anything else until they almost reached the cabin.
Jillian used the silence to think about the subject they were going to have to address soon. "If the electricity is still off tonight, it's your turn for the bedroom."
Matt stopped beside the back porch. "Are you kidding?" He pulled a shovel from beneath the steps. "Would you run in and bring out a couple of containers? We need some snow."
Jillian threw him a questioning look but did as he asked, returning with a plastic dishpan and a bright orange two-gallon bucket. "What are you doing?" she ventured, as he used the shovel to scrape the hard crust off a drift at the corner of the cabin.
"Making an ice chest out of the refrigerator." He placed the bucket on the ground and filled it with snow. "We'll set the milk directly in the dishpan and put bowls of snow around everything else."
She watched, impressed. She also saw her chance to get even for the snowball he'd thrown at her earlier. But she needed to clear up the other matter first.
She cleared her throat. "About the sleeping arrangements, how… What are we going to do?"
"I'm sleeping on the sofa bed. You can sleep anywhere you like."
Selfish lout. "The floor will be too cold."
"And hard." He leaned on the shovel handle, gazing reflectively at her. She thought she detected a smirk beneath the placid exterior of his face.
"Maybe we could take turns between the couch and chair."
"Uh-uh. You're welcome to share with me." This time he grinned, showing white teeth against his tanned skin. "I don't usually bite." He pushed the full bucket aside and began filling the green dishpan.
"I wouldn't be able to sleep."
"I didn't say we'd sleep." A low chuckle vibrated through his words. "We can consider it a test of character."
"I didn't mean that," she said and gave up. She'd tried, and his attitude banished any second thoughts she might have had about her retaliation. She waited for the perfect moment.
He moved one foot higher on the drift to balance himself as he returned to filling the dishpan with snow.
"Here, let me take that."
Jillian reached for the shovel as Matt bent to pick up the dishpan. Putting the end of the handle between his feet, she pulled gently. She didn't want to cripple him—just see him facedown in the snow.
His lower foot came sliding. With his hands full, he wavered momentarily, trying to catch his balance. She yanked the handle away in time to enjoy his slow-motion sprawl into the middle of the snowdrift. The dishpan skied down slowly, halting at her feet. Unplanned, she added the crowning touch, dumping its contents over his head. He made a perfect snow angel except for one arm. It was buried to the shoulder from his attempt to catch himself.
"That's for the snowball." She giggled, enjoying herself so much she almost forgot to run.
He recovered swiftly. One nimble move, and he was up. Her slight head start got her to the cabin as his foot hit the bottom porch step. The door slammed in his face.
He watched through the window as she swiftly turned the lock. Pleased that his look contained a challenge instead of fury—it was a dirty trick—she smiled. "I'll let you in if you promise no paybacks."
He shook his head.
"We're even. You got me earlier, remember?"
"One snowball." His index finger and thumb modeled a three-inch circle in the air. "One little snowball." Plucking a handful of snow from the neck of his ski suit, he held it toward her. "This isn't even."
She couldn't contain her laughter. "You look like a snowman."
"You don't have the heart to let me freeze to death."
"Wanna bet?"
One end of his mustache twitched as he lifted a gloved hand skyward. "It's snowing again."
Two flakes spit against the window as if she needed divine verification. She hadn't figured him to be a stubborn idiot on top of everything else. She nervously shifted her weight from foot to foot.
"If the door's not unlocked by the time I get back with the bucket, the compensation goes up." Matt leaped down off the porch. "Think about it." Beautifully straight teeth glimmered in a devilish smile. Then he disappeared around the corner of the house.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jillian stared after him, chewing the corner of her lip. No doubt about it, Matt was insane. If he wanted to stay outside and freeze instead of agreeing to call everything even, who was she to argue? So why did she have this nagging suspicion she'd unlock the door the minute he reappeared?
"Boo!"
She almost went through the window. She hadn't expected him to materialize behind her. Clutching her chest, she sagged against the corner he'd backed her into.
He eyed her and jangled the keys in front of her nose. "I didn't even need them," he mocked. "The front door wasn't locked." He closed in on her, his eyes warm and wicked. Snow sloshed from his boots onto the linoleum floor.
She lunged toward the counter, hoping to escape past him.
He sidestepped to cut her off.
Gazing at her only other route to safety, she caught a glimpse of his sly grin. He wanted her to go for the door. Go ahead, she could almost see him think, I'll have you swimming in snow. Or better yet, he'd lock her out. She didn't have her keys.
Exasperated, Jillian crossed her arms over her chest and plopped down in the corner. He could pick her up and carry her outside, but she was resolved not to go quietly.
Matt hunched down beside her, accepting her silent challenge with a delighted purr. Jillian curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her knees and hunching her shoulders.
Grabbing the collar of her heavy jacket, he tried to hitch an arm beneath her knees. He bungled the attempt and she rolled away, wedging herself between the wall and the counter.
"Dammit, Jillian, this isn't going to do you any good." She gazed up at him to smile at the frustration in his voice. There he stood, his feet planted wide apart, his hands on his slender hips, looking more handsome than ever.
She grew weak at the sight of him and squeezed her eyelids shut, concentrating on catching her breath. Slowly. Deeply. Inhale. Exhale.
He muttered to himself. She giggled nervously, hoping he was tired of the game and would go play elsewhere.
He was on his knees now, so close she sensed his slightest intake of air. She prayed her heavy coat would ward off the sensation if he touched her. She tingled just anticipating his next move.
"Give up?" she asked breathlessly.
"No," he answered, his jaw squaring. "Do you?" The gleam returned to his eyes. "Do you think you can hold that position—" he paused for effect, his mustache curved upward "—upside down?"
He proceeded to lift her from the floor by her ankles and she unfolded. Her red knit cap fell, letting her hair sweep the floor as he stood dangling her in front of him.
"Put me down." She arched her back.
His grasp tightened on her ankles. "Ya gonna go quietly, lady?" he asked from the side of his mouth.
"What do you think?" She renewed her struggle.
"I think you're more trouble than you're worth," he said quietly, lowering her gently till she was lying flat on the floor.
Sighing, she savored her victory. But only for the instant it took to look up. He towered over her, his legs straddling her hips. She didn't have time to think of moving as he swooped down, slipping one arm behind her neck, the other behind her knees. She was off the floor and in his arms in the twinkling of his eye
s. Held high against his chest she felt his heart thudding. Hers began a counter beat.
Her body flowed over him. Her legs curved around his arm, her hair fanned over his shoulder. Her head felt light. She had to rest it against his chest, near his muscled neck.
She watched his throat, mesmerized, as he swallowed several times, then her eyes drifted to his mouth. His tongue moved in slow motion across his full lower lip.
She could feel longing emanating from him as surely as he must have felt its waves coming from her.
His mouth edged closer. She turned in his arms, her lips parting expectantly.
He groaned and released her legs as suddenly as he'd picked her up. Her feet slid to the ground. Every centimeter of her body came alive as it grazed his, and the arm that still held her tightened, crushing her breasts against his chest. "I can't do it," he murmured, focusing his attention on her dry lips.
She licked them and he thrust her away. "I just don't have the heart to give you the snow bath you deserve." He ran his fingers through his damp hair. "I guess Grandma's still watching over you."
Jillian breathed for the first time in what seemed like hours. Plug me in, I can light up the whole damn cabin, she thought dizzily. Her blood sang through her veins and her body hummed like an electric wire.
He went outside, returning with the containers of snow. Opening the refrigerator, he jammed them in.
Several minutes later, Jillian heard the shower. As soon as he finished, she'd take one herself. She didn't know what she might say, how she would act. Right now, she still wished he'd kissed her. While she listened for the water to stop, she put away the Christmas leftovers.
Was she crazy enough to risk what she had with Harrison simply because Matt played her emotions like a brass band and made her forget common sense? Harrison would never have behaved like that, struggling with her—maybe she liked the rough stuff.
That idea was ludicrous. Underlying every one of Matt's moves was a basic gentleness. He wasn't afraid to laugh, or to forget his dignity—or to touch. Jillian's heart lurched. That, combined with his captivating grin and honest eyes, made him almost irresistible.
Who wouldn't be fascinated with him? And knowing that this disorienting attraction was mutual made the situation as combustible as an unlit match in a burning matchbook.
As long as she kept her distance, she wasn't hurting anyone. But she had to remember she wasn't free to act on her dangerous fantasies.
Harrison had been a long way from her mind all day, she admitted with an uneasy twinge. She should be thinking about his virtues.
When she finished her shower, Jillian returned to the kitchen, curious about the muted curses she'd been hearing. She discovered Matt with his head in the oven, a pile of burnt matches beside him. "Damn," he said, bumping his head as he drew back. He eyed her sapphire-blue jumpsuit. "Nice." He frowned and looked back into the oven.
She flushed, not wanting him to think she'd dressed up for him. "I didn't exactly bring appropriate clothes for being snowed in in a cabin with a stranger," she explained nervously. "At least this shows off my new necklace." As he stood up, she glanced at the delicate bells and self-consciously touched the rounded neckline that stopped just above the gentle slope of her breasts. "I love my present. I can't tell you how much it means to me."
He didn't respond.
"You said this was a sample? You must represent a very exclusive company."
He fiddled with a small casserole sitting on the counter. "I don't represent anyone. I have contracts with several craftsmen. They supply my stores."
"Your stores?" In his worn flannel shirts and faded blue jeans—faded from wash and wear instead of bought that way—he didn't look like a businessman.
He laughed at her surprise. "Seven of them, actually. Ever heard of Carson's?"
"Carson's?" There was a Carson's Fine Jewelry in Topeka. It was one of a chain.
He answered with a nod and put whatever he'd been making into the oven. He pulled it back out as soon as he'd pushed it in. "I can't light this damned oven!"
He didn't take defeat gracefully, she noted.
"I've thought I had it lit twice now, but it's out again."
Pleased that she could finally do something for him, she reached for a match. He caught her hand before she could strike it. "I've had the gas on. Don't you think we'd better wait?"
She hadn't thought clearly since he'd entered the cabin late last night, but wasn't about to admit that to him. "It wasn't on very long." She leaned against the counter. "Let me know when you think it's safe."
His wry smile hinted that he knew he was making her crazy.
"How about a glass of wine while we wait? What do you think? Rose or white?"
"I don't know what we're having for dinner."
"It's a cranberry and turkey casserole my dad always made with the leftovers."
She wrinkled her nose. "Sounds awful."
"That's what everyone thinks until they try it. You'll love it."
"I guess you'd better make it white. I don't know what goes with cranberries."
Her answer irritated him for some reason. "Why don't you choose what you prefer instead of what's proper?"
"I don't have a preference. Grandma was pretty straitlaced about drinking and so I'm not much of a wine connoisseur. I have to rely on trying to pick whatever is appropriate." She refused to be baited by what sounded like an accusation.
"You don't have to have either," he said, but reached into the cabinet and brought out a couple of jelly glasses, holding them out for her inspection. "Fine crystal for milady?" he mocked, taking down one of the wine bottles from the cabinet over the refrigerator.
"Is there something wrong with wanting to do the right thing?" she asked, annoyed.
"Only if you're doing it for that reason alone."
Jillian tilted her head defiantly. "I grew up in a small town where even the cream of the crop weren't exactly 'high society.' Grandma taught me not to eat peas with a knife and all that, but I've had to work hard at learning 'the right thing.'"
"That's important to you?" Matt's tone softened considerably, but still held an edge.
She nodded. "Sometimes. I like feeling I can handle myself in any situation."
"Knowing the 'right thing' insures that?"
His skeptical look reminded her of the way she'd "handled" this whole mess and her mortification at her earlier behavior grew. She shrugged helplessly and decided to disregard his touchy mood. "Do you realize you change the subject when we start to talk about you?" she asked as he opened the white wine and poured them each a measure. "I didn't know we were talking about me."
"We were talking about your stores."
"That's about as mundane a topic as you'll find."
"How did you get into that business?" She felt the tension between them ease. "I never would have pictured you as a jeweler."
He swished his wine around in the glass before answering. "It's a long story," he warned.
She waved at the window. The snow was dropping in giant flakes. "I'm not going anywhere." Leaning down to cup her chin in her hand, she propped her elbow on the counter and added, "I may have even talked to you before. Carson's is where my boss buys all his wife's gifts. And he orders your specialty items when he needs a present for a visiting bigwig."
"The senator has an account with us," he nodded. Waiting for him to continue was an exercise in futility. She wanted to strangle him. "So?" She sighed, exasperated. "How did you get into the jewelry business?"
He squinted as if trying to remember. "I spent a lot of time at one of the neighbor's after my mom left. Dad spent every free moment at the local pool hall, so I kind of adopted the man next door for company. He'd been silversmithing for years, as a hobby. We lived in Colorado, near several abandoned mines, and he'd go find his own silver, refine it—everything— then sit for hours shaping it into some beautiful piece of jewelry." Matt glanced at his watch. "It's time to light the oven."
"U
h-uh," she objected, shaking her head. "You aren't going to change the subject again that easily. You talk, I'll light."
He glanced at her sardonically, but continued. "John's specialty was delicate butterfly earrings. No two pairs alike, but you couldn't tell one from the other in a set. They always matched perfectly. It fascinated me."
Jillian smiled. He was in some distant past now, and his eyes were seeing something she couldn't. She quietly slid the casserole into the oven and lifted herself onto the counter across from him.
"You have to understand, John was in his early seventies at the time, but still a burly, big man with a voice like thunder. Most of the kids in town shied away from his end of the block. He was the bad example mothers used if their kids didn't toe the line. You know—the town 'bogeyman.' He had several old cars in his backyard. No semblance of a lawn—even in summer—just waist-high weeds everywhere except the path to his door."
She pictured Matt, a lonely little boy, deserted by his mother—and technically by his father, too, from the sound of things—turning to a gruff old man for companionship.
"How high did you set the oven?" Matt brought her thoughts back to practicalities.
"Three-fifty?"
He nodded. "I'll set the timer. We may as well sit in the other room."
Jillian waited for Matt to finish and then followed him into the other room, sitting opposite him at the end of the couch. Drawing her feet under her, she leaned forward. "I take it you didn't think John was the bogeyman."
He laughed. "Remind me to fix you one of his famous Tom and Jerrys later. Would the bogeyman let me, and two or three of the bravest boys, have our Tom and Jerrys laced with rum once a year at Christmas time? We felt we were in on some very grown-up rite."
Jillian realized that he didn't share these memories often, or with just anyone. "I'll bet if your parents knew, they would have lynched him."
"And I'll bet he didn't put in as much as a teaspoon. But it was the thought that counted with us. We were big-time." He smiled wistfully.
He was "grown-up" at nine or ten, she guessed, while she'd practically been a baby at eighteen when she left for secretarial college. No wonder he'd ridiculed her inability to choose a wine. He'd probably been making most of his own decisions since his mother took off. The thought made her sad.
