Читать онлайн книгу «The Millionaire′s Snowbound Seduction» автора Sandra Marton
The Millionaire's Snowbound Seduction
Sandra Marton
Treat yourself this winter and rediscover this Christmas novella by Sandra Marton, originally published in 1999 as A Miracle on Christmas Eve.
This Christmas, Nick Brennan is determined to say goodbye to the memories of his ex-wife Holly for good. Even if that means taking once last trip to the snowy mountain cabin where they spent their honeymoon entwined in each other’s arms…
But when Nick arrives it seems that Holly has had the same idea! And suddenly, snowbound together, they are confronted with the sensual heat and fiery passion of their past. Neither will back down, but as they keep each other warm on a frozen Christmas Eve they find themselves pushed to the very limits of temptation…and towards a pleasurable surrender!
The Millionaire’s Snowbound Seduction
Sandra Marton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
Cover (#uad355841-ba87-50e9-ba30-160eb870caaa)
Back Cover Text (#ue5c08fa3-5745-57ec-8318-7bc08d217ca1)
Title Page (#ub27b5857-3c3c-5789-91c8-2f3bffb7c082)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f678c154-5480-5f8a-9b47-0281e0b09d13)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_1361a451-1927-5676-9f87-9f7ab3af2afb)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u0762bd2d-bcfc-5f78-b64d-c7cba7192c14)
NICK BRENNAN figured that Scrooge had gotten it right.
Christmas was definitely the most overrated holiday of the year. He’d had plenty of time to think about it, considering that he’d been stalled in a barely-moving line of traffic for the past forty-five minutes.
A horn blared angrily behind him, setting off an answering chorus from a dozen other cars.
Nick smiled thinly. Right. As if that would change anything. This was New York traffic. Friday afternoon New York traffic, the Friday afternoon before Christmas. Anybody dumb enough to be trapped in it deserved what he got.
Including him.
‘Stupid,’ Nick muttered, tapping his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel.
That was the only word for it. He’d been living in Manhattan for almost a decade. He knew the score. Even his PA, who was just a few years out of some Iowa cornfield, knew that leaving New York today wasn’t terribly bright.
She’d tried to talk him out of it.
‘Why don’t you let me phone around, see if I can’t book you onto a flight to Vermont?’ Ellen had said.
He’d given her a bunch of reasons, all of them logical. Because she’d never find a seat for him at the last minute. Because not even the charter service Brennan Resorts employed would be available at the eleventh hour. Because even if she lucked out, who knew for how much longer anything would be able to take off? The weatherman, as usual, had gotten it wrong. The predicted light snow was about to turn into a major storm.
Nick had told Ellen all those things. The only thing he hadn’t told her was the truth. He was driving to North Mountain because he hoped the six hours on the road would give him time to talk himself out of reaching it.
Oh, he’d come up with practical reasons for going. After all, he owned the mountain now, most of it, anyway, the same as he owned the cabin that stood on its crest. And, as soon as the details were settled, his people would bring in the equipment necessary to demolish the cabin and start work on the newest Brennan resort. Nick was a hands-on kind of guy. He always looked a site over before work began. It was, according to Wall Street, one of the reasons for his success.
But nobody was going to bring in any kind of equipment, until the harsh New England winter ended in April, or maybe even May.
No matter how you looked at it, there wasn’t a reason in the world to make the trip now.
Nick blew out his breath.
A couple of months ago, he hadn’t even known he owned North Mountain. His people had brought him an estate deal that contained several prime parcels of land in New England. Nick had moved fast, as he always did, and quickly given them the okay to make the buy.
He’d had no idea the mountain was part of the package. Not that he’d have cared, if he’d known. The mountain was perfect for development, and no amount of sentimental claptrap would change that. No, it wasn’t sentiment that was sending him to Vermont.
Vermont, in December.
Christmas carol time. Horse-drawn sleigh time. Cold, star-studded night time…
Holly time.
Seven years ago come Monday morning, he and Holly had been married. One year later to the day, they’d agreed to a divorce.
And all of it had begun on North Mountain, in a cabin a million miles from anywhere.
The horn behind him blasted Nick into reality. He shot a nasty look into his mirror and inched the Explorer forward.
Okay. So, the realization that he’d bought the mountain, and the cabin, had hit him hard. That had surprised him. He didn’t think about his once-upon-a-time marriage anymore. Hell, why would he? Nick’s jaw tightened. He’d made a mistake. So what? Life was like that. You made a mistake, you rectified it and moved on. The one thing you never did was look back.
Then, what was he doing, sitting in this God-awful traffic, heading for the place where he’d made his biggest mistake? It made no sense.
Maybe it did. Maybe it would help him get rid of the memories.
Memories of Holly, wearing a flannel nightgown instead of the silky one she’d bought for their honeymoon, because the cabin had been so cold that first night…until he’d slowly stripped her of the gown and warmed her with his body. Memories of Holly, laughing after he’d tumbled her down in the snow, shrieking when he threatened to wash her face in it…her smile fading, turning soft and sexy as she became aware of the sudden pressure of his aroused flesh against hers.
Nick’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Memories were all they were, foolish shadows of a dead past, and they made no sense because he wasn’t in love with the woman in those memories. Not anymore. Not ever, when you came right down to it. Holly, herself, had been an illusion. A fantasy, conjured up by the lonely kid he’d once been.
He needed closure.
Nick almost laughed. Closure. The most popular word in the good old U.S. of A. Every two-bit TV talk show, every tune-in-and-spew-your-guts radio shrink, went on and on about closure. And, yeah, dumb or not, maybe that was what he needed. No point pretending that the seventh anniversary of his failed marriage hadn’t affected him. How could he not be affected by the death of a dream?
Nick shifted his long legs. Okay. He’d go to the mountain, spend a few days, and find ‘closure.’ He’d bury his memories the same way his crew would bury the cabin, once Spring came, once his attorneys got things sorted out. The mountain was Nick’s, but there’d been a rider attached to the deed, a ‘no commercial construction’ clause the owner had tacked on before he’d sold.
No problem. His people would find a way around the stipulation, and he would find a way around the memories. He’d see the cabin, walk the mountain one last time—and then a construction crew would come in, level the place and start building the most luxurious ski resort in New England. It would be the newest, finest Brennan resort in the chain and all the ‘closure’ a man could possibly want.
And, in the process, he’d have himself a weekend off. Time to unwind, enjoy a break. No boardrooms. No meetings. No desk heaped with memos. Not that he’d be cut off completely. A three-room cabin high on top of a Vermont mountain, no matter how plush, was not an eight-room penthouse, or three floors of office space on Fifth Avenue, but Nick had come prepared. He had his cellular phone in his pocket, his portable computer on the seat beside him, and his wireless fax on the floor.
The guy behind him honked again.
Nick felt his blood pressure zoom. For one sweet moment, he thought about getting out of the Explorer, marching back to the jerk’s car, banging on the window and asking the guy if he really, honestly thought things would go any faster with him leaning on his horn…
The breath hissed from his lungs.
Closure was what he needed, all right.
He was angry at Holly, angry at himself, and he had been for six long years because he’d never had the chance to tell her the truth, that he’d never loved her, not really, that she wasn’t the only one who’d made a mistake.
Not that he’d ever get the chance to tell her anything. But going to the cabin, to the mountain, would be the next best thing. He’d feel better, afterwards. He wouldn’t snarl at Ellen, bark at his staff, sit in traffic with his adrenaline pumping as if he were a boxer waiting for round one to begin.
The tail lights ahead of him winked. Slowly, miraculously, the line of vehicles began moving. Nick downshifted. It was one of the great mysteries in New York, how you’d be creeping along, measuring your success in inches and all of a sudden, the road would open up. It was like life. You’d plod along and then, wham, wings would sprout on your feet and you’d find yourself flying, measuring your success in millions of dollars instead of the twenty bucks still in your pocket after all the bills were paid…
Measuring it alone. Always alone, no matter how many well-wishers crowded around, no matter what the papers said or how many gorgeous women you were with, because the only woman you’d ever wanted to share your success was gone, had been gone for six years, would always be gone…
The horn sounded. Nick shot a look at his mirror and glared at the guy in the Chevy. Then he shot into the fast lane, poured on the gas, and let the Manhattan skyline fade into the fast-gathering darkness of the winter night.
* * *
Holly Cabot Brennan figured she’d reach the top of North Mountain in two or three millennia.
She frowned, bit down lightly on her bottom lip, and tried to see through the whirling snow.
At the rate she was going, even that might be too much to expect.
The old guy at the gas station had tried to warn her. He’d looked at her, her rented car and the sullen sky through rheumy eyes and announced that she’d need more than a full tank to get much further.
‘Gonna be a bad ‘un,’ he’d said, in the clipped, Down-East twang she hadn’t heard in years.
Holly had smiled politely. ‘The weatherman says the storm’s not going to hit until after midnight. Besides, I’m not going very far.’
‘Weathuhman’s wrong,’ the old gent replied. ‘How far you goin’?’
‘Not very,’ Holly said, looking over at the battered ice machine that stood beside the gas station office. ‘Does that thing work?’
‘Aye-up, it works, though why you’d be wantin’ ice in the dead of winter is beyond me.’
Holly thought of the big ice chest she’d crammed into the trunk. It was stuffed with shrimp, lobsters, lobster tails, butter, clams, oysters and assorted other goodies. Then she thought of trying to explain all that to the old man.
‘I’ve got some stuff in an ice chest,’ she said, leaving off the details. ‘And I figure, just in case they forgot to clean out the freezer and turn it on, up in the cabin…’
‘Cabin on North Mountain?’ The old guy looked at her as if she were certifiably insane. ‘Is that where you’re goin’?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Holly popped open the trunk, dropped coins into the ice machine, then marched back to the car with two bags of cubes. ‘You just about finished there?’
‘Won’t have much worry about the freezer bein’ on, Missy. Storm like the one that’s comin’, you won’t have no power at all. Assumin’ you’ll make it to the top, that is, which you most likely won’t.’
Holly shut the ice chest, then the trunk, and wiped her gloved hands on her wool slacks.
‘Ever a font of good cheer,’ she said brightly. ‘Okay, how much do I owe you?’
‘Chains.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Chains,’ the old guy said. Holly held out a twenty-dollar bill, and he took it from her hand. ‘Bettah still, you ought to have a cah with four-wheel drive.’
‘I’ve driven up the mountain before,’ Holly replied politely. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Aye-up, most times, mebbe.’ He cocked an eye towards the sky. ‘ But there’s a storm comin’ in.’
‘Not really,’ she said, even more politely. ‘The weather reports say—’
The old man’s lip curled. ‘Don’t care what they say.’ Carefully, he plopped Holly’s change into her outstretched hand. ‘Storm’s comin’. Bad one. You at least got them new-fangled brakes in that car?’
What new-fangled brakes? Holly almost said. She hadn’t owned a car in years. What was the point, when you lived in the heart of Boston? Besides, she’d spent the past six months in a Tuscan farmhouse, up to her elbows in olive oil, plum tomatoes, and garlic, and the last three weeks on a whirlwind tour across the States, signing copies of Ciao Down With Holly, the book that had come out of her stay in Tuscany. She knew all there was to know about the differences between the cuisines of Northern and Southern Italy, but brakes were something else entirely.
Not that it mattered. She’d be at the cabin before the old doomsayer’s prophecies came true. So she’d smiled pleasantly and said her brakes were just fine, thanks, and then she’d driven off, watching in her rearview mirror as he’d stood looking after her, shaking his head mournfully.
‘Ridiculous,’ Holly had muttered to herself, as she’d made the turn onto the road that led up North Mountain. As if some old man in the middle of nowhere could do a better job predicting the weather than the CNN meteorologists…
Halfway up the mountain, the snow started falling.
At first, the flakes were big and lazy. They settled prettily onto the branches of the tall pine trees that clung to the slope on Holly’s left while sailing gracefully off the precipice to her right. But within minutes the wind picked up and the snow went from lazy to fierce, changing direction so that now she was driving headfirst into an impenetrable cloud of white. And there was no way to turn back. The road was too narrow and far too dangerous for that.
She was driving blind, trapped in the heart of what seemed to be the beginning of a blizzard. All she could do was hunch over the steering wheel, urge the car forward inch by slippery inch, and try not to wonder whether or not she had the ‘new-fangled’ brakes she’d pooh-poohed just half an hour ago.
The old man had been right. She’d been stupid not to have rented a car with four-wheel drive. Who was she kidding? She’d been stupid to have decided to come to the cabin at all.
Everyone had tried to tell her that. Not just the guy at the gas station. The clerk who’d rented her the car. The traffic cop in Burlington, when she’d asked for directions. Even Belinda, her agent, who knew as much about New England as a vegetarian knew about a pot roast, had blanched when Holly had said she was taking off for a few weeks in Vermont.
‘Where?’ Belinda had said incredulously—but Belinda figured that civilization ended once you took the Lincoln Tunnel out of Manhattan.
‘It’s a place called North Mountain,’ Holly had replied. ‘I’ve rented a cabin.’
‘You’re going to spend a few weeks in a cabin?’ Belinda repeated, the way someone else might have said, ‘You’re going to spend a few weeks on the Moon?’
‘That’s right. It’s very luxurious. There’s a Jacuzzi, a huge stall shower, a big fireplace in the living room…’
Belinda snorted. ‘Try the Waldorf. It’s got all that, plus room service.’
Holly did her best to offer a cheerful little laugh.
‘I need a change of routine,’ she said. ‘ A real one, before I start on the next book. You know how hard I’ve been working this year, and there’s a whole bunch of ideas I want to try before I begin writing…’
And then she stopped, because she knew she was babbling, because she could tell from the look on Belinda’s elegant face that she knew it, too.
‘Poor darling,’ Belinda crooned. ‘You really do sound exhausted.’
‘Oh, I am,’ Holly said quickly, because it was true. She was stressed.
That was what she told herself, at first.
She’d been working hard. She had been for the past seven years—well, six years, ever since she and Nick had been divorced. Her parents had wanted her to come home and pick up her life as if nothing had happened but something had happened, and Holly wasn’t about to pretend otherwise. The last vestiges of girlhood had fallen away the day she took off her wedding ring. So she’d explained, as gently as possible, that going home just wasn’t possible. She’d refused her father’s offer of financial support the same as she’d refused Nick’s, and set out to create a life for herself.
And she’d done it.
The little column for the Green Mountain Daily had blossomed into a monthly feature for What’s Cookin’? magazine, and it led to the contract for her first cookbook. Holly had found herself on the fast track, and she loved it. She could put in six hours in the kitchen, another two at the computer, tumble into bed and wake up the next morning, eager to start all over again. At least she had, until a couple of weeks ago.
The first time she’d awakened in the middle of the night with a knot in her belly and another in her throat, she’d figured it was a sign she’d put too many capers into the Putanesca.
By the fourth time, though, she knew it wasn’t a recipe gone wrong that had awakened her.
It was her dreams.
She was dreaming of Nick, which was ridiculous. She hadn’t done that in almost six years, hadn’t seen him in almost six years, hadn’t thought about him in almost six years…
It was a long time. The realization hit at three o’clock on a cold December morning, when she awakened with Nick’s name on her lips. That wasn’t heartburn she was feeling, it was anger. And why not? She was coming up on the seventh anniversary of what had begun as a marriage and had ended as a disaster.
Holly rose from bed, wrapped herself in her robe and padded out to the living room. She clicked on the TV and surfed through a bunch of movies that had been old before she was born. She zipped past a pair of talking heads that were deep in what she’d thought was a discussion of ghosts, then zipped right back when she realized the ‘ghosts’ they were discussing weren’t spooks at all but memories, unwanted ones, of people in a person’s past.
‘So, Doctor,’ the interviewer chirruped, ‘how does one put these memories to rest?’
Holly, with one hand deep in a bowl of leftover gourmet popcorn, paused and stared at the set.
‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘how?’
‘By facing them,’ the good doctor replied. He pointed his bearded jaw at the camera, so that his bespectacled eyes seemed to bore straight into Holly’s. ‘Seek out your ghosts. You know where they lurk. Confront them, and lay them to rest.’
Pieces of nut-and-sugar-encrusted popcorn tumbled, unnoticed, into Holly’s lap as she zapped the TV into silence.
‘North Mountain,’ she’d whispered, and the very next morning she’d phoned her travel agent. Was the cabin on the mountain still available? The answer had taken a while but eventually it had come. The cabin was there, it was for rent, and now here she was, about to face her ghosts…or to turn into one herself, if she didn’t make it up this damned mountain.
There! Off to the left, through the trees. Holly could make out the long, narrow gravel driveway. It was still passable, thanks to the sheltering overhang of branches.
The car skidded delicately but the tires held as she made the turn.
She pulled up to the garage, fumbled in the glove compartment for the automatic door opener the realtor had given her. The door slid open. Holly smiled grimly. So much for the old man’s predictions about a power outage, and thank goodness for that. Night had fallen over the mountain and for the first time it occurred to her that it wouldn’t be terribly pleasant to be marooned here without electricity.
Carefully, she eased the car into the garage. Seconds later, with the door safely closed behind her, she groaned and let her head flop back against the seat rest.
She was safe and sound—but what on earth had she thought she was doing, coming to this cabin? You didn’t bury your ghosts by resurrecting them.
‘You’re an idiot,’ she said brusquely, as she pulled her suitcase from the car and made her way into the kitchen.
She switched on the light. There was the stove, where she’d prepared the very first meal she and Nick had shared as husband and wife. There was the silver ice bucket, where he’d chilled the bottle of cheap champagne that was all they’d been able to afford after they’d blown everything on renting this place for their honeymoon. There was the table, where they’d had their first dinner…where they’d almost had it, because just as she’d turned to tell Nick the meal was ready, he’d snatched her up into his arms and they’d ended up making love right there, with her sitting on the edge of the counter and him standing between her thighs, while their burgers burned to a crisp.
The lights flickered. Deep in the basement, the heating system hesitated, then started up again. Holly sighed in gratitude.
What on earth was she doing here? She was an idiot, to have come back to this place.
‘Worse than an idiot,’ she said, in a voice blurred with tears—not that she was weeping with regret. Why would she? Marrying Nick had been a mistake. Divorcing him had been the right thing to do, and she didn’t regret it, she never had. She was crying with anger at herself, at the storm that was going to make it impossible for her to turn around and drive down the mountain…
The lights blinked again. In a moment, the power would go out. She’d never be able to open the garage door without it; the door was old, and far too heavy. The power had gone out for a couple of hours when they’d stayed here years ago, and not even Nick—muscular, gorgeous, virile Nick—had been able to wrestle the door open.
Holly swallowed dryly. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, be trapped here, with her memories. She had to get out before that happened, and never mind the raging storm and the treacherous road. She could manage the drive down. She’d be careful. Very careful. Nothing was impossible, when you put your mind to it. Hadn’t life taught her that?
‘I am out of here,’ she said, exactly at the moment the lights went out.
CHAPTER TWO (#u0762bd2d-bcfc-5f78-b64d-c7cba7192c14)
BY THE time he reached the turn-off for North Mountain, Nick was almost driving blind.
He had the windshield wipers turned up to high but the snow was falling so thick and fast that the wipers could barely keep up.
At least the Explorer was holding the road. That was something to be grateful for. And so was the gas station, just ahead. The last few miles, the needle on the gauge had been hovering dangerously close to empty.
Nick pulled beneath the canopy, stepped from the truck and unscrewed the cover to his gas tank.
‘Hey there, Mister, didn’t ya see the sign? Station’s closed.’
A man had come out of the clapboard house beyond the pumps and jerked his thumb at a hand-lettered sign tacked to the wall. He had the raw-boned look of an old-time New Englander and the accent to match.
‘No,’ Nick said, ‘sorry, I didn’t.’
‘Well, ya do now.’
‘Look, I need some gas. And you’re probably the only station open for miles.’
‘Ain’t open. Told ya, I’m closed.’
Nick flashed his most ingratiating smile.
‘My truck’s just about running on fumes,’ he said. ‘I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me fill up.’
‘Ain’t no need for gas,’ the old man said, ‘seein’ as there’s no place to go in a blizzard.’
Oh, hell. Nick took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Yeah, well, the weatherman says it’s not a blizzard. And by the time it is, I’ll be where I’m going, if you’ll let me have some gas.’
The old fellow looked him up, then looked him down. Nick found himself wishing he’d taken the time to exchange his black trench coat, charcoal suit and shiny black wingtips for the jeans, scuffed boots and old leather jacket he’d jammed into his suitcase. He’d almost given up hope when the guy shrugged and stomped down the steps to the pump.
‘It’s your funeral.’
Nick grinned. ‘I hope not.’
‘Where you headed?’
‘Just a few miles north.’ Nick peered towards the office. ‘You got a couple of five-gallon gasoline cans you could fill for me?’
‘Aye-yup.’
‘And maybe a couple of bags of sand?’
‘That, too.’
‘Great.’ Nick pulled out his wallet as the old guy screwed the cover back on the gas tank. ‘If you have some candles you’d be interested in selling, I’d be obliged.’
‘Well, at least you’re not a fool, young man, wantin’ to buy ice in Decembah.’
Nick laughed. ‘No, sir. No ice. Just the gas, the sand, the candles… Better safe than sorry, isn’t that what they say?’
‘The smart ones do, anyways. North, ya say. That’s where you’re goin’?’
‘Yes. To North Mountain.’
The old man turned around, a red gasoline can in each hand, and looked at Nick as if he were demented.
‘Ain’t been a soul come through here in months, headin’ for that mountain, and now there’s two of you, in one day.’
Nick frowned. ‘Somebody went up to the cabin?’
‘I suppose. Couldn’t tell ’em naught, either. Had the wrong car, wrong tires, wrong everythin’. Didn’t have no business on that mountain, I tell you that.’
That was for sure, Nick thought grimly. Vagrants, even damn-fool kids with nothing better to do than go joy-riding, could get into trouble in country this isolated.
On the other hand, vagrants didn’t drive cars, and kids around here had more sense than to be out in this kind of weather.
‘Hunters, maybe?’ he asked.
The old man guffawed. ‘Hunters? Naw. I don’t think so.’
Nick slid behind the steering wheel of the Explorer. ‘How many guys were there?’
‘Jest one, but—’
‘Thanks,’ Nick said. He waved, checked for the non-existent traffic, and pulled out onto the road.
‘But it weren’t guys a-tall, Mister. It were just this one pretty little woman…’
Too late. The truck had disappeared into the whirling snow.
The old man sighed. Crazy people, these city folk, he thought, and clomped back inside his house.
* * *
It took twice as long as it normally would have to make it up the mountain.
The drifting snow had buried the road in many places and at times the visibility was just about nonexistent. Nick kept an eye out for another car but there were no signs any had come this way. Of course, with the snow falling so heavily, there wouldn’t have been much chance of seeing tire tracks.
Still, when he finally reached the turn-off that led to the cabin, he scanned it carefully for signs of a trespasser, but there was nothing to see.
He pulled up outside the garage and got out to open the door. The snow, and the wind, hit him with enough force to take his breath away but he bent his head against it and grasped the handle of the garage door.
‘Damn!’
How could he have forgotten? The door was electric. It wouldn’t move an inch no matter how much muscle you applied and, of course, he’d forgotten to have somebody send him the automatic opener.
Well, that was life. He’d have his work cut out for him, digging the truck out from under umpteen inches of snow tomorrow morning. He trudged back to the Explorer, opened the door and stuffed his cellphone and his wireless fax into his pockets, hung his carryon and his computer case from his shoulders, and hefted a box of supplies into his arms. Steak, potatoes, a couple of onions and a bottle of single-malt Scotch. The basic food groups, enough to hold him through the weekend. He slammed the door shut with his hip, dug the key to the cabin from his pocket, and made his way to the front porch.
Damn, Nick thought as he climbed the wooden steps. He’d forgotten to bring coffee. Well, he’d have to make do with a shot of the Scotch to warm his bones, and then he’d fall straight into bed. It sounded like a mighty fine plan.
He wedged the box against the door, fumbled for the lock and turned the key. The door wouldn’t open. He scowled. Was there an unwritten law that said doors had to stick when a man was freezing his ass off on the wrong side of them? Nick grunted, shoved hard, and almost fell into the cabin as the door groaned noisily and swung open on a yawning blackness.
‘Idiot,’ he muttered.
He had a flashlight, but it was inside the box. And to put the box down without walking into something, he needed to be able to see.
There had to be a light switch on the wall. He seemed to remember one, to the left…
‘Come on,’ he said impatiently, as he felt for the switch. ‘Where are you hiding? I know you’re there.’
Something swished past his face. He sensed it coming just quickly enough to duck before it connected with his skull.
‘Hey! What the…?’
A creature flew at him from out of the darkness, shrieking like a banshee. Nick yelled, threw up his arms to ward the thing off, and went down in a heap, box, carry-on, computer and all.
The creature was right on top of him.
Talons dug into his shoulder, went for his eyes. Warm breath hissed onto his face. Was it a bobcat? A lynx? A mountain lion? No, not that. There were no big cats here, weren’t supposed to be, anyway. A wolf? Gone for at least a hundred years, but people said…
‘Perfume?’ Nick whispered.
What kind of cat wore perfume?
The thing began trying to scramble away from him. Nick grunted. His hand closed on something fragile and bony. An ankle? A wrist? Did cats have ankles and wrists?
Perfume. Delicate bones…
Nick’s eyes widened against the darkness.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘You’re a woman!’
And then something hit him hard, in the back of the head, and he slipped down and down into deepest, darkest night.
* * *
Holly stood over the unconscious intruder and trembled with fear.
Was he dead? Had she killed him?
At first, she’d thought she was dreaming. She’d been lying in bed, still shaking with cold despite wearing her long johns, wool socks, a hat and her New England Patriots sweatshirt, buried to the tip of her nose beneath half a dozen quilts, busily telling herself there was nothing the least bit spooky about being alone on the top of a mountain with no lights and a blizzard raging outside, when she’d heard something.
A sound. An engine.
Good, she’d thought. The snowplows were out.
Snowplows? Back home, in Boston, yes. But here? On the top of this mountain?
Holly’d shot up in bed, her heart pounding. The night was so still. Every sound seemed magnified a hundred times, and each had sent a wave of terror straight through her.
The thud of a car door. The scrunch of footsteps in the snow. The thump of booted feet mounting the steps, crossing the porch. The sound of the front door being battered open.
That was when she’d moved, jerking out a hand for the portable phone on the night table, remembering even as she put it to her ear that the damned thing wouldn’t work with the power out. Petrified, almost breathless with fear, she’d looked around desperately for a weapon. Something. Anything.
The phone. It was a weapon. It didn’t have as much heft as she’d have liked but she was in no position to be choosy.
Now what? Should she hide and hope the intruder wouldn’t find her, or should she tiptoe down the steps, see what he was doing, slip up behind him when he wasn’t watching and knock him over the head?
Whatever she did, she’d be quiet. Oh, so quiet. Super quiet, like a little mouse, so that he wouldn’t so much as suspect there was a woman in the house. A lone woman…
And right then, just as she was tiptoeing to the top of the stairs, trying to hear herself think over the thud of her heart, the intruder had spoken in a low, angry voice.
‘Come on,’ he growled. ‘Where are you hiding? I know you’re here.’
Terror had impelled her, then, terror and the realization that he knew she was here. She’d raced downstairs, tried her damnedest to bash his brains out right away and, when that hadn’t worked, she’d screamed the way Belinda had once said she’d been taught to scream in a martial arts class and hurled herself straight at the intruder.
He was huge. Seven feet, for sure. Eight, maybe. Three hundred pounds, no, four hundred, and all of it muscle. And he was strong as an ox. He’d struggled mightily, grunting and shoving and trying to dislodge her, but she hadn’t given an inch. Then his hand—a hand the size of a house, and as powerful as a steel trap—had closed around her wrist.
‘Perform,’ he’d said, in a voice as deep as a bass drum, and just as a hundred terrible explanations for that command swept into Holly’s mind his grasp on her wrist had tightened. ‘Blood,’ he’d snarled, ‘you’re a human!’
Perform? Blood? Human?
Holly hadn’t hesitated. She’d swung the phone again and that time she’d hit him on the top of his miserable head.
Now he lay sprawled at her feet, face-down and motionless.
She poked him with her toe. He didn’t move. She poked again. Nothing happened.
Holly’s heart was in her throat.
‘Oh, God,’ she whispered.
Had she killed him? Had she killed this—this escapee from a funny farm? Her teeth banged together, chattering like castanets. What about all that stuff she’d always laughed at? The tabloid headlines that screamed about visitors from outer space? Did an alien lie at her feet, looking to perform some bloody human sacrifice?
Holly forced out a laugh. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she said shakily, ‘get a grip!’
This was no alien. It was a man, and even if he was a certifiable loony who thought he’d been hatched on Mars, the last thing she wanted was to have his blood on her hands.
She had to turn him over, see if he was alive or dead. And to manage that, she needed light.
There were candles in the kitchen; she’d used one to see her way upstairs an hour or two ago. Was it safe to turn her back, leave the room, leave this—this creature lying here? Suppose he awoke? Suppose he stood up? Suppose…
‘Ooooh.’
Holly leaped back. He was moaning. And moving. Very, very slightly, but at least he was alive. She hadn’t killed him.
The man groaned again. It was a pitiful sound. Her heart thumped. How badly had she injured him? She couldn’t see. Couldn’t tell. For all she knew, he might be lying there, bleeding to death.
‘Mister?’
There was no response.
‘Hey, Mister!’
Holly took a tentative step forward. She poked him with her toe, then poked him again. Carefully, she squatted down beside the still form and jabbed him with a finger.
Nothing happened.
Holly heaved a sigh of relief. Good. He was still unconscious. As for his wounds—that could wait. Right now, she needed to find something to tie him with.
The man groaned and rolled onto his back, one arm thrown over his face. Holly leapt to her feet and scrambled into the shadows.
‘Don’t move!’ she said. Oh, that sounded pathetic! She cleared her throat, dropped her voice to what she hoped was something raspy and threatening. ‘Don’t move another inch, or so help me I’ll…I’ll shoot.’ And she brandished the portable phone before her.
Move? Move?
Nick would have laughed at the idea, if he hadn’t been afraid that laughing would make his skull crack open. The last time his head had felt like this was in fourth grade when Eddie Schneider, excited at the prospect of striking out the last guy up, had managed to bean him with a fastball.
‘You hear me, Mister? Don’t even think about moving.’
It was a boy’s voice, young and unsteady. Well, hell. Nick felt pretty unsteady himself. On the other hand, the last thing he wanted to do was lie here, at the mercy of a dangerous kid armed with a gun and some kind of animal that attacked people.
He had to sit up, if he was going to get out of this in one piece.
Nick forced another groan, which wasn’t very difficult, all things considered.
‘Gotta sit up,’ he said thickly. ‘My head…’ He swallowed. ‘If I don’t sit up, I’m liable to toss my cookies.’
‘No!’ The kid’s voice cracked. ‘I mean…okay. Sit. But no fast moves. You got that?’
Nick nodded. A huge mistake. His head felt as if it might fall off. On the other hand, that might not be such a bad idea.
Carefully, he eased himself up with his back against the wall.
‘Damn,’ he said, ‘what was that thing?’
‘What thing?’
‘That animal. The cat.’
‘Cat?’ Holly said. She swallowed dryly. Oh, boy. This was bad. He was hallucinating again. First blood, and humans. Now cats…
‘Yeah. You know, the one wearing the perfume.’
Holly took another step back. ‘Cats don’t wear perfume,’ she said carefully.
‘This one did, when it attacked me.’
He was crazy, all right. And you didn’t argue with a crazy man, you just acted as calmly as you could.
‘There’s…’ Her voice slipped up the scale, and she cleared her throat. ‘There’s no cat here, Mister.’
‘Dog, then. Was it a dog? I hope to hell you’ve locked it in another room.’
On the other hand, what could it hurt to let him think she had an attack dog by her side?
‘It’s a, uh, a…’ Think, Holly, think. What kind of dog was big and tough? All she could come up with was an image of the cocker spaniel that had lived in the house next door, in Tuscany. ‘It’s, uh, a Rottweilder.’
‘A what?’
‘A Rottweilder.’
Nick hesitated. ‘You mean, a Rottweiler.’
Holly shut her eyes, then opened them again. ‘That’s what I said. A Rottweiler, and don’t you even breathe funny or I’ll turn him loose on you.’
What she’d said was Rottweilder. Nick was sure of it. And a very well trained one it must be, for it not to be making a sound, not even a growl or a pant.
‘Where is it?’
‘Where is what?’
‘The dog?’
‘It’s—it’s here, right beside me. You want a closeup look? I’ll let go of its collar.’
‘No,’ Nick said quickly, ‘no, that’s okay…’
There was no dog beside the kid, not a Rotter or even a poodle. The kid was standing in the shadows but his outline was visible and there was nothing beside him, except for a chair.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Nick brought up one leg and then the other.
‘Don’t move, I said!’
‘I have to. My head’s bleeding.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’ Nick touched his scalp gingerly, expecting to feel the warm ooze of blood, but all he found was a huge bump. ‘Yeah, it’s bleeding, all right. Listen, I’ve got to get to a doctor.’
‘No! I mean…’ What? What did she mean? ‘I mean, I’ll get you a compress. After I call the…’ Oh, Lord. She couldn’t call anybody. She couldn’t eventie the intruder up, without rope. And how was she going to search for rope? Was she going to ask him, politely, to just lie still and wait until she made a circuit of the cabin?
Nick’s eyes narrowed. Call whom? Did the kid have an accomplice?
‘Look,’ he said carefully, ‘I’m willing to forget this, okay?’ Slowly, holding his breath, he shifted his weight again. ‘I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. You just turn around, walk out the door, and we’ll pretend this never happened.’
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Sandra Marton
Treat yourself this winter and rediscover this Christmas novella by Sandra Marton, originally published in 1999 as A Miracle on Christmas Eve.
This Christmas, Nick Brennan is determined to say goodbye to the memories of his ex-wife Holly for good. Even if that means taking once last trip to the snowy mountain cabin where they spent their honeymoon entwined in each other’s arms…
But when Nick arrives it seems that Holly has had the same idea! And suddenly, snowbound together, they are confronted with the sensual heat and fiery passion of their past. Neither will back down, but as they keep each other warm on a frozen Christmas Eve they find themselves pushed to the very limits of temptation…and towards a pleasurable surrender!
The Millionaire’s Snowbound Seduction
Sandra Marton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
Cover (#uad355841-ba87-50e9-ba30-160eb870caaa)
Back Cover Text (#ue5c08fa3-5745-57ec-8318-7bc08d217ca1)
Title Page (#ub27b5857-3c3c-5789-91c8-2f3bffb7c082)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f678c154-5480-5f8a-9b47-0281e0b09d13)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_1361a451-1927-5676-9f87-9f7ab3af2afb)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u0762bd2d-bcfc-5f78-b64d-c7cba7192c14)
NICK BRENNAN figured that Scrooge had gotten it right.
Christmas was definitely the most overrated holiday of the year. He’d had plenty of time to think about it, considering that he’d been stalled in a barely-moving line of traffic for the past forty-five minutes.
A horn blared angrily behind him, setting off an answering chorus from a dozen other cars.
Nick smiled thinly. Right. As if that would change anything. This was New York traffic. Friday afternoon New York traffic, the Friday afternoon before Christmas. Anybody dumb enough to be trapped in it deserved what he got.
Including him.
‘Stupid,’ Nick muttered, tapping his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel.
That was the only word for it. He’d been living in Manhattan for almost a decade. He knew the score. Even his PA, who was just a few years out of some Iowa cornfield, knew that leaving New York today wasn’t terribly bright.
She’d tried to talk him out of it.
‘Why don’t you let me phone around, see if I can’t book you onto a flight to Vermont?’ Ellen had said.
He’d given her a bunch of reasons, all of them logical. Because she’d never find a seat for him at the last minute. Because not even the charter service Brennan Resorts employed would be available at the eleventh hour. Because even if she lucked out, who knew for how much longer anything would be able to take off? The weatherman, as usual, had gotten it wrong. The predicted light snow was about to turn into a major storm.
Nick had told Ellen all those things. The only thing he hadn’t told her was the truth. He was driving to North Mountain because he hoped the six hours on the road would give him time to talk himself out of reaching it.
Oh, he’d come up with practical reasons for going. After all, he owned the mountain now, most of it, anyway, the same as he owned the cabin that stood on its crest. And, as soon as the details were settled, his people would bring in the equipment necessary to demolish the cabin and start work on the newest Brennan resort. Nick was a hands-on kind of guy. He always looked a site over before work began. It was, according to Wall Street, one of the reasons for his success.
But nobody was going to bring in any kind of equipment, until the harsh New England winter ended in April, or maybe even May.
No matter how you looked at it, there wasn’t a reason in the world to make the trip now.
Nick blew out his breath.
A couple of months ago, he hadn’t even known he owned North Mountain. His people had brought him an estate deal that contained several prime parcels of land in New England. Nick had moved fast, as he always did, and quickly given them the okay to make the buy.
He’d had no idea the mountain was part of the package. Not that he’d have cared, if he’d known. The mountain was perfect for development, and no amount of sentimental claptrap would change that. No, it wasn’t sentiment that was sending him to Vermont.
Vermont, in December.
Christmas carol time. Horse-drawn sleigh time. Cold, star-studded night time…
Holly time.
Seven years ago come Monday morning, he and Holly had been married. One year later to the day, they’d agreed to a divorce.
And all of it had begun on North Mountain, in a cabin a million miles from anywhere.
The horn behind him blasted Nick into reality. He shot a nasty look into his mirror and inched the Explorer forward.
Okay. So, the realization that he’d bought the mountain, and the cabin, had hit him hard. That had surprised him. He didn’t think about his once-upon-a-time marriage anymore. Hell, why would he? Nick’s jaw tightened. He’d made a mistake. So what? Life was like that. You made a mistake, you rectified it and moved on. The one thing you never did was look back.
Then, what was he doing, sitting in this God-awful traffic, heading for the place where he’d made his biggest mistake? It made no sense.
Maybe it did. Maybe it would help him get rid of the memories.
Memories of Holly, wearing a flannel nightgown instead of the silky one she’d bought for their honeymoon, because the cabin had been so cold that first night…until he’d slowly stripped her of the gown and warmed her with his body. Memories of Holly, laughing after he’d tumbled her down in the snow, shrieking when he threatened to wash her face in it…her smile fading, turning soft and sexy as she became aware of the sudden pressure of his aroused flesh against hers.
Nick’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Memories were all they were, foolish shadows of a dead past, and they made no sense because he wasn’t in love with the woman in those memories. Not anymore. Not ever, when you came right down to it. Holly, herself, had been an illusion. A fantasy, conjured up by the lonely kid he’d once been.
He needed closure.
Nick almost laughed. Closure. The most popular word in the good old U.S. of A. Every two-bit TV talk show, every tune-in-and-spew-your-guts radio shrink, went on and on about closure. And, yeah, dumb or not, maybe that was what he needed. No point pretending that the seventh anniversary of his failed marriage hadn’t affected him. How could he not be affected by the death of a dream?
Nick shifted his long legs. Okay. He’d go to the mountain, spend a few days, and find ‘closure.’ He’d bury his memories the same way his crew would bury the cabin, once Spring came, once his attorneys got things sorted out. The mountain was Nick’s, but there’d been a rider attached to the deed, a ‘no commercial construction’ clause the owner had tacked on before he’d sold.
No problem. His people would find a way around the stipulation, and he would find a way around the memories. He’d see the cabin, walk the mountain one last time—and then a construction crew would come in, level the place and start building the most luxurious ski resort in New England. It would be the newest, finest Brennan resort in the chain and all the ‘closure’ a man could possibly want.
And, in the process, he’d have himself a weekend off. Time to unwind, enjoy a break. No boardrooms. No meetings. No desk heaped with memos. Not that he’d be cut off completely. A three-room cabin high on top of a Vermont mountain, no matter how plush, was not an eight-room penthouse, or three floors of office space on Fifth Avenue, but Nick had come prepared. He had his cellular phone in his pocket, his portable computer on the seat beside him, and his wireless fax on the floor.
The guy behind him honked again.
Nick felt his blood pressure zoom. For one sweet moment, he thought about getting out of the Explorer, marching back to the jerk’s car, banging on the window and asking the guy if he really, honestly thought things would go any faster with him leaning on his horn…
The breath hissed from his lungs.
Closure was what he needed, all right.
He was angry at Holly, angry at himself, and he had been for six long years because he’d never had the chance to tell her the truth, that he’d never loved her, not really, that she wasn’t the only one who’d made a mistake.
Not that he’d ever get the chance to tell her anything. But going to the cabin, to the mountain, would be the next best thing. He’d feel better, afterwards. He wouldn’t snarl at Ellen, bark at his staff, sit in traffic with his adrenaline pumping as if he were a boxer waiting for round one to begin.
The tail lights ahead of him winked. Slowly, miraculously, the line of vehicles began moving. Nick downshifted. It was one of the great mysteries in New York, how you’d be creeping along, measuring your success in inches and all of a sudden, the road would open up. It was like life. You’d plod along and then, wham, wings would sprout on your feet and you’d find yourself flying, measuring your success in millions of dollars instead of the twenty bucks still in your pocket after all the bills were paid…
Measuring it alone. Always alone, no matter how many well-wishers crowded around, no matter what the papers said or how many gorgeous women you were with, because the only woman you’d ever wanted to share your success was gone, had been gone for six years, would always be gone…
The horn sounded. Nick shot a look at his mirror and glared at the guy in the Chevy. Then he shot into the fast lane, poured on the gas, and let the Manhattan skyline fade into the fast-gathering darkness of the winter night.
* * *
Holly Cabot Brennan figured she’d reach the top of North Mountain in two or three millennia.
She frowned, bit down lightly on her bottom lip, and tried to see through the whirling snow.
At the rate she was going, even that might be too much to expect.
The old guy at the gas station had tried to warn her. He’d looked at her, her rented car and the sullen sky through rheumy eyes and announced that she’d need more than a full tank to get much further.
‘Gonna be a bad ‘un,’ he’d said, in the clipped, Down-East twang she hadn’t heard in years.
Holly had smiled politely. ‘The weatherman says the storm’s not going to hit until after midnight. Besides, I’m not going very far.’
‘Weathuhman’s wrong,’ the old gent replied. ‘How far you goin’?’
‘Not very,’ Holly said, looking over at the battered ice machine that stood beside the gas station office. ‘Does that thing work?’
‘Aye-up, it works, though why you’d be wantin’ ice in the dead of winter is beyond me.’
Holly thought of the big ice chest she’d crammed into the trunk. It was stuffed with shrimp, lobsters, lobster tails, butter, clams, oysters and assorted other goodies. Then she thought of trying to explain all that to the old man.
‘I’ve got some stuff in an ice chest,’ she said, leaving off the details. ‘And I figure, just in case they forgot to clean out the freezer and turn it on, up in the cabin…’
‘Cabin on North Mountain?’ The old guy looked at her as if she were certifiably insane. ‘Is that where you’re goin’?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Holly popped open the trunk, dropped coins into the ice machine, then marched back to the car with two bags of cubes. ‘You just about finished there?’
‘Won’t have much worry about the freezer bein’ on, Missy. Storm like the one that’s comin’, you won’t have no power at all. Assumin’ you’ll make it to the top, that is, which you most likely won’t.’
Holly shut the ice chest, then the trunk, and wiped her gloved hands on her wool slacks.
‘Ever a font of good cheer,’ she said brightly. ‘Okay, how much do I owe you?’
‘Chains.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Chains,’ the old guy said. Holly held out a twenty-dollar bill, and he took it from her hand. ‘Bettah still, you ought to have a cah with four-wheel drive.’
‘I’ve driven up the mountain before,’ Holly replied politely. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Aye-up, most times, mebbe.’ He cocked an eye towards the sky. ‘ But there’s a storm comin’ in.’
‘Not really,’ she said, even more politely. ‘The weather reports say—’
The old man’s lip curled. ‘Don’t care what they say.’ Carefully, he plopped Holly’s change into her outstretched hand. ‘Storm’s comin’. Bad one. You at least got them new-fangled brakes in that car?’
What new-fangled brakes? Holly almost said. She hadn’t owned a car in years. What was the point, when you lived in the heart of Boston? Besides, she’d spent the past six months in a Tuscan farmhouse, up to her elbows in olive oil, plum tomatoes, and garlic, and the last three weeks on a whirlwind tour across the States, signing copies of Ciao Down With Holly, the book that had come out of her stay in Tuscany. She knew all there was to know about the differences between the cuisines of Northern and Southern Italy, but brakes were something else entirely.
Not that it mattered. She’d be at the cabin before the old doomsayer’s prophecies came true. So she’d smiled pleasantly and said her brakes were just fine, thanks, and then she’d driven off, watching in her rearview mirror as he’d stood looking after her, shaking his head mournfully.
‘Ridiculous,’ Holly had muttered to herself, as she’d made the turn onto the road that led up North Mountain. As if some old man in the middle of nowhere could do a better job predicting the weather than the CNN meteorologists…
Halfway up the mountain, the snow started falling.
At first, the flakes were big and lazy. They settled prettily onto the branches of the tall pine trees that clung to the slope on Holly’s left while sailing gracefully off the precipice to her right. But within minutes the wind picked up and the snow went from lazy to fierce, changing direction so that now she was driving headfirst into an impenetrable cloud of white. And there was no way to turn back. The road was too narrow and far too dangerous for that.
She was driving blind, trapped in the heart of what seemed to be the beginning of a blizzard. All she could do was hunch over the steering wheel, urge the car forward inch by slippery inch, and try not to wonder whether or not she had the ‘new-fangled’ brakes she’d pooh-poohed just half an hour ago.
The old man had been right. She’d been stupid not to have rented a car with four-wheel drive. Who was she kidding? She’d been stupid to have decided to come to the cabin at all.
Everyone had tried to tell her that. Not just the guy at the gas station. The clerk who’d rented her the car. The traffic cop in Burlington, when she’d asked for directions. Even Belinda, her agent, who knew as much about New England as a vegetarian knew about a pot roast, had blanched when Holly had said she was taking off for a few weeks in Vermont.
‘Where?’ Belinda had said incredulously—but Belinda figured that civilization ended once you took the Lincoln Tunnel out of Manhattan.
‘It’s a place called North Mountain,’ Holly had replied. ‘I’ve rented a cabin.’
‘You’re going to spend a few weeks in a cabin?’ Belinda repeated, the way someone else might have said, ‘You’re going to spend a few weeks on the Moon?’
‘That’s right. It’s very luxurious. There’s a Jacuzzi, a huge stall shower, a big fireplace in the living room…’
Belinda snorted. ‘Try the Waldorf. It’s got all that, plus room service.’
Holly did her best to offer a cheerful little laugh.
‘I need a change of routine,’ she said. ‘ A real one, before I start on the next book. You know how hard I’ve been working this year, and there’s a whole bunch of ideas I want to try before I begin writing…’
And then she stopped, because she knew she was babbling, because she could tell from the look on Belinda’s elegant face that she knew it, too.
‘Poor darling,’ Belinda crooned. ‘You really do sound exhausted.’
‘Oh, I am,’ Holly said quickly, because it was true. She was stressed.
That was what she told herself, at first.
She’d been working hard. She had been for the past seven years—well, six years, ever since she and Nick had been divorced. Her parents had wanted her to come home and pick up her life as if nothing had happened but something had happened, and Holly wasn’t about to pretend otherwise. The last vestiges of girlhood had fallen away the day she took off her wedding ring. So she’d explained, as gently as possible, that going home just wasn’t possible. She’d refused her father’s offer of financial support the same as she’d refused Nick’s, and set out to create a life for herself.
And she’d done it.
The little column for the Green Mountain Daily had blossomed into a monthly feature for What’s Cookin’? magazine, and it led to the contract for her first cookbook. Holly had found herself on the fast track, and she loved it. She could put in six hours in the kitchen, another two at the computer, tumble into bed and wake up the next morning, eager to start all over again. At least she had, until a couple of weeks ago.
The first time she’d awakened in the middle of the night with a knot in her belly and another in her throat, she’d figured it was a sign she’d put too many capers into the Putanesca.
By the fourth time, though, she knew it wasn’t a recipe gone wrong that had awakened her.
It was her dreams.
She was dreaming of Nick, which was ridiculous. She hadn’t done that in almost six years, hadn’t seen him in almost six years, hadn’t thought about him in almost six years…
It was a long time. The realization hit at three o’clock on a cold December morning, when she awakened with Nick’s name on her lips. That wasn’t heartburn she was feeling, it was anger. And why not? She was coming up on the seventh anniversary of what had begun as a marriage and had ended as a disaster.
Holly rose from bed, wrapped herself in her robe and padded out to the living room. She clicked on the TV and surfed through a bunch of movies that had been old before she was born. She zipped past a pair of talking heads that were deep in what she’d thought was a discussion of ghosts, then zipped right back when she realized the ‘ghosts’ they were discussing weren’t spooks at all but memories, unwanted ones, of people in a person’s past.
‘So, Doctor,’ the interviewer chirruped, ‘how does one put these memories to rest?’
Holly, with one hand deep in a bowl of leftover gourmet popcorn, paused and stared at the set.
‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘how?’
‘By facing them,’ the good doctor replied. He pointed his bearded jaw at the camera, so that his bespectacled eyes seemed to bore straight into Holly’s. ‘Seek out your ghosts. You know where they lurk. Confront them, and lay them to rest.’
Pieces of nut-and-sugar-encrusted popcorn tumbled, unnoticed, into Holly’s lap as she zapped the TV into silence.
‘North Mountain,’ she’d whispered, and the very next morning she’d phoned her travel agent. Was the cabin on the mountain still available? The answer had taken a while but eventually it had come. The cabin was there, it was for rent, and now here she was, about to face her ghosts…or to turn into one herself, if she didn’t make it up this damned mountain.
There! Off to the left, through the trees. Holly could make out the long, narrow gravel driveway. It was still passable, thanks to the sheltering overhang of branches.
The car skidded delicately but the tires held as she made the turn.
She pulled up to the garage, fumbled in the glove compartment for the automatic door opener the realtor had given her. The door slid open. Holly smiled grimly. So much for the old man’s predictions about a power outage, and thank goodness for that. Night had fallen over the mountain and for the first time it occurred to her that it wouldn’t be terribly pleasant to be marooned here without electricity.
Carefully, she eased the car into the garage. Seconds later, with the door safely closed behind her, she groaned and let her head flop back against the seat rest.
She was safe and sound—but what on earth had she thought she was doing, coming to this cabin? You didn’t bury your ghosts by resurrecting them.
‘You’re an idiot,’ she said brusquely, as she pulled her suitcase from the car and made her way into the kitchen.
She switched on the light. There was the stove, where she’d prepared the very first meal she and Nick had shared as husband and wife. There was the silver ice bucket, where he’d chilled the bottle of cheap champagne that was all they’d been able to afford after they’d blown everything on renting this place for their honeymoon. There was the table, where they’d had their first dinner…where they’d almost had it, because just as she’d turned to tell Nick the meal was ready, he’d snatched her up into his arms and they’d ended up making love right there, with her sitting on the edge of the counter and him standing between her thighs, while their burgers burned to a crisp.
The lights flickered. Deep in the basement, the heating system hesitated, then started up again. Holly sighed in gratitude.
What on earth was she doing here? She was an idiot, to have come back to this place.
‘Worse than an idiot,’ she said, in a voice blurred with tears—not that she was weeping with regret. Why would she? Marrying Nick had been a mistake. Divorcing him had been the right thing to do, and she didn’t regret it, she never had. She was crying with anger at herself, at the storm that was going to make it impossible for her to turn around and drive down the mountain…
The lights blinked again. In a moment, the power would go out. She’d never be able to open the garage door without it; the door was old, and far too heavy. The power had gone out for a couple of hours when they’d stayed here years ago, and not even Nick—muscular, gorgeous, virile Nick—had been able to wrestle the door open.
Holly swallowed dryly. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, be trapped here, with her memories. She had to get out before that happened, and never mind the raging storm and the treacherous road. She could manage the drive down. She’d be careful. Very careful. Nothing was impossible, when you put your mind to it. Hadn’t life taught her that?
‘I am out of here,’ she said, exactly at the moment the lights went out.
CHAPTER TWO (#u0762bd2d-bcfc-5f78-b64d-c7cba7192c14)
BY THE time he reached the turn-off for North Mountain, Nick was almost driving blind.
He had the windshield wipers turned up to high but the snow was falling so thick and fast that the wipers could barely keep up.
At least the Explorer was holding the road. That was something to be grateful for. And so was the gas station, just ahead. The last few miles, the needle on the gauge had been hovering dangerously close to empty.
Nick pulled beneath the canopy, stepped from the truck and unscrewed the cover to his gas tank.
‘Hey there, Mister, didn’t ya see the sign? Station’s closed.’
A man had come out of the clapboard house beyond the pumps and jerked his thumb at a hand-lettered sign tacked to the wall. He had the raw-boned look of an old-time New Englander and the accent to match.
‘No,’ Nick said, ‘sorry, I didn’t.’
‘Well, ya do now.’
‘Look, I need some gas. And you’re probably the only station open for miles.’
‘Ain’t open. Told ya, I’m closed.’
Nick flashed his most ingratiating smile.
‘My truck’s just about running on fumes,’ he said. ‘I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me fill up.’
‘Ain’t no need for gas,’ the old man said, ‘seein’ as there’s no place to go in a blizzard.’
Oh, hell. Nick took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Yeah, well, the weatherman says it’s not a blizzard. And by the time it is, I’ll be where I’m going, if you’ll let me have some gas.’
The old fellow looked him up, then looked him down. Nick found himself wishing he’d taken the time to exchange his black trench coat, charcoal suit and shiny black wingtips for the jeans, scuffed boots and old leather jacket he’d jammed into his suitcase. He’d almost given up hope when the guy shrugged and stomped down the steps to the pump.
‘It’s your funeral.’
Nick grinned. ‘I hope not.’
‘Where you headed?’
‘Just a few miles north.’ Nick peered towards the office. ‘You got a couple of five-gallon gasoline cans you could fill for me?’
‘Aye-yup.’
‘And maybe a couple of bags of sand?’
‘That, too.’
‘Great.’ Nick pulled out his wallet as the old guy screwed the cover back on the gas tank. ‘If you have some candles you’d be interested in selling, I’d be obliged.’
‘Well, at least you’re not a fool, young man, wantin’ to buy ice in Decembah.’
Nick laughed. ‘No, sir. No ice. Just the gas, the sand, the candles… Better safe than sorry, isn’t that what they say?’
‘The smart ones do, anyways. North, ya say. That’s where you’re goin’?’
‘Yes. To North Mountain.’
The old man turned around, a red gasoline can in each hand, and looked at Nick as if he were demented.
‘Ain’t been a soul come through here in months, headin’ for that mountain, and now there’s two of you, in one day.’
Nick frowned. ‘Somebody went up to the cabin?’
‘I suppose. Couldn’t tell ’em naught, either. Had the wrong car, wrong tires, wrong everythin’. Didn’t have no business on that mountain, I tell you that.’
That was for sure, Nick thought grimly. Vagrants, even damn-fool kids with nothing better to do than go joy-riding, could get into trouble in country this isolated.
On the other hand, vagrants didn’t drive cars, and kids around here had more sense than to be out in this kind of weather.
‘Hunters, maybe?’ he asked.
The old man guffawed. ‘Hunters? Naw. I don’t think so.’
Nick slid behind the steering wheel of the Explorer. ‘How many guys were there?’
‘Jest one, but—’
‘Thanks,’ Nick said. He waved, checked for the non-existent traffic, and pulled out onto the road.
‘But it weren’t guys a-tall, Mister. It were just this one pretty little woman…’
Too late. The truck had disappeared into the whirling snow.
The old man sighed. Crazy people, these city folk, he thought, and clomped back inside his house.
* * *
It took twice as long as it normally would have to make it up the mountain.
The drifting snow had buried the road in many places and at times the visibility was just about nonexistent. Nick kept an eye out for another car but there were no signs any had come this way. Of course, with the snow falling so heavily, there wouldn’t have been much chance of seeing tire tracks.
Still, when he finally reached the turn-off that led to the cabin, he scanned it carefully for signs of a trespasser, but there was nothing to see.
He pulled up outside the garage and got out to open the door. The snow, and the wind, hit him with enough force to take his breath away but he bent his head against it and grasped the handle of the garage door.
‘Damn!’
How could he have forgotten? The door was electric. It wouldn’t move an inch no matter how much muscle you applied and, of course, he’d forgotten to have somebody send him the automatic opener.
Well, that was life. He’d have his work cut out for him, digging the truck out from under umpteen inches of snow tomorrow morning. He trudged back to the Explorer, opened the door and stuffed his cellphone and his wireless fax into his pockets, hung his carryon and his computer case from his shoulders, and hefted a box of supplies into his arms. Steak, potatoes, a couple of onions and a bottle of single-malt Scotch. The basic food groups, enough to hold him through the weekend. He slammed the door shut with his hip, dug the key to the cabin from his pocket, and made his way to the front porch.
Damn, Nick thought as he climbed the wooden steps. He’d forgotten to bring coffee. Well, he’d have to make do with a shot of the Scotch to warm his bones, and then he’d fall straight into bed. It sounded like a mighty fine plan.
He wedged the box against the door, fumbled for the lock and turned the key. The door wouldn’t open. He scowled. Was there an unwritten law that said doors had to stick when a man was freezing his ass off on the wrong side of them? Nick grunted, shoved hard, and almost fell into the cabin as the door groaned noisily and swung open on a yawning blackness.
‘Idiot,’ he muttered.
He had a flashlight, but it was inside the box. And to put the box down without walking into something, he needed to be able to see.
There had to be a light switch on the wall. He seemed to remember one, to the left…
‘Come on,’ he said impatiently, as he felt for the switch. ‘Where are you hiding? I know you’re there.’
Something swished past his face. He sensed it coming just quickly enough to duck before it connected with his skull.
‘Hey! What the…?’
A creature flew at him from out of the darkness, shrieking like a banshee. Nick yelled, threw up his arms to ward the thing off, and went down in a heap, box, carry-on, computer and all.
The creature was right on top of him.
Talons dug into his shoulder, went for his eyes. Warm breath hissed onto his face. Was it a bobcat? A lynx? A mountain lion? No, not that. There were no big cats here, weren’t supposed to be, anyway. A wolf? Gone for at least a hundred years, but people said…
‘Perfume?’ Nick whispered.
What kind of cat wore perfume?
The thing began trying to scramble away from him. Nick grunted. His hand closed on something fragile and bony. An ankle? A wrist? Did cats have ankles and wrists?
Perfume. Delicate bones…
Nick’s eyes widened against the darkness.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘You’re a woman!’
And then something hit him hard, in the back of the head, and he slipped down and down into deepest, darkest night.
* * *
Holly stood over the unconscious intruder and trembled with fear.
Was he dead? Had she killed him?
At first, she’d thought she was dreaming. She’d been lying in bed, still shaking with cold despite wearing her long johns, wool socks, a hat and her New England Patriots sweatshirt, buried to the tip of her nose beneath half a dozen quilts, busily telling herself there was nothing the least bit spooky about being alone on the top of a mountain with no lights and a blizzard raging outside, when she’d heard something.
A sound. An engine.
Good, she’d thought. The snowplows were out.
Snowplows? Back home, in Boston, yes. But here? On the top of this mountain?
Holly’d shot up in bed, her heart pounding. The night was so still. Every sound seemed magnified a hundred times, and each had sent a wave of terror straight through her.
The thud of a car door. The scrunch of footsteps in the snow. The thump of booted feet mounting the steps, crossing the porch. The sound of the front door being battered open.
That was when she’d moved, jerking out a hand for the portable phone on the night table, remembering even as she put it to her ear that the damned thing wouldn’t work with the power out. Petrified, almost breathless with fear, she’d looked around desperately for a weapon. Something. Anything.
The phone. It was a weapon. It didn’t have as much heft as she’d have liked but she was in no position to be choosy.
Now what? Should she hide and hope the intruder wouldn’t find her, or should she tiptoe down the steps, see what he was doing, slip up behind him when he wasn’t watching and knock him over the head?
Whatever she did, she’d be quiet. Oh, so quiet. Super quiet, like a little mouse, so that he wouldn’t so much as suspect there was a woman in the house. A lone woman…
And right then, just as she was tiptoeing to the top of the stairs, trying to hear herself think over the thud of her heart, the intruder had spoken in a low, angry voice.
‘Come on,’ he growled. ‘Where are you hiding? I know you’re here.’
Terror had impelled her, then, terror and the realization that he knew she was here. She’d raced downstairs, tried her damnedest to bash his brains out right away and, when that hadn’t worked, she’d screamed the way Belinda had once said she’d been taught to scream in a martial arts class and hurled herself straight at the intruder.
He was huge. Seven feet, for sure. Eight, maybe. Three hundred pounds, no, four hundred, and all of it muscle. And he was strong as an ox. He’d struggled mightily, grunting and shoving and trying to dislodge her, but she hadn’t given an inch. Then his hand—a hand the size of a house, and as powerful as a steel trap—had closed around her wrist.
‘Perform,’ he’d said, in a voice as deep as a bass drum, and just as a hundred terrible explanations for that command swept into Holly’s mind his grasp on her wrist had tightened. ‘Blood,’ he’d snarled, ‘you’re a human!’
Perform? Blood? Human?
Holly hadn’t hesitated. She’d swung the phone again and that time she’d hit him on the top of his miserable head.
Now he lay sprawled at her feet, face-down and motionless.
She poked him with her toe. He didn’t move. She poked again. Nothing happened.
Holly’s heart was in her throat.
‘Oh, God,’ she whispered.
Had she killed him? Had she killed this—this escapee from a funny farm? Her teeth banged together, chattering like castanets. What about all that stuff she’d always laughed at? The tabloid headlines that screamed about visitors from outer space? Did an alien lie at her feet, looking to perform some bloody human sacrifice?
Holly forced out a laugh. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she said shakily, ‘get a grip!’
This was no alien. It was a man, and even if he was a certifiable loony who thought he’d been hatched on Mars, the last thing she wanted was to have his blood on her hands.
She had to turn him over, see if he was alive or dead. And to manage that, she needed light.
There were candles in the kitchen; she’d used one to see her way upstairs an hour or two ago. Was it safe to turn her back, leave the room, leave this—this creature lying here? Suppose he awoke? Suppose he stood up? Suppose…
‘Ooooh.’
Holly leaped back. He was moaning. And moving. Very, very slightly, but at least he was alive. She hadn’t killed him.
The man groaned again. It was a pitiful sound. Her heart thumped. How badly had she injured him? She couldn’t see. Couldn’t tell. For all she knew, he might be lying there, bleeding to death.
‘Mister?’
There was no response.
‘Hey, Mister!’
Holly took a tentative step forward. She poked him with her toe, then poked him again. Carefully, she squatted down beside the still form and jabbed him with a finger.
Nothing happened.
Holly heaved a sigh of relief. Good. He was still unconscious. As for his wounds—that could wait. Right now, she needed to find something to tie him with.
The man groaned and rolled onto his back, one arm thrown over his face. Holly leapt to her feet and scrambled into the shadows.
‘Don’t move!’ she said. Oh, that sounded pathetic! She cleared her throat, dropped her voice to what she hoped was something raspy and threatening. ‘Don’t move another inch, or so help me I’ll…I’ll shoot.’ And she brandished the portable phone before her.
Move? Move?
Nick would have laughed at the idea, if he hadn’t been afraid that laughing would make his skull crack open. The last time his head had felt like this was in fourth grade when Eddie Schneider, excited at the prospect of striking out the last guy up, had managed to bean him with a fastball.
‘You hear me, Mister? Don’t even think about moving.’
It was a boy’s voice, young and unsteady. Well, hell. Nick felt pretty unsteady himself. On the other hand, the last thing he wanted to do was lie here, at the mercy of a dangerous kid armed with a gun and some kind of animal that attacked people.
He had to sit up, if he was going to get out of this in one piece.
Nick forced another groan, which wasn’t very difficult, all things considered.
‘Gotta sit up,’ he said thickly. ‘My head…’ He swallowed. ‘If I don’t sit up, I’m liable to toss my cookies.’
‘No!’ The kid’s voice cracked. ‘I mean…okay. Sit. But no fast moves. You got that?’
Nick nodded. A huge mistake. His head felt as if it might fall off. On the other hand, that might not be such a bad idea.
Carefully, he eased himself up with his back against the wall.
‘Damn,’ he said, ‘what was that thing?’
‘What thing?’
‘That animal. The cat.’
‘Cat?’ Holly said. She swallowed dryly. Oh, boy. This was bad. He was hallucinating again. First blood, and humans. Now cats…
‘Yeah. You know, the one wearing the perfume.’
Holly took another step back. ‘Cats don’t wear perfume,’ she said carefully.
‘This one did, when it attacked me.’
He was crazy, all right. And you didn’t argue with a crazy man, you just acted as calmly as you could.
‘There’s…’ Her voice slipped up the scale, and she cleared her throat. ‘There’s no cat here, Mister.’
‘Dog, then. Was it a dog? I hope to hell you’ve locked it in another room.’
On the other hand, what could it hurt to let him think she had an attack dog by her side?
‘It’s a, uh, a…’ Think, Holly, think. What kind of dog was big and tough? All she could come up with was an image of the cocker spaniel that had lived in the house next door, in Tuscany. ‘It’s, uh, a Rottweilder.’
‘A what?’
‘A Rottweilder.’
Nick hesitated. ‘You mean, a Rottweiler.’
Holly shut her eyes, then opened them again. ‘That’s what I said. A Rottweiler, and don’t you even breathe funny or I’ll turn him loose on you.’
What she’d said was Rottweilder. Nick was sure of it. And a very well trained one it must be, for it not to be making a sound, not even a growl or a pant.
‘Where is it?’
‘Where is what?’
‘The dog?’
‘It’s—it’s here, right beside me. You want a closeup look? I’ll let go of its collar.’
‘No,’ Nick said quickly, ‘no, that’s okay…’
There was no dog beside the kid, not a Rotter or even a poodle. The kid was standing in the shadows but his outline was visible and there was nothing beside him, except for a chair.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Nick brought up one leg and then the other.
‘Don’t move, I said!’
‘I have to. My head’s bleeding.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’ Nick touched his scalp gingerly, expecting to feel the warm ooze of blood, but all he found was a huge bump. ‘Yeah, it’s bleeding, all right. Listen, I’ve got to get to a doctor.’
‘No! I mean…’ What? What did she mean? ‘I mean, I’ll get you a compress. After I call the…’ Oh, Lord. She couldn’t call anybody. She couldn’t eventie the intruder up, without rope. And how was she going to search for rope? Was she going to ask him, politely, to just lie still and wait until she made a circuit of the cabin?
Nick’s eyes narrowed. Call whom? Did the kid have an accomplice?
‘Look,’ he said carefully, ‘I’m willing to forget this, okay?’ Slowly, holding his breath, he shifted his weight again. ‘I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. You just turn around, walk out the door, and we’ll pretend this never happened.’
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