By Firelight

by Janice Maynard

  He poured her some more hot chocolate, adding a handful of miniature marshmallows, and opened a second beer. “I’m all ears.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It started out innocently enough. My friend Mimi is a schoolteacher. Most of her family is out in California, and this year she couldn’t afford to make the trip home for the holidays. Another friend, Daphne, just got divorced, and her family is the ‘I told you so’ kind, so she didn’t want to go home for the holidays. The three of us agreed to spend Christmas together, and we decided it would be fun to walk part of the Appalachian Trail. We thought we might stay in one or two shelters, but when it was practical, we would walk off the trail and stay in a town. The first night out the shelter had mice. At the second night’s shelter a group of rowdy Boy Scouts kept us awake.”

  “No offense, Maddy, but you don’t strike me as the hiker/outdoors type. You weren’t even wearing boots.”

  “There’s a reason for that. I was wearing boots to begin with. But they got pretty muddy the first day and I didn’t want to get my sleeping bag dirty. I set them just outside the shelter that night, and some animal dragged them off.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s the truth. I didn’t know that would happen. I had tennis shoes in my pack as a backup. I hadn’t intended on wearing them.”

  “So where are your friends?”

  She scooped out a gooey marshmallow with her fingertip and sucked it. Grant’s breathing quickened. Hell, he’d had too much alone time, apparently. He cleared his throat and forced himself to look at something other than Maddy Tierney’s little pink tongue.

  She was still speaking. “The novelty wore off pretty quickly. My friends decided they wanted to go home. Mimi came down with a cold and was feeling crappy, and Daphne’s mom called on her cell phone and gave her the big guilt trip. They both left this morning to head down the mountain and rent a car.”

  He frowned. “They sound like fair-weather friends to me. A woman hiking alone is an easy target. They shouldn’t have abandoned you.”

  She bristled. “They’re the best friends in the world. We spoke with a family group who was hiking at the same pace we were, and made sure they would be at the next shelter so I wouldn’t be alone tonight.”

  “But you never actually made it to the shelter.”

  She shrugged. “The weather was a wildcard.”

  “Why didn’t you leave with your friends?”

  Her face closed up, shutting him out. Her chin jutted. “I wasn’t ready to go back.”

  He tapped his fingers on the table. Something didn’t add up. But he could wait. The snowstorm had brought him an unexpected Christmas gift, and he was prepared to unwrap it a bit at a time.

  He stood up. “Let’s sit by the fire.” With the stove turned off the kitchen was getting chilly. She didn’t move immediately, and he raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to carry you?”

  She lifted her chin, her cute little nose in the air. “Of course not.” She got to her feet, clutching the blanket like a lifeline, and made her way to the sofa.

  Despite a strong urge to join her there, he stationed himself away from temptation in an armchair on the other side of the coffee table. She was flustered, he could tell. Her cheeks were bright red, and she was avoiding his gaze, her fingers picking restlessly at the fringe on the blanket.

  Now that the immediate danger was past, he allowed himself to enjoy the novelty of having a woman in his rural retreat. He propped his feet on the coffee table, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. “So why weren’t you ready to go back? Isn’t the week of Christmas kind of an odd time to be away from home? Do you need to call family and let them know you’re okay?”

  She bent her head. “No,” she sighed, her teeth mutilating her bottom lip. “Not necessary. But I’ll call Daphne and Mimi later and let them know where I am. They’ll be freaking out when they hear the weather report.”

  For a brief moment her expression revealed a bleakness that bothered him. Was it his mention of family? Unable to keep his distance, he went to her and scooted down on the sofa, sitting close but not quite touching. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m being too nosy, and you’ve had a rough day.”

  She scrubbed a hand over her face. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  He smiled. “I believe you. You’re tough, I can tell.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “Collapsing on your doorstep was an anomaly. I can take care of myself.”

  He held up his hands. “I was being serious. Not everyone would have survived getting lost in the woods in a snowstorm. My cabin is at least a quarter mile off the AT. I’m not sure how you managed to find it.”

  “I saw a light through the trees. I decided it was my only hope. I kept walking and walking, and every time I wanted to quit, I forced myself to focus on the light. It sounds a little overdramatic, I know—”

  “I’m glad I was here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I only arrived yesterday.”

  They sat in silence for long seconds, each realizing how close she had come to death. Maddy sniffed, and he reached in his pocket for a handkerchief. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” She blew her nose. “You want to know what I thought about when it got really bad?” Her voice was so soft, he had to strain to listen.

  “Tell me,” he urged, his tone equally low.

  “I hated it that I was going to die without ever having been in love.”

  Her bald statement hung in the air between them. Grant cleared his throat, at a loss for words. What could you say to a pronouncement like that?

  She went on, apparently unconcerned with his silence. “Of course, that’s assuming there’s any such thing as love.”

  He cocked his head, surprised by the depth of cynicism in her voice. If he’d been a betting man, he would have pegged her as a dyed-in-the-wool romantic. He took one of her hands, playing with her fingers. “You don’t really mean that.”

  She half-turned, her expression defiant. “Have you ever been in love?”

  He opened his mouth and then shut it. Damn, she had him there. “No,” he said reluctantly. “Not really.”

  She shrugged. “I rest my case.”

  He twisted a braided gold ring on her right hand. “How does a woman your age not believe in love?”

  She pulled her hand out of his grasp, tucking it beneath a fold in the blanket. “Six months ago I would have told you my parents were a shining example of love for the long haul—”

  “But . . . ?”

  She bent her head, her hair obscuring her face. He was beginning to think that little move was intentional.

  He reached for a stack of mail on the table and pulled a rubber band from a magazine. Without asking for permission, he gathered her long, thick hair at the nape of her neck and secured it. He tipped up her chin. “But?”

  Her chin trembled just the tiniest bit. “After thirty-five years of marriage they decided they don’t have anything in common.”

  He winced.

  She went on, her eyes dark and sad. “The divorce was final at Thanksgiving. They each decided they needed to find themselves. Daddy is on safari in Kenya, and Mother is cruising the South Pacific.”

  Grant had a sudden real urge to find the elder Tierneys and knock their heads together for not having more compassion than to leave their daughter at Christmas, especially when she was still adjusting to their newly dissolved marriage. He probed carefully. “Brothers and sisters?”

  “I’m an only child,” she said simply. “I have aunts and uncles and cousins, and they’ve all invited me for the holidays, but I told them I would be traveling.”

  Now he understood. She was enacting the adult equivalent of running away from home. “So that’s why you let your friends leave without you today. You didn’t want to go home.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, and then clearly changed her mind.

  “Maddy? Was that it?”

  “Not exactly,” she
muttered. She looked at the fireplace. “Don’t we need more wood?”

  Maddy watched her host as he carefully stacked three new logs on the fire and poked it until the flames were once again licking greedily up toward the flue. His squatting position pulled his faded jeans taut over a truly noteworthy butt. His shoulders threatened to split the seams of his soft flannel shirt. She had enjoyed sitting cozily with him on the sofa, way too much, if she was honest with herself. He exuded the kind of dependability and caring that made a woman feel protected.

  A man as stunningly masculine and virile as Grant Monroe was probably tired of women throwing themselves at him. It would be terribly selfish of Maddy to use his kindness as an excuse to insinuate herself into his affections. On the other hand, nearly dying tended to change a woman’s perspective. Carpe diem and all that. From now on she would reach out and grab the opportunities life sent her way . . . And Grant Monroe was the most delicious opportunity she’d met in a long, long time.

  As he moved around the room, she watched him surreptitiously. He was surprisingly graceful for his size. She wondered if he was big everywhere, and then she had to choke back a giggle as she realized the direction her wayward thoughts were taking.

  He must have sensed her amusement, because he turned around and raised an eyebrow. His hair was dark, and she could see the shadow of late-day stubble. “Am I entertaining you?” he asked with a gentle smile.

  Her nipples tightened, and her breathing was shallow. His smile was lethal. She licked her lips. “I was just thinking about something that happened on the trail the other day. It had nothing to do with you.”

  His knowing glance made her squirm, but he went back to his task. He disappeared for a few minutes and came back with coat hangers and marshmallows. He held up the bag. “Want some?”

  She nodded. “Sure. But I don’t think I can manage this blanket and cook at the same time.”

  He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I threw your clothes in the dryer. They’re probably done by now.”

  He headed back toward the kitchen and returned minutes later, triumphantly bearing her pants. “The shoes are still damp.”

  She took the jeans from him. “Turn around.”

  He put his hands on his hips, ignoring her demand. “Spoilsport. Surely you know I got an eyeful earlier.”

  She looked down her nose at him. “That was different. That was a medical situation. You were saving my life.”

  His teasing smile faded. “Those long legs of yours nearly stopped my heart. You’re beautiful, Maddy.”

  The simple sincerity in his voice caught her off guard. One minute they were exchanging banter, the next he was looking at her like a prospective lover. She stood mute, not knowing how to respond. The air grew thick and heavy. She focused on his lips, full and firm. Eminently kissable. What would he do if she launched herself into his arms?

  A log popped and hissed, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. It broke the strange spell holding them hostage. He turned back to the fire, his shoulders stiff. “I won’t peek,” he said gruffly.

  She dropped the blanket and wriggled into her jeans. They were toasty warm from the dryer. She relinquished the blanket reluctantly. It had afforded a certain amount of protection.

  She picked up one of the coat hangers and speared a duo of plump marshmallows. Grant already had one toasting deep within the fire. When he extracted it, it was a deep golden brown. He blew on it and then held out his hand. “Open your mouth.”

  She obeyed like a spineless puppet. The sweet, gooey sugar melted on her tongue.

  Grant’s finger seemed trapped somehow between her lips, and he flushed as her teeth grazed it when she sucked the last of the residue from his skin. She managed to swallow without choking. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Her own breathing was jerky.

  “Delicious,” she said, shivering as he traced her bottom teeth with his fingertip.

  “Damn.” His sudden exclamation shocked her until she followed the direction of his gaze. The marshmallows she held over the fire were an unrecognizable black glob. Grant took the coat hanger from her hand and raked the burning mess off onto a log. He glanced at her wryly. “I take it you weren’t a Girl Scout.”

  “Hey,” she said, frowning. “That wasn’t my fault. You distracted me.”

  “I distracted you?”

  She nodded vigorously. “You’re the one who was feeding me. I can’t help it if I got sidetracked.”

  He stared at her mouth, making her stomach quiver with nerves and something else much more dangerous. “Your lip is sticky,” he muttered, leaning forward.

  She froze, afraid to respond. He moved slowly, closing the gap between them. When his lips brushed hers they both sighed. It was sweet and delicious and scary as hell. Her heart was pounding and her legs trembled.

  “You taste better than the marshmallows,” he muttered. He stepped back and turned on a lamp, flooding the room with additional light.

  She walked to the sofa on unsteady feet, unsure if she was disappointed or glad that he had called a halt. The man was a stranger. Despite the confidences she had shared with him, he had offered nothing of his own background.

  She watched moodily as he put on his snow gear and took the dog out. The silence in the cabin when they left seemed overpowering. She wandered down the hall and found a bathroom. After taking care of her most urgent need, she glanced in the mirror and winced. She looked like a cat dragged through a bush backward. She washed her face and found a comb in a drawer. She took down her hair, straightened it as best she could, and then resecured it with the rubber band.

  Listening carefully for Grant’s return, she rummaged in a small zippered pocket of her pack and found some flavored gloss. It wasn’t nearly as yummy as the marshmallows, but it put a faint shine of color on her lips. After a quick call to reassure Daphne and Mimi, she returned to the living room.

  When Grant and the dog entered some minutes later, she was sitting on the sofa reading the latest National Geographic. She looked up as they came in, feigning an expression of mild interest. “How is it out there?”

  Grant looked at her like she was demented. “It’s snowing,” he said, irritation in his voice. “What did you think?”

  “You don’t have to be so grumpy. I didn’t make it snow. By the way, what’s the dog’s name?”

  “Van Gogh.”

  “But isn’t the dog—”

  “A female? Yes. But the dog doesn’t know who Van Gogh is, and I happen to like the name.” He said it as though daring her to challenge him. She wasn’t about to go there. His mood had turned surly.

  He poured food and water in the dog’s dish, then settled in a chair across from her, his jaw clenched with determination. “No more stalling, Maddy. If your parents weren’t the reason, I want to know why you didn’t go back with your friends.”

  She gnawed her lower lip, not wanting to reveal all her secrets, but sure he would spot a prevarication. Oh, what the hell . . . She tossed the magazine on the table. “I needed to figure out how to murder someone on the AT and dispose of the body.”

  Two

  Grant’s jaw dropped. He felt it hit his chest. He was locked in his own cabin with a psychotic killer. And she looked so normal. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He walked casually toward the door. He wasn’t sure he could actually shoot a woman, but the rifle might dissuade her from causing him bodily harm . . . if he was lucky.

  His pretty little wacko burst out laughing. “Oh, Lord, Grant, if you could see your face.” She was grinning from ear to ear, and he wondered if hysteria often preceded cold-blooded murder.

  He took a step closer to the rifle, resting his shoulder casually against the door. “What do you mean?” he asked, wincing at the crack in his voice.

  She left the couch and approached him. His pulse quickened, and not in a good way.

  She put her hands on her hips, a move that thrust her small but shapely breasts against the thin fabric of her burgundy turtleneck.
“You can relax,” she said, still grinning. “I’m not really going to murder anybody.”

  He shifted uneasily from one foot to another. Wasn’t that what the killer said right before you got whacked?

  She put a hand on his arm and, to his shame, he flinched. She rolled her eyes. “Open my backpack, Grant. Tell me what you see.”

  He eyed her warily. “Okay.” If the murder weapon was in there, perhaps he could dispose of it quickly. He opened the bag, ready to encounter a knife, a gun . . . perhaps a vial of poison. His hands closed on a slim, rectangular object. He pulled it out and stared at it blankly. A laptop. It was a laptop.

  She started laughing again. “I write murder mysteries, Grant.”

  Understanding dawned, and he felt his face flush with embarrassment. Had he really thought, even for a second, that this delicate little woman was capable of murder? He looked up, seeing the amusement on her face. Amusement at his expense. “Ha, ha . . . You got me,” he said, tucking the computer back in its hiding place. Now he understood why she’d asked him to make a foray into the storm to retrieve her bag.

  He tugged her ponytail. “You did that on purpose.”

  She shrugged, unrepentant. “You were badgering me for information. I simply told you the truth.”

  “Brat,” he muttered. “I ought to put you over my knee.” He said the words lightly, jokingly, but the careless comment took on a life of its own. Maddy’s eyes widened and he watched in fascination as her nipples thrust against her sweater. The room was quite warm.

  He tried to swallow, his throat suddenly parched. “A writer, huh. Tell me about that.”

  She ignored his inane attempt at conversation. Her hands crept up to his shoulders. Her head tipped back, her golden eyes filled with purpose. She stepped closer, and her soft breasts teased his chest. “Are you interested in having sex with me, Grant Monroe?”

  His eyes narrowed. Yes, hell yes. His cock jumped to attention. Grant ignored his importunate body part and reminded himself he was an honorable man. He removed her hands and checked her forehead. “You’ve had quite an ordeal, Maddy. Don’t make any rash decisions. You need to rest.”