by Cindy Gerard
Uh-oh. A new voice had joined the discussion. This one, while ringing with the same pleasant tones as the girl’s, was the mature voice of a woman. Mackenzie bolted away from the door and grabbed the mike before Mark had a chance to alienate yet one more unknown person.
“Which switch?” she asked Mark, who shot her a surprised look before shrugging, flipping a lever and stalking out of the room, the wolf dog at his heels.
“Good morning,” Mackenzie said, a little hesitant as she tried to smooth things over. “I’m Mackenzie Kincaid, and that charming young man who just offended that sweet young lady is my little brother. I’m sorry he was so rude. He’s...he’s been under a bit of a strain the past few days.”
Strain, she thought with a grim press of her lips. That benign summation was the understatement of the decade.
“Well, hi, Mackenzie. I’m Scarlett Morgan and the pouty little prima donna he was offending is my daughter, Casey. And don’t worry about it. We don’t have to be proud of how they sometimes act. We just have to bear it. Over.”
Settling into the chair Mark had vacated, Mackenzie relaxed a little, liking this woman and her tolerance, sight unseen. “Amen to that.”
“So, Mackenzie, is Abel around? Over.”
She sensed even before he leaned over her that Abel was definitely around.
A watershed of sensations swamped her as she looked up over her shoulder and saw him standing there. His size was every bit as imposing as she remembered from last night. And he was still every bit as beautiful.
His hair, which he’d tied at his nape, trailed over one shoulder, dragging across the desktop as he leaned toward the radio. His chest brushed her back in the process. It was just a brief touch, yet a ripple of awareness shimmered down her spine.
He was scented of winter-crisp air and warm cedar smoke, telling her he’d just come in from outside and had made a stop to stoke the fire before discovering her in his office. And she was far too aware of the heat and strength of his body just a deep breath away from touching her again.
When his fingers brushed hers as he took the mike from her hand, a jolt like an electric shock sizzled through her blood. She bolted out of the chair and backed a few feet away, hugging her hand, still warm and tingling from his touch, to her breast.
Unable to look away, she watched him in profile as he ignored her and spoke into the mike.
“Morning, Scarlett. How are things over at Crimson Falls? You holding up okay in this storm? Over.”
Another sensation slammed through her chest at his words. Not his words so much as at his tone of voice. The sensation was jealousy. Even though it caught her off guard, even though it made no sense, she didn’t pretend to mistake it for anything other than what it was.
Those few words, spoken to a faceless woman, held tender concern, an intimate, affectionate regard. After hearing little but curt, hard-edged tones from him yesterday, it was like comparing sandpaper to velvet, reminding her how precarious their position here was.
“We’re fine, Abel. This storm’s a doozy, isn’t it? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen snow set in this fast and deep so early in the season. Over.”
“Looks like we’re in for a long winter,” he said, casting a glance out the window. “So, are you going to be able to handle it? Over.”
“No problem. We’ve got plenty of wood. I just stocked up on groceries, and even though the phones are out, as long as the radio works, we won’t go stir crazy up here. Over.”
“I’ll hear from you if you need anything. Over.”
It wasn’t a question as much as it was a command. Clearly he cared about this woman and her daughter. And evidently, there wasn’t any other man in their life to take care of them.
“You know we will. What about things there? Casey says Nashata is still holding out on us. Over.”
“Won’t be much longer now. Tell her not to worry. She’s still got first pick of the litter. I’ll radio just as soon as I can after the big event. Over.”
“And what about you, Abel? Are you holding out on us too? Is Mackenzie the, ah, guest J.D. told me you were expecting?”
Listening in silence to the conversation, Mackenzie quickly added two and two and came up with a colossal six. Scarlett Morgan could only be referring to J. D. Hazzard. It was J.D. and his wife, Maggie Hazzard, who had been listed as references in Abel’s ad. Scarlett’s mention of J.D implied that she was a friend of his, too. Based on the familiarity and the affectionately curious quality of her question, it also suggested Scarlett knew about the mail-order bride business.
Mackenzie held her breath, waiting for Abel’s reply.
“J. D. Hazzard’s got a big mouth,” he muttered.
“And a big heart,” Scarlett reminded him with a laugh. “I swear, that man is not going to be happy until he sees us both married and—”
“Miss Kincaid and her brother got caught in the storm,” he cut in, dodging any further discussion about marriage. “It seems Mother Nature is indiscriminate about who she strands and where. Over.”
Mackenzie’s heart, along with her hopes, sank a little lower. He was deliberately letting Scarlett think she and Mark were accidents of the storm and nothing more. He obviously didn’t want Scarlett to know the significance of Mackenzie’s presence. Which made her even more uneasy about what he planned to do about them.
Scarlett was evidently disappointed, too. After a long pause she came back on the air. “Oh. Well. I was hoping that maybe... well... you know.”
Abel hit the switch. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Scarlett? Over.”
It didn’t take a degree in advanced psychology to figure out that Abel wanted to close this conversation. Scarlett took the hint.
“No,” she said carefully. “As I said, we’re fine. Maybe we can do something for you, though. You’re not exactly set up for unexpected company over there. Would you like to bring Miss Kincaid and her brother over to the hotel? We can put them up here at Crimson Falls until the storm lifts. Over.”
Here it comes, she thought. His chance to get rid of them.
“Not an option,” he quickly said, surprising her. “Until this bad boy blows itself out, no one’s going anywhere. You make damn sure you stay put, too. Don’t go outside if you don’t have to. And don’t let Casey even think about firing up the snowmobile until the snow stops and the wind dies down. She’d get lost so fast in this mess she’d freeze to death before anyone found her. Over.”
Soft laughter rang over the air. “There you go, sounding just like J.D. He’s already radioed. By the way—did you know he and Maggie are at their cabin? They drove up from the Cities to spend a long weekend. Got here just before the storm hit. Anyway, he’s already checked on us. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him—we don’t need any brother hens clucking over us. Casey and I can take care of ourselves. Over.”
“Just see to it that you do. Over.”
“Mackenzie,” Scarlett continued, addressing her instead of Abel, “if you had to get stranded in a snowstorm, you couldn’t pick a better man to rescue you than Abel. He’ll take good care of you. Over.”
With a reluctant scowl and a long look, Abel handed her the mike, taking great care this time to avoid touching her hand.
“Thanks, Scarlett,” she said hesitantly. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“And don’t let his big bad wolf routine intimidate you. It’s all an act. Over.”
“Thanks again,” she said, and unable to resist she added, “I’ll keep that in mind the next time he bares his teeth.”
Scarlett laughed again. “Atta girl. Something tells me you can handle yourself just fine with him. Where are you from by the way? Over.”
“California” popped out before she thought about it. The look Abel gave her made her wish she hadn’t said it.
“California?” More than polite curiosity colored Scarlett’s surprised response. A short pause followed. “Abel...I thought J.D. said—”
Before she c
ould finish, he commandeered the mike again. “Time to sign off. I don’t want to tie up the airwaves, in case someone needs help. Let me hear from you if you need anything. Over and out.”
With a flip of the switch, he broke the connection and backed away from the desk. He moved so quickly Mackenzie felt the air stir like a cool breeze around her. She could almost picture Scarlett on the other end of the line, frowning at the sudden silence and Abel’s puzzling abruptness.
“Why do I feel like rm the family secret no one wants to talk about?” she mumbled with a final glance at the radio. And why was she getting the impression that in addition to J.D. and Maggie Hazzard, Scarlett Morgan would like to see Abel Greene join the ranks of the happily-ever-after crowd?
She filed the bit of information away. It could come in handy if push came to shove and he balked at keeping the bargain. The Hazzards and Scarlett Morgan might prove to be just the allies she needed.
It won’t come to that, she told herself as she turned to leave the room—and ran smack into the solid wall of Abel Greene’s chest.
His hands shot out to steady her, but not before she’d lost her balance and landed flush against him. Everything registered at once. The feel of those huge hands cupping her upper arms. The heat of him. His dark, woodsy scent. A powerful strength countered by an innate gentleness. The unsteady, heavy pounding of his heart against her breasts.
She drew a deep breath. When her own heart rate evened out, she looked up at his face, not knowing what to expect.
His eyes were closed, his jaw clenched. And the hands that held her both steady and captive, tightened before they loosened and he set her away.
“We have to talk.”
His voice sounded smoky and rough as he opened his eyes and looked not at her but over the top of her head.
Slowly she nodded. Carefully she agreed. “You’re right. We do. But is there a chance I could shower first? I need to work a little stiffness out of my bones, and a shower might just do the trick.”
A glazed look came over his eyes, and in the moment they met hers she swore he was picturing her in the shower and considering joining her there.
An instant later his hard scowl was firmly back in place.
He backed away. “Fine. Shower. Towels are in the cabinet by the sink.”
Then he turned on his heel and hotfooted it out of the room.
He’d been in tight spots in his life, both before and after he’d opted out of the marines ten years ago. He’d missed the Gulf War, but not the drug war, first as an undercover cop and then later as he’d scrambled for his life for the “Company.” Later still, his belly full of being used, and knowing he, too, was dispensable to the CIA, he’d freelanced for any country who’d had need of his services and the cash to pay for them. It had still been his neck on the line, but calling his own shots ensured he had a fighting chance.
But never, in all those dark, ugly experiences, had he felt as defenseless as he had two minutes ago facing one small green-eyed woman.
He jabbed at the fire with a poker, thinking that war, whether fought on a battlefield or on back streets, seedy bars or jungle undergrowth, was never personal. War was a job. Someone tried to kill you. You tried not to let them. What he’d felt when he’d held Mackenzie Kincaid in his arms with those soulful eyes trained on his was as personal as it got.
Last night he’d had one hell of a personal struggle. After the boy had settled down in the loft, he’d sat by the fire, gauging the strength of the wind and the force of the front as ice-laced snow peppered the window panes. He’d watched, not entirely surprised, when Nashata rose from her nest by the fire, tiptoed with a soft click of her toenails up the loft stairs and settled with a whisper of goose down on the sleeping bag by the boy.
Nashata, too, had sensed the need in the troubled kid. Her reaction had been instinctive, as elemental as that of a kindred soul and less removed from human emotion than most humans would feel comfortable admitting.
The boy had stirred in surprise, then in his state of fatigue, had let down his guard and welcomed Nashata’s warmth and company. Abel understood the boy. That knowledge ate at him. He didn’t know the reason for his anger, but he recognized the intensity of it. He’d had the same rage at Mark’s age—didn’t feel that distanced from it even now. Was close enough to it, in fact, that he felt a keen and unwelcome sense of empathy for both the boy and the woman.
The woman. When he’d finally gone to bed he’d tried to convince himself he didn’t like having his privacy invaded. Told himself it was a curse not a blessing, knowing that somewhere in this cabin, a human heartbeat other than his own pulsed softly. A body other than his own shared space and warmth and silence.
The problem was that her presence in his home had intensified his feelings of loss—and of how alone he’d felt the night he’d broken down and let J.D. place that ad.
He set the poker in the stand, his thoughts returning against his will to Mackenzie Kincaid. To her softness, her slim curves, to the puzzle that had sent her to him. As he had last night, he found himself stacking common sense against uncommon need and wondering if, despite her troubled kid brother and the threat hanging over his business, he’d have the sense to send her back to L.A.
He considered his life to date: a past littered with regrets, a future promising more of the same. He was thirty-five years old. He’d either been alone or felt alone for every one of them. That he’d always been and would always be an outsider was a truth he’d accepted when he’d left the lake all those years ago as an angry and rebellious eighteen-year-old. He’d never intended to come back. Only when he’d run out of options had he returned. And only when the loneliness had gotten a choke hold, had he let himself be duped into placing that damned ad.
“What about you, green eyes?” he murmured, searching the fire and seeing those young-old eyes that captivated him. “Is that why you’re here? Have you run out of options, too?”
He reminded himself he couldn’t afford to invest in someone else’s misery. He especially couldn’t use it to temper his own. No matter how tempting she was.
Besides, wisdom dictated that he send her away. He had to get her out of here for her own good. If his suspicions played out and the last of his business mishaps—a fire at his main storage shed just last week—wasn’t an accident, that meant it had been deliberately set. He didn’t want to believe it, but it was a possibility, and he couldn’t involve her or her brother in a potentially dangerous situation.
If someone wanted him gone—and he had a pretty good idea who that someone might be—that someone was in for a surprise.
Abel Greene had reset his roots. He wasn’t going anywhere. And if he did have a problem, he’d deal with it the same way he had every other problem in his life. Alone.
He’d had it all in perspective when he’d come in from taking care of the horses this morning—and then he’d run into Mackenzie Kincaid in his office.
She’d looked sleep mussed and dewy soft and so very touchable. All the speculations he’d wrestled with through the night—the feel of her, the softness of flesh over fragile bones, the heat and scent of woman—were speculation no more.
His hands were still shaking from holding her. Lower in his body, deep in his groin, an ache, hot and demanding had begun to intensify and burn at the memory of the soft brush of her thighs against his legs, the cushion of her breasts pulsing against his chest.
“That’s what you get, Greene,” he muttered under his breath as he stalked out of the living room and headed for the kitchen.
“You hold up out here for five years like a damn hermit and then you’re surprised when a body with breasts knocks you for a loop.”
He jerked open a cupboard, grabbed the coffee can off the top shelf and slammed around making a fresh pot.
Then he tried to get a grip. Bracing his hands wide on the counter, he dropped his head between his hunched shoulders and dragged in a deep, controlling breath.
“She can really pi
ss a guy off, huh?”
He spun around like he’d been shot.
Sitting at the table, digging into a bowl of cereal, sat the kid. From the look on his face, Abel surmised he’d heard every muttered word.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “I’m not angry at your sister.”
The boy shrugged. “Whatever.” Then a nasty smirk curled his upper lip. “So...are you gonna do her?”
Anger exploded inside Abel like a bomb. He skirted the table in two strides, grabbed the boy’s shirt in one fist and jerked him nose to nose before he had a chance to run for cover.
“Look, you little punk. I don’t know what’s eating you, but a man doesn’t bad-mouth a woman because his nose is out of joint. Don’t ever make reference to your sister in that tone or that way again. Understood?”
Eyes bulging, face red, hands clasped in a death grip around Abel’s wrist, Mark nodded. Once. Then again, in a series of rapid, jerky movements.
Slowly Abel let him go. Slower still, aware that the boy was watching his every move in wary silence, he backed away. Without breaking eye contact, he reached behind him to the counter where he’d left the boom box after he’d repaired it earlier this morning.
Without a word, he set it in front of him.
Unsure of what he was supposed to do with it, the boy stared first at the box then at Abel.
“Don’t give me a reason to break it.”
Humbled, yet too proud to give in to humiliation and too pleased by the prospect of listening to his precious radio, the boy nodded. “No, sir.” Then he stood, pushing back his chair and picked up the radio.
“The dirty dishes go in the sink,” Abel said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
At the least he’d expected a belligerent scowl. At the most, a suggestion to stick it. Instead Mark picked up his bowl and spoon and walked them to the sink. When he returned to the table for his radio, he hesitated, then swallowing hard, faced Abel again. “Thanks,” he croaked.
Abel regarded him over his coffee cup, then accepted the unexpected thanks with a nod.
With Nashata at his side, and the boom box under his arm, Mark headed for the loft. Abel was standing there watching them go when he realized he had an audience.