Stranded with a Hero (Entangled Bliss)

by Karen Erickson

  “I’m really out of luck with that phone call, aren’t I?” said Frankie in an almost-normal voice. Her heart rate had left the cheetah-chased-gazelle range.

  Now it was just in the cornered-cat range.

  “Unless you happen to have a sat phone tucked away somewhere,” Red answered. “Listen, I need to make sure a tree didn’t come down on the roof. Don’t go anywhere.”

  He tossed her a flashlight, then bent down and picked up her boots.

  “Are you kidding me? You’re taking my boots?”

  “You’d prefer handcuffs?” He looked up at her slowly, his eyes hooded. “I’ve got the equipment. Say the word.”

  Electricity was gone from the walls, but something like it arced between her and the sheriff, triggering another wash of adrenalin. But this time, it wasn’t fear, at least not entirely. A different kind of anticipation pulsed beneath it. Her heart jumped out of National Geographic and straight into Adult Content, Viewer Discretion Advised.

  She didn’t even think she still got that channel.

  “Really? You’re going for Christian Grey?” Frankie turned to warm her backside, everything tingling as blood rushed into ice-cold flesh. “I don’t see it. You’re more a fifty-flavors-of-pie kind of guy.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said slowly, watching as she rubbed her now-toasty hands on her frozen butt.

  The air thickened between them. The orange glow of the fire reflected in his eyes, tracking her movements, following her hands, lingering on her body like a laser. Surely this was nothing more than the freeze-fight-or-flight response gone mad.

  “You know.” She swallowed, remembering the fourth F of that response. “That book. With all the…”

  Sex.

  She was about to say sex. And she was pretty sure he knew it. He might have missed the street sign, but he clearly recognized the territory they’d wandered into.

  “Don’t make me chase you, Francesca Sylva,” he said. “That could make our time together most unpleasant.”

  His low, teasing tone promised more than it threatened. In the vicinity of her navel, butterflies went ballistic.

  “Only if you caught me.” She blew him a kiss, not sure if she was trying to lighten the mood or continue the game. “Go ahead. Go make sure it’s not the big bad wolf huffing and puffing out there. I’ll stay put like a good girl.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, then pulled her purloined truck keys from his pocket and dangled them at her. “I think I’ll take care of these myself.”

  The dog whined when Red shut the door behind him.

  Great. No chance of getting her keys back tonight.

  “I would have waited for the storm to quit,” she muttered. “I don’t have a death wish.”

  Although it occurred to her that a night in Conrad’s truck might have ended that way for her—if Sheriff Red LeClair hadn’t come along when he did, a knight in shining down-filled parka. The thought gave her a little thrill as she began exploring her surroundings.

  He even looked a bit like a knight. Imposing. Severe. Determined.

  Those whisky-colored eyes.

  She’d always been a sucker for that particular color. He wasn’t a proper redhead, but from those eyes, you could tell the gene was in there.

  And his voice. Smooth as glass, a tenor ribbon of sound. If he wasn’t a singer, he ought to be. A voice like that ought to come with a warning: Caution, may cause lurching libido.

  Frankie opened the pantry door and shone her flashlight over the shelves, trying to ignore the shadows. She suddenly realized she was starving. Surely Red was too. Maybe if she scrounged together a meal, he’d lighten up on the whole grand-theft-auto theme.

  Something warm would be wonderful. But with the power out? They might be stuck with sandwiches. Or cereal and milk.

  Then she saw a box on the table with a note taped to the side. And beside it, candles and matches. With shaking hands, she lit a half dozen candles, setting them up around the room, before reading the note.

  In case the power goes out, it read. Don’t want you to starve! – Rory. PS: starter’s broken, use matches. DO NOT blow yourself up!

  A propane camp stove! They really knew their weather, out here in the boonies.

  She quickly set up the device, struck a match and crossed her fingers.

  Whoompf. A soft blue-orange flame leaped up, sending hissing warmth up toward her face. She turned it off and went back to the pantry, her stomach growling.

  Light and heat. She could work with that.

  …

  Red tossed Frankie’s boots into the cab of his truck, slammed the door shut and locked it. Short of handcuffs, it was the best he could come up with. And he was short of handcuffs, despite what he’d told her.

  And why had he even gone there? What on earth had possessed him to toss out that teasing little morsel? That wasn’t him. Not at all.

  And she’d lobbed it back with a smile. No shrinking violet this one. No way.

  The thought of a woman who was willing to spar with him—without knowing him—was strangely intriguing. No tears, no bargaining, no passive-aggressive manipulative bullshit. She wanted to give him a fight.

  He tramped through the snow around the house, forcing his thoughts away from the elf inside. Snow swirled around him, making it difficult to see. But sweeping his light above him, he found a downed tree, as he suspected. It wasn’t near their power line and thankfully had missed the house. The electricity must have been disrupted somewhere down the road.

  He’d done everything he could to make his wife happy, and it hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t seen how much her dreams meant to her until it was too late and now he was left with the taste of failure in his mouth.

  To see a woman’s eyes spark with mischief because of something he said, well, that was appealing as hell.

  Knock it off, Red.

  He took a quick check of the barns and outbuildings, making sure doors were secure. Everything was fine, all the saddle horses snug in their stalls. The group of mustangs that had ventured closer to civilization now stood huddled together beneath the shelter. All he could see was snow-dusted silhouettes and the occasional shine of black eyes.

  The wind howled, sending the snow drifting in sheets of icy white now and he had to hunch his shoulders against the wind to keep it out of his face. He trudged back to the house.

  And Frankie Sylva.

  Cute, feisty, smiley Frankie Sylva.

  He stomped the snow off his boots on the porch, delaying his return. What was he going to do with her? He couldn’t even contact anyone to find out if she had outstanding warrants. With his luck, she had a sheet a mile long. Or she was on the run.

  That would explain why she wasn’t freaking out about being stranded over Christmas. But even so, surely someone would notice that her place at the table was empty.

  He pulled off his gloves and slapped them together to remove the snow. Quit procrastinating, Red! Get in there and take charge.

  Then he smelled the most wonderful aroma. His stomach growled and his steps quickened in anticipation.

  For the first time in months, maybe more, he wouldn’t be eating alone.

  …

  Frankie was singing.

  Fill the pot with mar-in-AR-a,

  Fa la la la YUM, la la la YUM!

  “Good, you’re back!” she said when Red walked into the kitchen. “It’s not a traditional Yuletide meal, but if you’re as hungry as I am, you won’t care.”

  The dog, reclining on the loveseat, barely lifted her head at his arrival. Candles of all sizes sat in clusters around the room and the shadows they threw flickered and danced across the ceiling. From the decorated tree in the corner, tinsel and ornaments reflected the light. Gold and silver garland hung in shimmering loops across the walls. The room was more sparkly now than it had been before the power went out.

  Frankie was wearing an apron on top of her hoodie, the layers covering everything up top, while still giving him a del
icious glimpse of her skin-tight Lycra-covered lower half.

  She was licking something off the end of a wooden spoon.

  Red froze. His body reacted as if he’d walked in on her twirling half-naked on a pole. He took a step backward, unable to tear his eyes from her innocent gesture.

  Frankie frowned and her motions slowed, became deliberate. She stood still for a moment. Then that pink tongue darted out again to flick across her top lip.

  All the blood in his brain rushed southward at the sight: the erotic and the domestic, juxtaposed into one delectable scene. The complexity of his desire shocked him speechless. Base physical need was one thing; this was something else entirely. Frankie was intriguing. Unsettling. Challenging.

  He wanted to figure her out.

  He wanted to play strip poker with her.

  He wanted to throw her on the couch and—

  “A touch more oregano, I think.” Frankie pointed the spoon at him. “Go wash up. I melted a big pot of snow on the stove so there’s warm water in a bucket in the bathroom around the corner. Yes, I borrowed someone’s giant boots to collect the snow outside. Borrowed. Not stole, because I put them back. See the difference?”

  And still he stood there like an idiot, a statue, mute and powerless.

  “What?” She blinked at him, her eyes shining pools.

  “Nothing.” He cleared his throat, then turned around and headed for the bathroom. He hadn’t felt this hormone-addled since high school. “You’ve made yourself at home, I see.”

  “I’m resourceful,” she called after him.

  Resourceful, he thought, rinsing his hands with the ladle she’d left in the bucket. “A euphemism commonly used by successful criminals,” he called out to her.

  “If I were so successful,” she called back, “I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

  Good point, he thought. Smart, sassy and sexy was a tough combination to beat.

  “This is a fantastic kitchen,” said Frankie when he returned. “It’s kind of festive, isn’t it? With the candles and all. I fed Mistral, by the way. I couldn’t resist that face.”

  She motioned him to a chair, as if she were the hostess and he the guest. As if she had every right to be here. But her words were choppy, belying the airy confidence.

  “I like to cook,” she continued, dumping a pot of pasta into the sink to drain, sending a cloud of steam billowing into the cool air. “I don’t do it often though, and certainly not with all these gadgets and toys. It’s nothing fancy, I opened a jar of sauce and cooked the linguine. But there’s fresh Parmesan and I even found a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.”

  “You found wine.” Earlier he’d been thinking about microwaved Who Hash, solitude and if he was very lucky, beer.

  But a hot, fresh-cooked meal? Candles? Wine? And a chatty yoga-elf chef? With a body like a Las Vegas showgirl?

  Frankie stopped in the middle of serving heaps of steaming pasta onto a plate, her face stricken. “You don’t think they’d mind, do you? That I helped myself to their wine? I was so excited to make a nice meal, I might have gotten carried away.”

  Red took the loaded plates from her and carried them to the table. Maybe she was playing him. Distracting him from whatever mischief she was trying to hide. “You’ll replace it.”

  Although, if he was drinking the wine too, he should probably pay half.

  “Oh, absolutely. As soon as I get to a liquor store.”

  “You could leave a donation instead. The mustang sanctuary is a registered charity, after all.”

  She stopped then. “Of course.” A look of guilt flitted briefly across her features before she wiped it away. “Fresh-cracked pepper?”

  Yup. Definitely a puzzle that needed to be solved. Too bad he couldn’t stop thinking of her as a Christmas present waiting to be unwrapped.

  …

  She was doing it again. Frankie pressed her lips together, but when she was nervous, words tended to burble out despite her best intentions. She talked too much, too fast, and couldn’t sit still.

  But really, who could blame her? She was sitting here with a gorgeous stranger, who said he was a cop but really, that was no guarantee he was a good guy, was it? And they were a million miles from nowhere, no phone or electricity. No way of getting out.

  In the dark.

  On Christmas Eve.

  “Cheers!” She tipped her glass in his direction and fortified herself with a gigantic gulp.

  Oh, excellent plan, she snarled to herself as a drop slipped down the wrong tube. Choke to death. Get tipsy. That will help.

  Red quickly got her a glass of water.

  She took a few swallows and the spasm eased. His hand on her back wasn’t helping, exactly. But it certainly wasn’t hurting.

  “Don’t worry, I’m fine,” she rasped once her voice was back.

  He sat down across from her again, but she could still feel his palm, gently stroking between her shoulder blades. What was wrong with her? Sure, she’d have to tell him what she’d really been doing tonight, but it hadn’t really been illegal. Not very, anyway. That she could deal with.

  This jangling was from a whole different batch of nerves.

  He took a sip of his own wine. Damn him, he was smiling! Frankie forced herself not to talk, to focus on the pasta, twisting it onto her fork, lifting it to her mouth, chewing and swallowing.

  Red did the same, still without speaking.

  She couldn’t take it.

  “I put a splash of the wine into the sauce,” she said, desperate to break the silence. “I think it really brings out the flavor. What do you think?”

  She stuffed an enormous forkful into her mouth, determined not to speak again until he’d said something. Maybe she wouldn’t speak again at all.

  Right.

  She wondered if the elk she’d released had found shelter from the storm. She hoped they wouldn’t cause trouble for Carson and Rory. She realized that in the half hour or so that she’d been using the Granger’s kitchen she’d begun to think of them as actual friends, instead of username and avatar friends.

  The photographs on the refrigerator made them look like an ordinary, happy family. Goofy. Affectionate. Totally in love with each other and their child.

  And here she was, using them for her own purpose, albeit an altruistic one, without their knowledge.

  And she was eating their food and drinking their wine.

  “Do you cook?” she said, around a mouthful of pasta. “Or maybe you let your wife do all the cooking, and you do the dishes.”

  He took another bite, gestured to his mouth apologetically, and continued to not talk. Polite. Kind. He had a sort of old-fashioned cowboy courtesy about him.

  “Maybe you’re a single guy who lives off frozen dinners and cheeseburgers at the local pub.”

  Beneath the table, she twisted her feet, wishing she could shut herself off.

  But Red took care of that. He finished the last of his meal, leaned back in his chair and picked up his wine glass.

  Finally, she thought with relief.

  “So.”

  Uh-oh. He said the word like he was playing a trump card.

  “Are you about ready to tell me why you were trespassing on protected land with a stolen truck and trailer?”

  Chapter Three

  “I told you, it’s not stolen,” said Frankie.

  “Then where’s this Conrad Toole? Why have you got his rig? Is he your ex? Your current? Don’t tell me there’s an angry husband headed our way.”

  “Ew, no.” Frankie picked up their empty plates and took them to the sink, turning her back on him.

  He needed to know more, but pushing her could make her shut down completely. Hopefully, if he was patient, she’d fill in the blanks voluntarily.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Or not.

  He grabbed a towel and stood next to her, ready to dry the dishes she was washing with water from the stove. “Well now, that’s a highly prejudicial characteriza
tion, wouldn’t you say? What basis have you for this accusation?”

  This was good. He was back in control, the momentary insanity of earlier gone, an aberration caused by too much time in his own company.

  She shot him a narrow look. “You’re a sheriff.”

  He pantomimed being shot in the chest. “Oh, ow. Hit me where it hurts. Maybe I’m the kind of sheriff who would look the other way if I saw a starving man stealing bread. Ever think of that?”

  Frankie dumped the last of the warm water down the drain and squeezed out the dishcloth. Great, now he’d tipped his hand as a Les Miz fan. Not part of the tough-cop persona he was going for. Maybe she wouldn’t get the reference.

  “Please. You’re Inspector Javert all the way.”

  No luck there.

  “I uphold the law, if that’s what you’re referring to.” He heard the stiffness in his voice. “But I believe in second chances. I believe people can change.”

  “Hm.” She dried her hands on the towel he was holding, which brought her close enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin, still smelling of lemons from the detergent. “What if it takes too long? What if their second chance jeopardizes the welfare of a…vulnerable party?”

  In the shifting candlelight, he tried, and failed, to read her expression. God. She was on the run! But had she been forced to take drastic action to protect herself or someone she loved?

  “Frankie.” He trod carefully. “I know the system is flawed but if you tell me what’s going on, I can help. If someone’s hurting you—“

  A ripple crossed her forehead. “No one’s hurting me.”

  Was it his imagination or had there been extra emphasis on the last word? Who was she protecting? And what had been in that empty trailer?

  “If you had horses in need of sanctuary—” he began.

  “I didn’t.”

  “The ranch is for mustangs,” he continued, “but Carson always finds a way to rehome domestics.”

  Frankie bent over and blew out the smaller candles, taking the bigger ones with her to the other room. Her graceful movement, the slide of toned leg muscles beneath supple flesh, was mesmerizing.