Cleaning up, when they had finished their meal, was a simple matter of crumpling their paper napkins and cups and tossing them into the fire. Clare sat watching the plastic-foam cups melt and the napkins turn to gray ash. At last, unable to bear the uncomfortable stillness, she got to her feet and moved to the sliding doors. She lifted the curtain and peered out. There was nothing but mesh screen. The snow still fell, sweeping with tiny scraping noises against the wood siding of the house, muffling, deadening the ceaseless soughing of the evergreens overhead.
Clare shivered a little, wrapping her coat closer around her. The situation she had landed herself in was beyond belief. She felt like an idiot, and yet she did not know what else she could have done. She supposed if she had been experienced in mountain driving or with snow, she might have taken some action such as having her snow chains mounted before the emergency arose. She did not like to admit it, but it was true. So much for her claim, made often in the past couple of years since her parents had died, of being able to take care of herself. She had never felt less self-sufficient than at this moment. It did not take much to get into trouble, after all: only a little ignorance, a bit too much trust in luck. She would like to keep this episode to herself, but she doubted it would be possible. Beverly was too quick to be taken in by any trumped-up tale. On the other hand, Clare told herself wryly, it might be worth the exclaiming and teasing she would have to endure just to be able to tell someone exactly what had taken place, and what she thought of the arrogant and surly actor.
Behind her, Logan got to his feet and went to rummage in the kitchen cabinets. With a jar of roasted peanuts in his hand he crossed the room and stood with his back to the flames. Clare heard the sound of the jar opening. A moment later, he spoke.
“What are you doing over there? Come back to the fire before you are chilled to the bone.”
Clare swung around to find Logan watching her. “I can’t think what concern it is of yours.”
“I would just as soon not have to cope with pneumonia.”
“I expect not, especially since it might delay my leaving.”
He made no reply, but neither did he remove his compelling blue gaze. Clare hesitated an instant; then, feeling the cold at her back, she moved toward him, taking her seat once more before the hearth. He offered the peanuts with a silent gesture, and she took a few in the palm of her hand.
The minutes passed. Logan bent to put another length of wood on the fire; then he stepped to the deep pillow couch of brown velour that sat in the far corner of the room. Scooping up several of the large, overstuffed cushions, he brought them and threw them down beside Clare. “I strongly suspect, since the power is still out, that a tree or dead limb must have gone down on the lines. That happens more often out here than any kind of municipal outage. In this weather, it will probably be a while before anyone can get to it. We might as well make ourselves comfortable.”
“I guess so,” Clare said, slanting him an upward glance. “Before you sit down, though, don’t you think you should put your jacket back on? I’m no more anxious to take on the duties of a nurse than you are, contrary to what you might think.”
He shook his head. Reaching for the peanut jar, he let himself down on the cushion beside her. “I’m a little better dressed for the cold than you are, since I planned on being out in it. I still have another layer under these.” He indicated the flannel shirt and jeans he wore. “But if that last remark of yours means what I think it does, let me tell you that I am well aware that for every woman who might like to soothe my fevered brow, there are a hundred who wonder why they don’t make leading men like they used to, dark and dashing.”
Clare’s mouth curved in an unbidden smile. That he had a sense of humor should not have been surprising; it flashed out often enough on the screen. To have it surface through his very real exasperation was unexpected. She tilted her head to one side. “So you do admit there are women who might not consider it the thrill of a lifetime to be stranded with you?”
“Oh, yes, I admit it,” he said scathingly. “But I can always be certain that before my ego shrinks too badly some sweet young thing will stow away in my dressing trailer and pop into the bathroom just as I am beginning to shave, or else fling herself at me and tear the lapel off of a six-hundred-dollar suit.”
“I suppose it is to escape such annoyances that you come here?”
“Among other things,” he answered with a sardonic glance that plainly indicated he thought he was being pumped for information. “Ordinarily, it is safe enough. Which brings another question to mind. I was under the impression that no one knew about this house except my agent. Since I am fairly sure he would not give out the information without good reason, just how the devil did you find it?”
Clare watched as he took up the poker and gave a savage jab to a smoldering log. “You won’t accept that it was sheer coincidence?”
“No,” he said shortly.
“Well, let me see how I might have gone about it, then. Perhaps I saw you in town and followed you back to your lair?”
“You might have, except I haven’t been anywhere near Aspen since I landed at the airport a week ago. It certainly took you a long time to catch up.”
“Hmmm. Perhaps I was looking over the land records to see which celebrities had property in the area and just happened to come across your name?”
“You might, except I had the foresight to put the title in my parents’ name.”
“Your parents? Do they live in the area?”
“No. They come up for a few weeks in the summer to give the place a good airing. That is all the information you will get on them. You may as well drop that lead, and answer my question.”
“You mean how I ran you to earth?” Clare asked in mock innocence, then went on hurriedly as he turned slowly to stare at her. “Yes, I think I must have cornered your agent at one of those famous Hollywood parties and charmed him so that he told me all I wanted to know.”
“That is just possible,” he said. “A short man, round and balding, was he?”
“Yes, I believe he was.”
“Then you talked to the wrong man. My agent is tall and in possession of a full head of gray hair.”
Clare clicked her tongue. “Undoubtedly the wrong man. I wonder how I came to make such a mistake?”
“So do I,” Logan said, his tone dry.
Sternly controlling the urge to grin, Clare frowned at the burning logs in the fireplace. “I think that exhausts every possible way I might have found you. Don’t you think it must have been an accident, then?”
Greatly daring, she turned her head to look at him. He was watching her, his gaze on the shining curtain of her hair glinting silver-gold in the firelight. His deep blue gaze searched the pure oval of her face. As he met her gray eyes, her steady gaze did not waver, not even as his own narrowed in sudden consideration.
“No,” he answered finally, a pensive note in his low voice, “though as strange as it may seem, I almost wish I could.”
It was Clare who looked away first. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. The need to break it, to change the subject that had suddenly grown too personal, forced her into speech. “Where were you this evening when I stumbled in here? After what you said about your car just now, I don’t suppose you were far away.”
“No, I was out walking. I needed to exercise, and it helps me to think. The house here overlooks a gorge with a stream at the bottom. There’s a trail that winds down to it, if you don’t mind the climb back up again. It was snowing when I started out just after noon, but I hadn’t been listening to the weather reports, hadn’t so much as turned on a radio since I have been here. I never expected it to turn nasty as fast as it did, or I would not have gone so far.”
“I didn’t expect it, either. I heard the forecast on the car radio earlier in the afternoon. Snow was predicted, but I didn’t know it was going to be like this, almost like a blizzard.”
“My dear girl, this is not
almost like a blizzard, this is one!”
“Is it? I wasn’t sure. Where I come from we don’t have such things. Hurricanes, yes, and tornadoes, but no blizzards.”
“Where you come from?”
Clare told him, adding, in defiance of the skepticism in his expression, a fuller explanation of her reasons for being in the ski country. Logan did not comment. On reflection, Clare decided that was a good sign. He might not believe what she said; still, she thought he did not entirely disbelieve it either, or he would definitely have had something to say.
The fire crackled in the quiet. Clare stared into the flames, watching the pulsating glow of the red coals. Despite the cold she could feel at her back, gathering beyond the radius of the fireplace, she felt warm. The blessed heat seemed to soak into her skin, reminding her of the long miles she had traveled that day. She was more tired than she had realized until that moment. There was a sore place on her shoulder where the restraining harness of her seat belt had caught her, and though she did not remember bumping her head when the car went down the embankment, there was a spot with the tenderness of a bruise on her temple just at the hairline. Without warning, a yawn gripped her, and she smothered it with a slight shake of her head.
Logan tossed the last of his peanuts into his mouth and brushed the salt from his hands onto the fire. “It’s time we started thinking about sleeping arrangements,” he said, his words casual and yet tinged with irony. “I think our best bet is to make up beds here in front of the fire.”
“You mean right here, both of us?”
“That’s right, unless you would rather freeze to death, and I mean just that. To my certain knowledge, there are only a half-dozen blankets in the house. That may sound adequate, but of the six, three are lightweight, suitable for the cool nights we get up here in the summer. The other three are electric.”
“I see what you mean,” Clare said slowly. As long as the power was off, the electric controls were useless. If they divided the blankets between them, someone was going to wind up with two light pieces of cover. That would not do, not in temperatures well below freezing. What was needed was not only blankets, but several down comforters, or else a nice heated room. Lacking either, they could share the blankets — or make beds before the fire. She grimaced. “The cushions should make a fairly soft bed. Now, if we only had a nice electric alarm clock, we could set it to wake us every two or three hours so we can keep the fire burning.”
“I doubt either one of us will sleep so soundly we can’t keep up with that chore. We will need more wood, though. Here, you take this.” He handed her the flashlight from his coat pocket. “If you will see to the sleeping arrangements, I will fill the woodbox.”
It was not exactly a fair division of the labor, Clare thought as she watched him button his jacket and plunge out into the cold, blowing snow; still, she was grateful. Whether it was tact or common sense that had made him leave the placing of the bedding to her, she was glad she did not have to do it under his sardonic gaze.
It was not difficult to find the blankets he had mentioned, though she had to strip two of them from the bed in the room where he had been sleeping. It took two trips up the spiral staircase to bring down the cover and linens they would need. On impulse, she ran back up again to fetch a pair of pillows. They did not need them, precisely, but she saw no reason why they should not be as comfortable as possible.
She was just rounding the last turn of the stairs when Logan appeared, his arms piled high with wood, from the direction of the kitchen. She stopped, hugging the pillows with one arm while she held the flashlight in her other hand. Logan stopped also, waiting for her to cross in front of him. For no reason that she could think of, Clare felt the heat of a flush rising to her face as their eyes caught and held. With a fervent hope that he had not noticed her confusion in the dimness, she gave a faint smile and continued toward the fireplace. It was a relief when she heard his footsteps on the kitchen tiles and the door closing behind him once more.
What was the matter with her? Clare took herself to task as she hurriedly pushed cushions into place, spread sheets and blankets over them, and tossed pillows on the ends of the makeshift beds so that their feet would be nearer the flames. She was willing to admit that Logan Longcross was an attractive man, possibly even more than attractive. The situation was not one you ran into every day. Still, there was no reason to be upset. By tomorrow, the weather would be clear again. She could be on her way, and all this would be forgotten. It was the aftereffects of her accident and the strangeness of the snowstorm that had set her nerves on edge. The prospect of spending the night alone with a man, and that man Logan Longcross, did not daunt her, not at all.
For long moments she stood staring down at the makeshift beds; then, stooping swiftly, she pushed them a few inches farther apart.
By the time Logan returned with his last load of firewood, Clare had unzipped her boots and slipped them off, and was kneeling to poke up the fire. She moved to one side as Logan placed an enormous log on the andirons.
Logan glanced at her. “A backlog,” he said in answer to her look of inquiry. “With any luck, it should keep going long enough for us to get a little sleep.”
Clare nodded her comprehension, watching as he put more wood on top of the larger log, placing it with quick competence. She took a deep breath. “I have no night things with me, but I suppose it is just as well. We will probably be better off sleeping in our clothes, anyway.”
Logan made a sound that might have been an assent. Clare thought he flung a glance in her direction, but since she was carefully avoiding looking at him, she could not be certain. Standing the poker in its holder, she turned away, moving to seat herself on the end of one of the beds.
“I’ll take that one,” Logan said.
“Oh, but—”
“It is closer to the woodbox.”
It was also the one with the lightweight blankets on it. “It doesn’t matter,” Clare said. “I’ll take my turn feeding the fire.”
“There’s no need.”
“There is every need. I want to do my share.”
Logan swung to face her, still on one knee, with his forearm resting across the other. “I appreciate the offer,” he said deliberately, “but I would just as soon you made no sacrifices for me. Let me point out again that I am dressed a good deal warmer than you are. On top of that, I am used to the cold, and you are not.”
What he said made sense. Combined with the hint that she was trying to make him feel some obligation with her sacrifice, it was enough to make her transfer without another word to the other bed. Throwing back the blankets, she stretched out, then drew them back up over her shoulder as she deliberately turned on her side, facing away from him. For long moments she lay stiff and straight, watching the dancing fire shadows on the walls, uncomfortably aware of the man behind her. Her mind churned in futile fury; Logan Longcross was so sure of himself, so certain he was right about her. Arrogant, overbearing man. After this, he could call himself lucky if she troubled to see another one of his movies. How many had she seen? Three? Four? She could well remember the first. He had not been well known then; the actress who was his leading lady was supposed to have been the star. Slowly, quietly, with his appearance, the power and sensitivity of his performance, and the perfection he brought to the character he played, he had dominated the movie. Clare, scarcely more than a teenager at the time, had looked for his name in the credits when the film was over. She was not the only one. The parts offered to him after that became bigger and better, until the name of Logan Longcross had become a household word, the symbol of a man many women called flawless, while others loved him for his flaws. Clare had not been immune to the magnetism she felt when she sat watching the movie screen in the darkened theater. Nor was she unaware of it now that she had met him in person. Not that it mattered. The fact that she had been able to think of little else meant nothing. If she had been forced into such close quarters with any other man, no doubt she sh
ould have given him a large share of her attention also.
Discovering she was uncomfortable, Clare turned to her back. She lifted her eyelids a fraction, then let them fall again. Logan still sat before the fire, staring into the flames. Bronzed, burnished, self-contained, he had the aloofness of a man who neither needed nor wanted anyone to share his solitude. Perhaps it was not so strange he had never married. There had been the producer’s wife, however, the woman who had been accorded his protection from unwanted publicity. What was she to him, Clare wondered, that he had gone to such lengths to prevent any intrusion upon their moments together?
It was not the producer’s wife that occupied Clare’s thoughts in the moments before she slept, however. It was the memory of Logan’s lips on hers.
Morning was slow in coming. Gray-white snow clouds still pressed close to the house when Clare slid from her bed. In stocking feet she padded about, searching in the kitchen for a frying pan and a pot that did not look as if setting them in the coals of the fireplace would ruin them. The stainless-steel cookware she found would take the punishment, she knew, but she did not think it would ever look the same again. There was no other choice. They had to eat, and it was not as if Logan could not afford to replace anything damaged in such a good cause.
There was a drip coffeepot in one of the cabinets, but since the power failure seemed to have something to do with the water supply, she would have to go outside for snow to melt before she could make coffee. Clare had picked up the pot and started toward the sliding doors when Logan spoke from the darkened living area.
“Here,” he said, pulling on his heavy, insulated boots. “I’ll do that.”
Clare drew a sharp breath, coming to a halt. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” he said.
That short answer seemed plain enough. They were to be no more friendly this morning than they had been the night before. Without another word Clare put the pot she held down on the end of the dining table and turned back to the kitchen.
Sweetly Contemporary Collection - Part 2 (Sweetly Contemporary Boxed Sets) Page 36