by Diana Palmer
“That damn reporter!”
“The girl I was sitting with when you came in? But she isn’t due to leave for two more days. She’s meeting her fiancé in Salt Lake City and then they’re going on to Los Angeles.”
“She is?”
“That’s what she said.”
He leaned forward. “This is important. Did she say anything to you about Amanda Sutton?”
“I don’t remember any names,” she said. “She was talking about a singer who’d vanished from sight and the breakup of a big rock group.”
“Which rock group?” he asked.
She grimaced. “Sorry,” she said apologetically. “I don’t keep up with pop music. I like classical and opera.”
He stared at her, long and hard.
“You needn’t look like that,” she muttered, sweeping back the fall of hair that dropped onto her brow. “There isn’t one thing wrong with symphonies and opera!”
“I didn’t know that anyone in the world still listened to them.” From his perspective, rock music was all that existed. He spent all his time with people who composed it or played it.
“I see,” she returned. “You’re one of those MTV fanatics who think that music without a volcanic beat isn’t worth listening to.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I am so tired of skeletal men in sprayed-on leather pants wearing guitars for jockey shorts, with their hairy chests hanging out!”
He couldn’t hold back the laughter. It overflowed like the avalanche that had brought half a ridge down a few minutes before. “You’re priceless.”
“Well, aren’t you tired of it, really?” she persisted. “Don’t you think that there’s a place in the world for historical music, beautiful music?”
He sobered quickly. He didn’t know how to answer that. It had been a long time since he’d listened to anything classical, and he’d certainly never thought of it in that way. “Historical music?” he asked.
“Yes.” She began to smile. “It’s like talking to someone who lived a century, two centuries ago. You play the notes they wrote and hear them, just as they heard them. History comes alive in that moment, when you reproduce sounds that were heard in another time.”
His heart leapt in his chest. He thought about the history she’d mentioned. Then her wording came back to him.
“You said you play the notes…do you play?”
“Piano,” she said. “A little. I only had lessons for five years, and I’m not gifted. But I do love music.”
His face softened under its thick covering of hair. “But not rock music,” he persisted.
“So much of it is noise,” she said. “After you listen to it for a while, it all blurs into steel guitars. But, once in a while, another sort of song sticks its head out and a few people find magic in it.” She mentioned one of his songs, one of Desperado’s songs. “There were a lot of flutes in it,” she recalled, closing her eyes and smiling as she remembered it. “Beyond it was a high, sweet voice that enunciated every word. And the words were poetry.” Her eyes opened, dark and soft with memory. “It was exceptional. But it wasn’t their usual sort of music, either. The announcer said so. He said the composer did the song on a dare and didn’t even want it included on the album, but the other members of the group insisted.”
That was true. Hank had been certain that no one would like the soft, folksy song he’d written. And to his amazement, it had won a Grammy. He’d let Amanda accept it for him, he recalled, because he was too embarrassed to take credit for it publicly. “Did you see the video?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never had time to watch videos. I just listen to the radio when I’m driving.”
Incredible. She loved his music and she didn’t even know who he was. He wasn’t sure if he was insulted or amused. It was the only song of that sort that he’d ever written and he’d sworn that he’d never do another one. A lot of the music critics hadn’t liked it. He was trying to break out of the mold and they didn’t want to let him. It was a kind of musical typecasting.
“Do you remember the group the reporter was talking about?” he asked, returning to his earlier question.
“She told me, but I was watching the eagle out the window,” she confessed sheepishly, and with a grin. “I’m afraid I wasn’t listening. She was alone and wanted to talk, and I was the only other person handy when she came in. She was friendly and I didn’t mind sharing the table. It was just that the eagle came pretty close to the window…”
“You really do like animals.” He chuckled.
“I guess so. I was forever bringing home birds with broken wings and once I found a little snake with its tail cut off by a lawnmower. I couldn’t stand to watch things suffer and not try to help.”
His blue eyes searched her dark ones for longer than he meant to. She stared back, and he saw the color flood her cheeks. That amused him deep inside and he began to smile.
Poppy felt her heart race. He didn’t seem to be dangerous or a threat to her in any physical way, but that smile made her feel warm all over. She hadn’t been at a disadvantage, except when he’d carried her inside the cabin. Now she wondered if she shouldn’t have fought a little harder for her freedom. He was very big and powerful, and if he wanted to, he could…
“You’re amazingly easy to read,” he remarked gently. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. I don’t force women. It’s the other way around.”
She didn’t quite believe him. He had a fantastic physique, but he looked like a grizzly bear. She couldn’t imagine him being beset by women.
“Are you rich?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed and the smile faded. “Meaning that I’d have to be rich to attract a woman?” he drawled with muted anger.
He hadn’t moved or threatened, but the look in his eyes made her uncomfortable. “I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that you’re, well, you’re…bushy.”
His lips compressed. “Bushy?”
“You look like a grizzly bear!”
“A lot of men wear beards and mustaches!”
“Most of them have some skin on their faces that shows, too!”
He moved away from the window and took a step toward her. She took a step back.
“There’s no need to start stalking me,” she protested, looking him right in the eye. She stopped. “I won’t run. You can’t make me run. I’m not afraid of you.”
She acted like a woman confronting an attack dog. It would have amused him if he’d been a little less insulted.
“I haven’t had to chase women in ten years,” he said through his teeth, and kept coming. “They chase me. They hound me. I can’t even check into a hotel without having someone search the room. I could have a woman twice a day if I felt like it, and I wouldn’t have to pay them for it. I turn down more proposals in a week than you’ve probably had in your lifetime. But you think I look like a grizzly bear and no woman would want me unless I was rich.”
She held up a hand, nervous of him now. “I didn’t say that at all,” she began soothingly. She came up against something hard, and realized that he’d edged her back against a wall. “Now, see here,” she said firmly, “this isn’t any way to win an argument, with sheer brute force.”
“Isn’t that what you think I’d need to get a woman?”
“I didn’t mean it,” she assured him. She tried to edge past him, but he put an arm that was like a small tree trunk past her on one side and another on the other side and trapped her.
“What makes you think you’re qualified to judge?” he continued irritably. “You’re almost thin. There’s nothing to you. You act as if you’ve spent your life buried in books. What do you know about men?”
“I date,” she said shortly. “In fact, I can go out anytime I like!” And she could, with one of her partner’s sons, who seemed to have six hands and used every one of them the time she’d been crazy enough to go to
a movie with him. He’d have taken her out again if she liked, but she wouldn’t go to the front door with him!
“How much do you have to pay him?” he mocked.
When that sank in, she drew in an angry breath, forgot her embarrassment and fear and raised her hand sharply toward his hairy cheek.
He caught it with depressing ease and pressed it against the side of his face. The hair that grew on it was surprisingly soft, when it looked like steel wool.
“You don’t know much about men’s egos, do you?” he asked, bending. “If you don’t learn one other thing, you’d better learn right now that insults have consequences. And I’m just the man to show you how many!”
She started to defend herself, and before she could get a single word out, his lips had opened and fitted themselves exactly to the shape of her soft, shocked mouth.
CHAPTER THREE
It hadn’t occurred to her that a human grizzly bear would be so good at kissing. He wasn’t clumsy or brutal. He was slow and almost tender. Even the huge hands that slid around her waist and brought her lazily against him were all but comforting.
He nibbled at her upper lip where it clung stubbornly to her lower one. “It won’t hurt,” he breathed softly. “Give in.”
“I won’t…”
The parting of her lips gave him the advantage he’d been looking for. He eased them open under his with a pressure that was so slow and arousing that she stood, stunned, in his embrace.
He towered over her. At close range, he was even larger than he’d seemed at first. His big hands spread over her back, almost covering both her shoulder blades, and he smiled against her shocked gasp. His teeth gently worried her lower lip while his tongue trailed over it, and she thought dizzily that she’d never known such an experienced caress from the few, the very few, men she’d dated.
He felt her stiffen and lifted his head. The blue eyes that searched her dark ones were wise and perceptive. His hand came up and traced the soft color that overlaid one high cheekbone.
“You taste of coffee,” he murmured.
It was beginning to dawn on her that he might not be lying about his success with women. And she didn’t think it was because he was rich. Not anymore.
He didn’t see fear in her face, or experience. He saw a charming lack of it. His big thumb smoothed over her lips and her body seemed to leap into his at the sensation he produced.
“Nothing to say, Poppy?” he asked.
She shook her head, her eyes unblinking as they sought his for reassurance.
“You’re perfectly safe,” he replied, answering the look. “I’m not a rake, even if I do fit the picture of a kidnapper. But I had noble motives.”
“You’re…very big, aren’t you?” she faltered.
“Compared to you,” he agreed. His eyes narrowed as he studied her. She did look very small in his arms. He looked down to her breasts, pressed against his shirt. She barely came up to his chin and she had a fragile build. If he made love to her, it would be touch and go, because she was so much smaller. He scowled.
“What’s wrong?” she asked curiously.
He met her eyes. “I was thinking about how careful I’d have to be with you in bed,” he said absently.
She flushed and pushed at him. “You’d be lucky!” she raged.
He smiled at her ruffled fury and let her go. “Wouldn’t I, though?” he agreed lazily. Her red face told him things she wouldn’t. “You’re very delicately built. I’ve deliberately limited myself to tall, buxom women because I’m so big. Do you know, I can’t even let myself get into fistfights unless I can find another man my size?”
She studied him, under the spell of a hateful attraction. Her heart was still racing. His shirt was open at the neck and there was a dark, thick nest of hair in it. She wondered what he looked like under his clothes and could have choked on her own curiosity.
“You never told me what you do,” she said, diverting her eyes to his face.
“I used to play professional football,” he volunteered.
She frowned, searching his features. “I’m sorry. I don’t watch it. I’m not much of a sports fan.”
“It figures. It was a long time ago.”
That explained how he could afford this nice cabin in such a luxury area of the state. He’d probably made a fortune in professional sports and saved a lot of it. It would explain the women, too. All at once, it bothered her to think of him with women.
She wrapped her arms over her breasts. “How long will that last, do you think?” she asked, nodding toward the snowstorm.
“A couple of days,” he said. “I’ll get you back to the lodge as soon as I can, I promise.” He sighed heavily, wondering where that reporter was, and if she’d managed to get out. “I fouled this up really good,” he muttered. “Poor Amanda. She’ll never forgive me if they get to her.”
Amanda? She frowned. “Have I missed something?”
“Probably.” He turned away. “I’ll check on that generator. I don’t have a television here, but there’s a piano and plenty of books. You ought to be able to amuse yourself.”
“Thanks.”
He paused as he shouldered into his parka and looked at her. “If you don’t get back to your job, they won’t really fire you, will they?”
“I don’t know.” It worried her. She interpreted his expression and smiled ruefully. “Don’t worry. I’d be stuck at the lodge anyway, even if you hadn’t kidnapped me, wouldn’t I?”
That seemed to lessen the guilt she read on his face. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, if I can. I should have made sure before I acted.”
“What were you going to do with that reporter?” she asked.
“I was going to keep her here until I could warn Amanda,” he said. “She’s not having an easy time of it and all the wire services are after the story. I thought I was safe here, but they can track you down anywhere.”
Amanda must be his girlfriend, because he was trying so hard to protect her from the press. She wondered why. “Is she married?” she asked involuntarily.
“Yes,” he said solemnly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
So that was it, she thought as he left the cabin. He was in love with a married woman and the newspapers were after him. He must be somebody very famous in sports to attract so much media attention even if he didn’t play football anymore. She wished she’d paid more attention to sports. He was probably very famous and she’d go home without even knowing his name. She thought whimsically of selling her story to the tabloids—“I was kidnapped by a football star…” But of course she couldn’t do that, because she didn’t even know his full name.
She wandered out of the huge living room and down the hall. There were two bedrooms, one with a huge, king-size bed and the other with a normal bed. They were nicely decorated and furnished, and each had its own bathroom. Farther down was a room with all sorts of electronic equipment, including speakers and recorders and wires and microphones, a huge keyboard, an electric guitar and a piano. She stood in the doorway, fascinated.
After a minute, she approached the piano, drawn by the name on it. She knew that name very well; it was the sort of instrument even a minor pianist dreamed of being able to afford. It must be his hobby, playing, and he must be very rich to be able to buy something so astronomically expensive to indulge that hobby on.
Her fingers touched the keys and trembled. It was in perfect tune. She sat down on the bench, remembering when she was a child how she’d dreamed night after night of owning a piano. But there had been no money for that sort of luxury. She’d played on other people’s pianos when she was invited, and along the way she’d picked up some instruction. Eventually, when her father died, she was left with a huge insurance policy that she hadn’t even wanted; she’d wanted her parent back. But the money had put her through college, bought her a small, inexpensive piano and lessons to go with it. And it had made it possible for her to make her own way in the world. She didn
’t earn a lot just now, but if she could continue in the partnership—if they didn’t fire her—she had prospects.
She put her trembling hands on the keyboard, thinking that if she’d had the opportunity to study as a child, she might have made music her life.
She closed her eyes and began to play the Moonlight Sonata, softly at first, and then with more power and pleasure and emotion than she’d ever felt before. This magnificent instrument was all hers to enjoy, and enjoy it she did. When the last chord died into the stillness, she came back to her surroundings with a jolt as she realized that she wasn’t alone in the room.
She turned around. Hank was there, leaning against the doorway, something in his eyes that she couldn’t grasp. He wasn’t smiling. His face was somber and oddly drawn.
“I’m sorry!” she stammered, rising quickly to her feet. “I didn’t mean to presume…”
“Why aren’t you playing professionally?” he asked surprisingly.
She stared at him blankly. “I chose medicine instead of music.”
“A noble choice, but you have a gift. Didn’t you know?”
She looked around her, embarrassed. “You play, too, I guess? Is it a hobby?”
He smiled to himself. “You might say that.”
“I’ve never thought of a football player as a musician,” she said quietly. “It’s…surprising.”
“Some people think so. I’m too damned big for most hobbies. At least music fits me.”
She smiled gently and turned her attention back to the piano. She touched it with loving fingers. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?” The wonder in her voice was evident. “A real lady.”
He was touched and delighted by her unconscious reverence. “That’s what I call her,” he remarked. “Odd that you’d think the same way, isn’t it?”
“I guess a lot of people love music.”
“Yes. Even football players.”
She laughed self-consciously, because he sounded bitter. “Did that sting? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound disparaging. I’ve never known anybody in sports before. I know a little about baseball, and once I met a minor-league baseball player.”