by Kara Braden
“That’s…” Cecily trailed off and gave him a smile that seemed easier. When he touched another button, turning the overhead lights to a dim glow, she looked up and gave a little laugh.
“Convenient?” he asked, walking over to her.
She tipped her head down enough to meet his eyes and rested her hands on his hips. “I was going to say lazy.”
“I’m not lazy,” he lied. He tossed the remote on the couch so he could wrap his arms around her. “I work hard for this lifestyle.”
“Maid service twice a week, remote control blinds and lights?” she challenged. “Which part of the ‘work’ do you do?”
“The lawyer part,” he teased, leaning down for a kiss.
But she turned away, smile fading, and wormed free of his arms. She took a few steps across the deep shag carpet and looked around. Her shoulders went tight again as she shoved her hands into her pockets. She still hadn’t removed her parka; the waterproof shell rustled loudly in the silence.
“Your job.” She looked down, scuffing her boot on the carpet, and shook her head. “I knew you lived well, but I didn’t imagine… Ian, what am I supposed to do here?”
Ian’s gut went tight. “You’re a writer. We can build you an office, maybe overlooking—” He cut off, looking at the window that looked out toward the river, a window that was now covered.
He swallowed, wondering what he was supposed to say now. Cecily was a writer, yes, but at the cabin, she had always been busy with the day-to-day need to survive. Firewood, food, repairs—all the critical things necessary to live in such an inhospitable environment. She needed to be busy. Useful. And here, she probably couldn’t even afford to pay a tenth of the monthly bills, much less split expenses fifty-fifty.
She turned back to face him, hazel eyes dark with worry. “What am I doing here? I don’t belong—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted. He went to her and put his hands on her shoulders, feeling the tension in her strong muscles. “Small steps, remember? You get a desk. You hook up your laptop. You write. Maybe go for a jog in Central Park one morning.” He slid his hands up to cup her face, gentling his fingers over her soft skin. “And you give us a chance.”
She closed her eyes, leaning into his hands. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“And don’t apologize.” A touch under her jaw got her to look back up at him. “Do you think I want to go back to the office? To the courtroom? The hours suck. The stress of building a case, of dealing with clients and the DA and the damned press…assuming they remember who I am.”
She exhaled warm breath over his hands. “You’re not exactly forgettable.” She straightened her back and looked around without breaking free of his gentle hold. “It really is nice. Not exactly my style.”
“Your style involves freezing to death,” he said with a smile. “And denying yourself.”
“Denying myself?”
“Mmm. Living without life’s little luxuries. Which reminds me, I have one last surprise for you.”
Her eyes lit up with interest. “You do?”
“Give me ten minutes. Then I’ll show you.” He leaned in to brush his lips over hers and tugged at the coat she still wore. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Ten minutes,” she agreed and took off her coat.
***
Cecily sank an inch deeper into the bathtub, opening her eyes just enough to see Ian leaning against the vanity. “I am never leaving this tub,” she all but purred, lifting a handful of bubbles from the water’s surface. For seven years, the closest she’d come to a bathtub had been midsummer swimming in the river by the cabin.
Grinning, Ian knelt down on the bath mat and reached out to comb his fingers through her damp hair. “I can get one of those bathtub trays for your laptop. You can write in here. I’ll bring you snacks.”
“I knew there was a reason I love you.”
His touch went still, and she opened her eyes to look at him. Softly, he said, “I’ll never get tired of you saying that.”
She felt a blush creep up her face and hoped he’d blame it on the hot water. He’d covered every surface with candles, filling the room with flickering light that reminded her of her cabin. “Manipulative bastard,” she accused fondly, turning her head to kiss his forearm.
His brows shot up toward his hairline. “What did I do?”
She laughed softly. “Just…you, with your candles.” She turned, sending a wave of bubbles over the lip of the tub.
“Hey! Watch it,” he protested with a laugh, swiping some of the bubbles back at her with his free hand. “What did I do?”
“Candles. Oil lamps and fireplaces, just like in the cabin.” She sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. Bubbles trailed down her forehead, and Ian caught them with his fingertips, brushing over her eyebrow.
“Your hair,” he said, moving his fingers to catch at the strands that fell back against her cheek. “Firelight brings out all these shades of gold and auburn. It’s like…a little bit of you shining through.”
She laughed again, throwing bubbles back at him, embarrassed at his extravagant words. “That’s awful.”
“I’m allowed to get poetic once in a while. It impresses juries.” He leaned in and kissed her without a care for how his shirt got soaked. The kiss warmed her more than the bath, sending tingles through her body. As she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, he pulled back enough to ask, “It didn’t impress you?”
“Not quite,” she teased. “You’ll have to try harder.”
“Let’s see about that.” He ran his fingers down between her breasts, bubbles tickling her skin until his hand dipped into the water. She felt her body relax under his touch, and she smiled, thinking the bathtub was big enough for two.
“Were you going to join me?” she invited hopefully.
“Mmm, not this time. I’m not done with the surprises.” His eyes lit up with a mischievous grin. “You relax. I’ll lay out your clothes on the bed, if you don’t mind?”
“My clothes—” Her face went hot as her imagination supplied images of lace and satin, things he couldn’t have bought en route from Canada. Oh, God, had he had his PA go shopping for lingerie for her? She’d strangle him—if she didn’t die of embarrassment first.
“Trust me.” He kissed the tip of her nose and got quickly out of reach. He was gone before she could demand answers.
She sank back into the tub with a groan, but the hot water and bubbles soothed her irritation. Ian was smart and caring. He knew how much she treasured her privacy. Maybe he’d ordered something online or over the phone, without involving anyone Cecily would ever have to meet.
So she allowed herself to relax and enjoy the bath until the water grew tepid. When she got out, she picked up one of the towels and found it warm to the touch. Leave it to Ian to have a heated towel rack in Manhattan. Laughing, she pulled the drain plug, dried off, and went into the bedroom.
To her surprise, instead of anything lacy or frilly, she found blue jeans, boots, and shirts meant to be layered. The bedroom door was closed, with a sticky note above the knob. Curious, she went to read it.
When you’re dressed, follow the trail to your surprise.
Delighted, she dressed quickly, trying to guess what he had in mind. He’d picked warm wool socks and a flannel shirt under a thick sweater. A late dinner on the balcony? She could probably manage that, even if the huge floor-to-ceiling windows were going to take some adjustment.
In the living room, she found no trace of Ian; instead, she found her parka and scarf arrayed on a chair near the door, along with another sticky note.
Come out to the hallway. Don’t worry about setting the alarm. The door will lock automatically.
Maybe they were going out somewhere. A hint of trepidation crept through her, but she dressed warmly, zipped up the parka, and went out into the hall.
There, she found another sticky note, this one on the emergency door at the end of the hall. The sign on the door warned that it was protected by an alarm, but the door was open, just a crack.
Come upstairs. Hide the note. Don’t let the door lock, or it will get very cold before morning.
“Sneaky bastard,” she muttered, grinning now, and pushed the door open. He’d crammed the latch full of crumpled paper held in place with a strip of duct tape, like a college student holding an illicit party in the dorm rooms.
Laughing, she went up the stairs two at a time, following the signs to the roof. She pushed the door open and saw the city, alive with lights, interrupted only by the darkness of the river on one side.
A flashlight guided her to where Ian, bundled warmly in his Canadian outerwear, had set up a picnic on a blanket. The wind stole Cecily’s laughter; Ian stole her breath with a kiss.
“You’re mad,” she accused, tears filling her eyes. She could barely see him in the darkness, but she knew he was grinning proudly down at her.
“Which makes you equally mad, since you’re here with me,” he said, guiding her down to the blanket. “Are you warm enough? No, scratch that. You lived in the wilderness; you’re fine.”
“Yes, I am, thanks for asking,” she said, nudging his shoulder. “I take it we’re not supposed to be up here?”
“I would never admit to knowing how to pick locks,” he declared. He turned the flashlight to shine into a brown paper grocery bag. “Sorry I didn’t have time to arrange a proper picnic. The closest I could get to a picnic basket was this or shoe boxes.”
“Looks like you’ll have to owe me.” She leaned against him, peering into the bag. She could see a bottle inside, and she heard the crinkling of wrappers. “Maybe the next one should be in summer.”
“Only if it’s somewhere other than the roof. It probably gets hot as hell up here. Aha! Not broken,” he said, putting down the flashlight so he could take out two fine champagne glasses wrapped in paper towels. He shoved the paper towels back into the bag and offered her the glasses.
Happiness filled her all the way down to her toes at how utterly ridiculous and charming this all was. “Are we having champagne and potato chips for dinner?”
He froze.
“Oh, my God. We are.”
“Pretzels, actually.” In the darkness, she could just barely make out his sheepish grin. “The potato chips were stale.”
She laughed as he opened the bottle of champagne. “You’re insane—Careful!” she yelped when he filled one glass to overflowing.
“Sorry,” he said, clearly lying, and set the bottle down. Instead of taking the glass, he lifted her hand and ducked his head, licking slowly, sensuously over her fingers. The heat of his mouth sent shivers through her, and she leaned down to steal a champagne-flavored kiss from his lips.
“Careful,” she whispered as the kiss broke.
“The night’s not done.” He filled the other glass without spilling any champagne, put the bottle aside, and took one of the glasses. “To you, Captain Cecily Knight, the strongest, most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”
“Ian—”
He touched a finger to her lips. “Not done yet. I’m a lawyer. I can’t resist a speech.”
Grateful for the darkness that hid her blush, she rolled her eyes and nipped his finger.
“Where was I? Strongest, most amazing… Oh, right.” His smile reappeared, this time warm and gentle. “To Cecily Knight, the only woman mad enough to put up with me at my worst, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be my best for her.”
Her breath caught. “Ian…”
This time, he silenced her with a kiss. “You let me into your world. You let me touch you—not just your body, but you. And I’ll never leave you, for as long as you’ll let me stay by your side.”
Even if she’d known what to say, she had no breath with which to speak. She lifted her hand to touch his face, and the skies around them caught fire in waves of color carried on muffled blasts of thunder, startling her for an instant. Shouts and honking horns filled the air.
“Happy New Year, love,” Ian whispered over the sound of fireworks and celebration. “Our first, but not our last.”
Tears spilled over her lashes as she looked up into his eyes. “Not our last,” she repeated and forgot all about the champagne as she pulled him down into a kiss.
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t exist without Cecily, Chris, Conor, and Nicole, who were right there with me for the early stages and answered my silly questions about life in Canada; and Jenny, Ray, Steph, and Summer, who held my hand during the tough rewrites. Leah believed in me and made my dream come true. At Sourcebooks, Deb and my editor, Cat, have given invaluable feedback and advice on making a pretty good story into a great romance. And I couldn’t have done any of it without my wonderful agent, Jen at Donald Maass, who’s gone above and beyond the call of duty to answer my questions, cheer me on, and save me when it felt like the plot hit a brick wall.
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the hot new series by Marie Harte
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For more Marie Harte, visit:
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Find My Way Home
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For more Michele Summers, visit:
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About the Author
Kara Braden believes in fighting fire with fire. As she spends her days in the desert outside P
hoenix, Arizona, she combats the heat with endless cups of hot coffee, setting her kitchen ablaze once or twice a week, and writing smoldering romance. Her hobbies include incessant reading and writing, video games, and hiking whenever it’s not too hot outside.