Snowfire

by Heather Graham

  The logic couldn’t really touch her. She saw a glare, and then blackness. A glare again.…slowly fading. The blackness was closing in on her.

  She ran on through the snow. Her foot caught on something, and then she was plunging into the snow. Deep, deep into the endless, icy, horrible cold. Into the shattering white… and into the endless blackness.

  Dimly, she felt movement. She felt arms coming around her. She tried to blink. Her eyelids were so heavy. As if they were ice. Caked together.

  She managed to open them.

  She saw his eyes again. Deep, dark blue eyes. So dark they might have been obsidian, except that no one had eyes that dark. No, they were blue, and piercing, and condemning…

  He was holding her in his arms. He was carrying her.

  “No!” she managed to croak.

  “I should have left you there!” he swore violently.

  “I’ll leave, I promise!”

  “And how are you going to leave now? Honest to God, I should let you freeze! You were warned!”

  “No, no, you don’t—”

  “I told you not to come!”

  She shook her head, trying to remain conscious, trying to understand him, trying to make him understand her.

  “Look, I don’t know you!” she whispered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t—”

  “Oh, shut the hell up, will you?”

  The cap had moved back on his forehead. She could see his brows. They were high-arched, and ebony dark. And the scarf had slipped from his mouth. His jaw was square and firm, his cheeks lean and clean-shaven and strongly defined. His mouth was broad and generous; his teeth flashed white against his lips as he spoke.

  But when he wasn’t speaking … that mouth clamped down hard and firm, taut, grim, forbidding still. Terrifying. He was young. Not so young. Closer to forty than thirty.

  His eyes were on the path ahead of him. He carried her as easily as he might a bag of groceries, and he seemed to be giving her no attention. Then his eyes were suddenly on her again, cutting her to the heart, slicing into her like ice.

  “Why the hell did you run?”

  Her teeth were chattering furiously. She didn’t think she could answer him. “You—you were going to shoot me!”

  “What?” he said incredulously.

  “You were going to shoot me.”

  “With what?”

  “I saw you with a gun—”

  “You saw me with a shovel!”

  Then he was swearing again, telling her what a fool she was, and that she deserved pneumonia or whatever else she might receive from her outing. “And so help me, God, lady, I swear you won’t get a damned thing from me!”

  “I don’t want anything from you!” she cried.

  “Keep up the lies and I will dump you right back into the snow!”

  “Oh, will you listen to me, please? I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know who’s guilty of what, but I’m innocent, I swear…” Kristin began. But then it seemed that the snow filled her throat, and she couldn’t speak again.

  Her eyes were closing. She couldn’t fight the snow anymore. She couldn’t fight him.

  And she couldn’t fight the blackness anymore. It was a beautiful blackness. She was so cold, so horribly cold, but the blackness was still like a blanket of ice, wrapping around her, sheltering her, comforting her. It was easy to slip into it. Easy to welcome it. Easy to let the cold and the black take her away.

  It was just so blissful not to fight anymore.

  Her lashes lay still. Her eyes did not reopen.

  Justin reached the front door and tore it open. It blew out of his hands and nearly off its hinges. He looked up. The sky was dark. Deadly dark. And the wind was keening now. Raging like a woman, crying like a banshee.

  It had to be a nor’wester, careering out of Canada, sweeping them all by surprise. It was one of the most vicious storms he had seen in years.

  He managed to step inside and slam the door behind him. He stood in the hallway for a moment, stamping his feet, trying to shake some of the snow from himself and from the woman in his arms.

  He looked down at her face. It was white, almost as white as the snow. Little particles of ice seemed to have formed over the long heavy crescents of her sweeping lashes.

  “Little idiot,” he muttered. “I can’t believe what you people are willing to go through to get a story! I told you not to come, and yet here you are risking your fool life!”

  But she couldn’t hear him, he realized.

  Fool. He wanted to kill her, to throttle her, to shake some fury and some sense into her.

  She was out cold, and her body was nearly frozen. Her pulse was weak. He shook his head again in disgust, amazed that any reporter would risk so much for a story. Then it occurred to him that she might be suffering from frostbite.

  He had to warm her up.

  Then he could kill her.

  He carried her quickly into the huge porch that fronted the kitchen, laying her on the window seat. He discarded his hampering gloves and parka and set about removing her sodden red down jacket. He stared at her face again, and paused despite himself.

  She looked like some ridiculous fairy princess. She was ashen with the cold, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen more beautiful skin, fair and clear. Her mouth was well shaped, fully defined. Her lips were white now, too, but he was willing to bet that they would usually be a natural rosy red.

  She was wearing no makeup. She didn’t need any. Her lashes were so long and thick that they should have been illegal. And the whole of her face was a classic shape, something between a heart and an oval, wonderfully chiseled and clean and heart-stopping.

  He tightened his jaw in a sudden new fury, wondering just what the hell else she might have been willing to use to deal with him for a story.

  Idiot! According to most of the world, he was a murderer. What was the matter with her?

  He let out a single expletive, then told himself to get on with warming her up. He really would have liked to leave her in the snow, but he couldn’t. Because despite the opinion of the world, he wasn’t a murderer.

  She was soaked to the bone. She must have fallen in the snow a number of times. In front of the blazing fire, he stripped off her boots, her soaking socks, her jeans and her sweater.

  She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  Her shoulders and breasts echoed the perfection of her face. Her throat was long and lean, her collarbones elegant, her shoulders fine and her breasts neither heavy nor small, but firm and shapely and crested by wide dusky-rose nipples that were hardened with the cold. Her torso was lean, ribs sweetly curving to a very small waistline, her hips flaring beneath it. Not too much. Just right. Sensually. Sexily. And beneath the lace bikini panties she wore he could just see a hint of a soft triangle of hair as dark and sable sleek as the mane upon her head.

  He swore at her again, wondering why her beauty and perfection should so enrage him. Then he wrapped her in the afghan that lay by the window and cradled her in his arms to bring her as close to the fire as he could. Was she warm enough? he wondered. He chafed her feet, hoping against frostbite. Even her feet were exquisite. Not small, but slim, with neatly manicured toenails.

  She was still cold. Her feet were not warming at all.

  He carried her through the kitchen and dining room to the formal entry and then up the stairs to his huge bedroom suite. He passed through the sitting room to the bathroom. Still holding her, he turned on the water in the tub, making it hot enough to bring warmth quickly to her limbs, but not so hot that it would scorch her flesh.

  The water rose quickly, and he slipped her into it, careful to rest her shoulders and head upon the rim. It was a whirlpool big enough for two, but despite the fact that he was wet and cold himself, he didn’t think of joining her. He was growing worried that she might die on him. There was no way in hell to reach a hospital or a doctor—he couldn’t even call for help. His electricity was holding o
ut so far, but the phone had gone almost as soon as the storm started.

  Yet even as he sat by her side, watching that her shoulders didn’t slip, he began to see the color slowly creep back into her face. Her cheeks took on a soft blush. A natural rose came to her lips. He reached into the water and touched her foot, and found that it was warm. And her hands were warm and supple, too. Her nose was a little red with a windburn, but that was all, he was sure. She didn’t awaken in the water, but she seemed more comfortable. He touched her wrist and found that her pulse was much stronger than it had been. And the color coming back to her was definitely a good sign.

  He let out a shaky sigh of relief. No frostbite, no hypothermia. He touched her neck, and found that her pulse was now both regular and strong.

  He released her, and looked at her with renewed anger. “Innocent, my ass!” he said. “Well, Miss Innocence, you were so damned determined on this course. Let’s play it out. We’ll even do it your way. It will be interesting to see just what course you intend to follow now that you’ve made it into the house. You want to play dangerously. Okay, sweetie. Let’s play.”

  She moved slightly, a frown flitting over her beautiful brow. Then she was still again.

  He grabbed a towel and lifted her from the water, wrapped her in the towel. He carried her out to his bed, stripping away the comforter and sheet. He dried her, trying not to be aware of the feel of her bare breasts against his arms.

  Innocent.

  She was built like pure temptation, like every sin in hell.…

  With the angelic beauty of her face.

  Well, he had learned the hard way just what angelic beauty could hide.

  He laid her back, hardened his jaw and decided to strip away the bikini panties. Why leave her in that little wisp of lace? Wet lace.

  He eased the garment from her body. He meant to cover her instantly, but he didn’t. He stepped back. Her legs were long and wickedly shapely, her lashes swept her cheeks.…

  Her breasts … her hips … the flare of alluring darkness at the juncture of her thighs…

  Her face, her lips…

  Her breasts, her thighs…

  He shook the comforter viciously and sent it flying over her.

  It covered her face.

  Leave it that way, he told himself.

  No … she could smother.

  He smiled slowly, with a certain grimness, and a certain challenge. They were playing it her way. And it could be damned intriguing.

  He had been accused of murder once already, he thought bitterly. That was why she was here. He certainly didn’t want to make the charge viable by smothering one nosy little reporter.

  He pulled the comforter from her face and tucked it warmly around her.

  The heat was on, and still functioning. He had laid a fire for that night earlier. Now he went ahead and lit it, thinking that it might help.

  He walked back to the bed and stared down at her. Again the purity of her beauty struck him, and he found himself gently smoothing the still damp tendrils from her brow. He wondered how long she would remain unconscious. She seemed to be in a natural sleep now, breathing easily. And her pulse remained steady and strong.

  He turned away. He needed a hot shower himself. Then maybe he’d try to awaken her with a sip of brandy.

  She wanted to play.…

  Well, then, he thought, let the game begin.

  And yet, even as he stripped off his sodden clothing and stepped beneath the warmth of the shower that fronted the huge tub across the marble floor, he felt a trembling within him, and a hot, hard, nearly blinding flash of desire.

  It might well be a damned dangerous game for all involved.

  Damned dangerous.

  Chapter 2

  Kristin was so comfortable. Warm, comfortable. The bed she lay upon supported her firmly, but cradled her body in softness. It was nice, so, so nice. The sheets were smoothly clean and smelled like the spring, and the blanket was wonderfully warm. She was deep, deep in the dark recesses of a lazy, sleepy comfort, and she did not want to leave it behind.

  But she was awakening.

  She opened her eyes, just barely. The world before her was still black. She realized that the sleek sheets she lay upon were black silk.

  She didn’t own any black silk sheets.

  Neither did Roger and Sue.

  The day came rushing back to her in a sweep of awful memory.

  The flurries.

  The blizzard.

  The man. Oh God, the man!

  And now she was stretched out on black silk sheets.

  Where the hell was she?

  Her eyes widened, her fingers tensed on the pillow. Beyond the bed a Persian carpet in creams and mauves lay on a hardwood floor. Farther away she could see a handsome fireplace with a fire blazing brightly. It was a contemporary room, uncluttered, handsome in its combinations of warm wood, black and cream.

  A feeling of panic slowly began to overwhelm her. She didn’t know where she was. She stared at her fingers and they suddenly seemed very pale and very small against the black silk of the pillowcase. Pale, and vulnerable, and naked.…

  Naked.

  She realized that she could feel the silk against her flesh, all of her flesh.

  She was naked. In some strange bed.

  No, oh, no, oh, no…

  It wasn’t just a strange bed!

  It was the maniac’s bed!

  She jerked up, numbed, frightened, her teeth suddenly chattering despite the warmth. And then she gasped in astonishment and screamed.

  She wasn’t alone.

  He was in the room with her!

  He, the maniac…

  He was in the room with her, and she was stark naked on black sheets. He had been watching her sleep, watching her from the time her eyes began to open.

  “It’s all right, Miss—” he began.

  She screamed again. Grabbing the covers to her chest, she scooted back on the bed as far away from him as she could go without rising.

  “Hey!” he began again.

  “Don’t!” she cried, shimmying back even farther, her eyes wide with startled alarm. She tried to think coherently, but the only thing registering with her was a sense of sheer panic.

  “Oh, come on!” he snapped impatiently. “Would you please stop that? I’m not even near you!”

  Kristin realized then that he hadn’t moved, that he hadn’t really done anything that could be perceived as menacing.

  He was just sitting there. Apparently he had been reading while waiting for her to awaken. He was across the room from the bed, about ten feet from the fire, sitting in a black crushed leather chair. He was wearing black jeans and a soft flannel plaid shirt, like a logger. And for the first time, she was seeing him without ten tons of winter paraphernalia about him.

  He was still threatening though, she decided. He might not be making a single move, but he was very masculine-looking. Woodsy.

  Kind of like the big bad wolf.

  Her imagination was running wild, Kristin thought, determined to calm down.

  But it was very hard to do so when she was naked between black silk sheets and staring at a stranger.

  She tried to assess him rationally.

  He wasn’t as heavy as she had thought him. He was big, but built far more gracefully than she had imagined. His chest and shoulders were pleasantly broad, but he was leaner than he had previously seemed. And he didn’t look wild or maniacal in any way. His black hair was neatly combed back from his face, and his features were strong but finely cut, lean and angular—with a broad mouth, full lips, wide-set shrewd eyes and a long straight nose.

  He was really exceptionally good-looking, she thought with surprise. And as he stared at her and started to smile, she realized, too, that his smile was not without a certain charm.

  “You really are all right,” he said.

  “I’m all right?” she repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not all right!” she cri
ed. “I’m confused, I’m miserable, I’m wretched, I’m … naked!”

  His lashes swept down over his eyes, and she realized he was laughing at her. When he looked at her again, he was smiling. “Yes, that’s true. I’m sorry—”

  “Sorry!”

  Oh, he ought to be smiling, all right! Kristin decided with sudden fury. He was like a cat playing with a mouse.

  “If you just—” he began.

  “What the hell is going on here?” she demanded heatedly.

  His eyes darkened and narrowed. She reminded herself that even good-looking men could be maniacs, and this one still didn’t seem to be entirely sane.

  Except that if … if he had really intended to kill her or offer her definite harm, he could have done so already.

  Of course, she didn’t know exactly what had happened!

  He dropped his newspaper and leaned forward, his hands folded tautly as he stared into her eyes.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he repeated. “I should be asking you that. You came to my house, remember?”

  “I didn’t come to this room!”

  “Well, I was trying to explain things to you, but maybe you’re the one who ought to tell me, Miss…”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Your name, for starters.”

  “You don’t know it?” she demanded.

  “If I knew it, I wouldn’t be asking.”

  “Well, you act as if you know everything else!” she accused him.

  His fine hard jaw twisted at an angle. His blue eyes never left hers.

  “I don’t know your name. What is it?”

  It couldn’t hurt to answer that question, she decided, thinking quickly. She had to be careful. He was beginning to appear almost normal. And very attractive. She was still naked between his sheets, and very attractive and sensual men could still be maniacs. Just because this one was being a little more polite did not erase his previous behavior. And he was still looking at her with eyes cold and sharp enough to kill.

  It was snowing outside. And she was naked in his house. It suddenly seemed best to answer him.

  “Kristin. Kristin Kennedy,” she told him. When he moved, she started again. He looked at her, surprised, grinning slowly. She cleared her throat. “And if you don’t tell me what happened—”