by Joan Wolf
BELOVED STRANGER
Joan Wolf
Chapter One
The snow was coming down harder and harder and Susan Morgan was beginning to worry. She had left the White Mountains ski lodge of a school friend a few hours earlier, when the snow had been light and flaky. Now, however, it was beginning to look like a blizzard, and she was afraid she had been foolish to insist upon leaving. She had been traveling the side roads; she decided she had better try to get over to 91 instead.
Half an hour later she knew she wouldn’t make it. She couldn’t see a foot in front of her and there had been no other cars on the road. “I’m the only one idiotic enough to come out in a blizzard,” she muttered as she hunched over the wheel of her old Volkswagen and tried to keep on the road. Two minutes later she slid into a ditch and the car stalled. She could not get it started again.
Susan could feel her stomach clench with fear. She tried the car one more time and got no response. “Well,” she said aloud, trying to be calm, “the choice is to sit here and freeze to death or to try and find help.” She did not want to get out of her car but chill was already beginning to set in and she knew she couldn’t stay. She leaned over to her suitcase in the backseat and fished out ski mittens, goggles, hat and scarf. She bundled herself up as warmly as she could and then resolutely stepped out into the raging storm.
She walked for twenty minutes without seeing a house, a car or a gas station. She had never been so cold in her entire twenty-one years. The only thing that kept her going was the thought of her mother. I can’t die, she kept repeating fiercely to herself. I can’t do that to Mother. Not after Sara.
When she was absolutely certain that she couldn’t walk another step, she saw the lights of a house at the top of the hill on her left. It took the last remnant of willpower to get her to the door. She leaned against it for a moment, summoning the strength to knock. When the door opened she almost fell into the room.
“Dios!” said a startled male voice.
Susan tried to say something but her face felt frozen. Her teeth were chattering like castanets. “All right,” the deep voice said practically, “first let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”
Susan’s fingers didn’t seem to be moving and so the stranger efficiently stripped her of hat, scarf, gloves, coat and one sweater. Her wool slacks below her jacket were caked with snow. He said, “Wait here,” disappeared for a minute and came back with a large terry-cloth bathrobe and a pair of wool socks. “Come over to the fire and let me check you for frostbite,” he said, and she followed on trembling legs.
“Can you get those slacks off?” he asked.
“I—I think so.” Her face and fingers were beginning to tingle and she managed to unzip her wet plaid slacks.
The stranger handed her the bathrobe. “Put that on and sit down,” he said matter-of-factly.
She did as he asked and he knelt to pull off her socks and inspect her toes. His hands felt very warm against her icy feet. He put the wool socks on her and looked up. “Let me see your hands.” She held her hands out and he took them in his own large warm ones and carefully inspected first one side and then the other.
“Another five minutes and you’d have been in trouble,” he said. “Sit right there and I’ll get you a glass of brandy.”
Susan huddled inside the warm robe, flexed her feet inside the warm socks, and slowly the feeling returned to her body. The brandy burned going down but she finished it all and then looked over at her rescuer and attempted a smile. “I don’t know how to thank you. I thought it was all over for me.”
“It almost was,” he said noncommittally, and reached over to feel her hands. “I’ll run you a bath. That should finish thawing you out. And then you can tell me what the devil you were doing wandering around in a blizzard.”
“I was being stupid,” she said bitterly. He gave her an assessing look before he went inside. In a minute she heard the sound of running water.
The bath was hot and wonderful and she could feel all her muscles relaxing. She stayed until the water began to cool off and then she got out. The collar of her turtleneck cotton jersey was wet and cold and she couldn’t stand the thought of putting it on again, so she put on only her bra and panties and wrapped the bathrobe firmly around her. It was enormous. She put the wool socks on her feet; they were enormous too. She looked in the medicine cabinet and found a comb with which she smoothed out her shoulder-length hair. Then she opened the bathroom door and went, with a little uneasiness, toward the living room. All she had noticed about her host before was that he was very tall and dark and that he had a deep, mellow speaking voice that seemed to hold the very faintest trace of an accent. She stepped into the living room. “That felt marvelous,” she said to the man who was sitting comfortably in front of the fire.
He turned at the sound of her voice and looked at her out of eyes that were very large and very brown. He saw a small girl, whose slenderness was almost comically swathed in the folds of his terry-cloth bathrobe. Her delicate face was framed by curtains of straight, pale brown hair. He grinned. “You look lost in that robe,” he said.
Susan smiled back. He had the darkest eyes she had ever seen, and the most beguiling smile. His teeth were very white against his warm olive skin. “I know,” she replied. “But all my things were wet.”
“We’ll hang them in front of the fire to dry tonight,” he said, and gestured. “Come over and sit down.”
He was sitting on one end of the worn, comfortable-looking sofa and she walked slowly across the room and seated herself on the other end. She tucked her legs under her, sedately arranged her robe and turned to look at him.
“Let me put another log on the fire,” he said, “and then you can tell me your story.” He stood up and went to get wood from the basket. Susan watched him silently. He was a splendid-looking man, in his middle to late twenties, tall and dark-haired, with glowing golden skin. The hips that were encased in a worn pair of jeans were slim but the shoulders under the plaid flannel shirt looked enormous.
He dropped the wood on the fire, poked it a few times and then came back to the sofa. He sat down where he had been before, turned to her and said, “Well?”
She sighed. “My name is Susan Morgan,” she began dutifully, “and I was staying with a college friend at her family’s ski lodge up in Franconia Notch. When I left this morning it was only snowing lightly. I had no idea it was going to get this bad.”
“You should have gotten off the road hours ago.”
“I know.” She looked embarrassed. “I was—kind of preoccupied and I didn’t really notice how heavy the snow was becoming.”
A look of faint amusement settled over his face. “Women,” he said. “They shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel of a car.”
Susan sat up a little straighter. “I was—thinking of something else,” she said defensively.
The amusement on his face deepened. “You must have been if you didn’t even notice a blizzard.”
Susan bit her lip. “Please don’t try to make me feel stupider than I do already. I can’t thank you enough for rescuing me.”
He shrugged. He had the widest shoulders she had ever seen. “De nada,” he said. “I am glad I was here.”
“Is this your lodge?” she asked curiously.
“No. I’m only renting it for a week.” He smiled at her, that unbelievable smile, and said softly, “My name is Ricardo.”
“Hello, Ricardo,” Susan said, and smiled back. It was impossible not to smile when he did, she thought. “You’re here all alone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She looked at him gravely and the large, incredible brown eyes looked back. Susan nodded her head. “It’s nice to be alone sometimes,” she said softly. “Th
at’s why I like cross-country skiing better than downhill.”
He looked interested. “I have never done cross-country.”
She smiled dreamily, her widely spaced gray eyes shimmering in the firelight. “It’s lovely. So quiet. Only the trees and the sound of the skis. All the rest is just beautiful white silence.”
“It does sound nice.” He looked suddenly a little rueful. “Sometimes it’s very hard to be alone, I find. I’ll have to try cross-country.”
“I’m sorry I barged in on you,” she said a little awkwardly.
“You I do not mind.” There was a note in his voice that made her breath catch suddenly. “Susan,” he said experimentally, trying her name as if it were a foreign word. “Are you warm now?” He reached over to feel her hand. His own was lean and brown and very hard.
Susan had never been this physically conscious of a man in her entire life. The touch of his hand had been like an electrical charge. She cleared her throat. “I’m fine,” she said. Then, feeling it necessary to say something, “Do you do a lot of skiing?”
He had removed his hand but he was now sitting halfway across the sofa. “When I get a chance, which is not often.” He grinned at her. “I have a boss who is paranoid about my getting hurt. And I do like downhill. I like the speed of it.”
A strand of straight dark hair had fallen over his forehead. She had a sudden urge to reach out and smooth it back. She retreated a little farther into her corner and searched for something else to say. Good manners forbade her asking him what his job was.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“If you’re having something.”
He got up from the sofa with the liquid grace of a dancer—or an athlete. She stared for a moment at the narrow outline of his hips in the low-slung jeans and then raised her face to his. “Some wine?” he asked softly.
“Okay.” Their eyes met and for the first time there was tension between them. He turned to go to the kitchen and Susan looked into the blazing fire. He returned with two glasses of red wine and handed her one. He sat down next to her and stretched out his legs.
“I think the snow is stopping,” he murmured as he sipped his wine.
“Is it? Good. I’m anxious to get to my mother’s. I only have a few more days before I’m due back at college.”
“Mmm?” he said deeply. His long lean body seemed perfectly relaxed. He was only inches away from her.
I should get up, Susan thought. She knew what was coming next. I should make it perfectly clear that I have no intention of falling into bed with him. But the fire was so drugging in its warmth; it made her feel so safe, so secure. She sipped her wine slowly and stared at the flames. When she finally turned, it was to find him watching her. He said nothing; neither did his eyes drop. They were filled with the light of the fire.
She gazed back, her small head tilted back, exposing her slender neck, her fine, shimmering hair spilling all around her shoulders. He slid his fingers into that hair. “It’s like a child’s,” he murmured softly. “So soft. So very fine.”
She drew back from him a little and he smiled at her, a lovely smile that quite turned her heart over. “Susan,” he said, “querida. You needn’t be afraid of me.” She was getting lost in his eyes. His hand moved down to caress her throat and she closed her own eyes. The smoky smell of the fire filled her nostrils.
The brandy and the wine ran warm in her veins. She had never felt this way before in her life. His hand slid down between the robe and touched her breast. Susan’s eyes flew open and he bent his head to kiss her.
It was as if she were drowning in sensation. The thought flashed across her mind: I must be crazy. I don’t even know this man. But his mouth on hers was warm and gentle, his body against hers was broad and strong. All sense of strangeness left her. His eyes were brilliant in the firelight. His arms around her felt very secure. He is so big, she thought, so warm. The touch of his fingers on her breast was exquisite. He kissed her again and she relaxed against him, her arms sliding around his chest with a naturalness that would have amazed her if she had been capable of rational thought. The flannel of his shirt was soft under her palms, but she could feel the hardness of muscle through the fabric. His mouth was hard now as well, demanding, urgent. Susan’s lips parted sweetly for him and one hand went up to caress the strong column of his neck.
The only light in the room was the glow given off by the fire, and when he laid Susan back against the cushions of the sofa and began to unbutton his shirt, she looked at him out of eyes that were wide and wondering. His skin was coppery in the glow of the firelight, his eyes dark with mystery and with promise. In that enchanted moment he seemed to her almost as a god, a strange and mythical being, enormous and overwhelming, before whose power she bent as a reed before the wind. But the feel of his warm brown body was very real against hers as was the growing, throbbing ache his touch was arousing deep inside her. The warm air from the fire was hot on her bare skin, the fabric of the sofa rough under her back. She held him close, all the length of her slim body pressed against him. Her mouth sought his again and a small whimper formed deep in her throat.
He heard the sound and pressed her back into the cushions of the sofa. Susan obeyed him blindly, seeking desperately for a release from the unbearably sweet ache he had wrought inside her.
“Dios!” The muffled exclamation from him came at the same time she felt a sharp shooting pain tear through her body. Her eyes flew open in shock and she tried to pull away, but he held her firmly. “It’ll be all right,” he muttered. “Hold on.” And then, mixed with the pain, came a flooding wave of pleasure that made her body shake and her fingers press deeply into his back. “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh.”
There was silence in the room, then a log cracked and fell on the fire and he raised his head to look down at her. “You were a virgin,” he said in an odd voice.
She felt sleepy and warm and peaceful. “Mmm,” she answered dreamily.
“But why?”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. She smiled up into his puzzled face. “I don’t know,” she said simply.
He had been watching her steadily, seriously, but now he smiled as well, a slow smile that was as intimate as his touch had been. “It was magic,” he said softly.
So he had felt that too. “Yes.” Her eyes were very heavy.
He picked her up as if she weighed scarcely anything. “You are falling asleep,” he said. “Come.” And he carried her into the bedroom, wrapped her once again in his bathrobe and tucked her under the covers. “Good night, querida,” he said. “Sleep well.”
* * * *
She awoke to the bright sun streaming in her bedroom window. It was ten-thirty according to her watch and with an exclamation of alarm she jumped out of bed. The snow had stopped and the world outside the window looked like a fairy tale. She walked into the living room rather tentatively, but Ricardo was gone. He had left her a note on the kitchen table. “The roads are plowed and I’ve gone to try to locate your car. Make yourself some breakfast.” There was no signature. She walked back into the living room. Her clothes were spread on several chairs in front of the fire. When she felt them, they were dry. She looked at the blanket and pillow on the couch and knew where he had spent the night.
She dressed and went back to the kitchen, made herself a cup of instant coffee and sat down at the table. She should be horrified with herself, she thought. She had just slept with a man she didn’t know, a man who was obviously anxious to see her on her way as quickly as he could. And yet she wasn’t sorry. It had been—as he had said himself—magic.
It wasn’t magic two hours later, however, when Ricardo returned. He brought a gust of cold air in the door with him and the grin he gave her was good-natured and slightly cocky. He stood by the door and stripped his gloves off. “We’ve got your car going,” he said.
“Oh good.” She walked slowly into the living room from the kitchen, trying to conceal her uneasiness. “H
ow did you know where to look for it?”
“Simple,” he replied. He came across the room, tracking snow all over the floor. “You said you were coming from the Notch and I knew you couldn’t have walked far. Not in that storm.” He unzipped his jacket. “It’s down at the garage in town. I’ll take you there after lunch.”
“Fine,” she replied quietly, “but I’m afraid there’s nothing to eat. You only have coffee and bread and butter.”
He fished in the capacious pocket of his jacket and brought out a small brown bag. “Ham and cheese.” He handed it to her. “You can make some sandwiches.”
She accepted the package. “All right.” He followed her into the kitchen, talking cheerfully about her car. She made the sandwiches, listening to him with half an ear and trying to deal with her own sense of shock. It was hard to believe that the tender lover of last night was the same person as this tall and obviously tough young man who was lounging carelessly at his ease, waiting for her to serve him. She put a sandwich in front of him. “I’m afraid there isn’t any mustard,” she said expressionlessly.
“I eat out,” he said, and bit into his bread with strong white teeth. “Where do you go to school?” he asked after half the sandwich was gone.
“Melford,” she answered, naming a very old and very prestigious women’s college.
“I see.” He looked amused. “And are you studying political science so you can change the world?”
She looked at him levelly. “No. I’m studying English literature.”
“Ah.” He started on the other half of his sandwich.
“What do you do?” she asked to turn the tables.
He regarded her reflectively as he chewed. Then he said easily, “I play baseball. For the New York Yankees.”
Her eyes widened and she put her coffee cup down. He had said his name was Ricardo. “You—you can’t be Rick Montoya?” she said breathlessly.
“I can be and I am,” he replied. He grinned at her engagingly. “You don’t follow baseball, I take it.”