Snowflakes and Silver Linings

by Cara Colter

  And with that firmly in mind, Casey grasped the handle of her suitcase and turned back to the inn with a certain grim determination. She plowed through the growing mounds of snow and marched up the steps onto the covered porch.

  Something wet and cold brushed the hand that held her car keys. Casey dropped them with a little shriek of surprise, then looked down to see Harper thrust a wet snout into her palm.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asked the dog.

  A deep voice, as sensual as the snow-filled night, came out of a darkened corner of the porch.

  “Keeping me company.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  CASEY SHRIEKED EVEN more loudly than she had when the dog had thrust its wet, cold snout into her hand.

  She dropped her suitcase from nerveless fingers, and it landed with a thump beside her keys. The suitcase was an old one with a hard shell, and to her horror, the latch popped and the lid flew open, displaying her neatly packed underthings.

  Right on top were embarrassingly lacy garments she would no longer be needing now that she had decided to move procreation into the controllable field of science, rather than the uncontrollable one of attraction.

  The dog shoved her head forward as if about to follow her instincts and retrieve.

  Casey squatted down and slammed the lid, nearly catching Harper’s snout. The dog whined, perplexed at being thwarted, then while Casey struggled with the sticky latch, she noticed the keys.

  “Harper,” Casey pleaded, “don’t—”

  With a happy thump of her tail, the dog scooped up the keys. Holding them in her mouth as gently as she would have a downed bird, she delivered them to the shadowy figure in the darkness of the porch, forcing Casey, finally, to look at him.

  Harper sat down, tail thumping, offering him the prize.

  “Keys,” he said, in the voice that played music on Casey’s harp.

  He took them, examined them, jingling them with a certain satisfaction.

  “To the chambers of a lovely maiden? What a good dog. So much better than a newspaper or slippers.”

  It was said with the ease of a man comfortable with his attraction, confident in how women reacted to him. Luckily for Casey, her guard was up. Way up. And luckily for her, she was intensely wary of men who were so smoothly sure of themselves!

  Gathering her composure—it was a test of the gods, after all—she straightened, turned and glared in his direction.

  His voice was deep and faintly sardonic. She tried to ignore the fact it felt as if his words had vibrated along the nape of her neck, as sensual as the scrape of fingertips.

  Turner Kennedy was sitting on the railing that surrounded the covered porch, one foot resting on the floor, the other up, swinging ever so slightly as he watched her.

  He had a cigarette in his hand, but it wasn’t lit.

  She detested men who smoked. Which was a good thing. Coupled with his flirtatious remark, and the fact he had scared her nearly to death, Turner was at strike three already, and she had shared the porch with him for barely fifteen seconds.

  Still, a part of her insisted on remembering he had not smoked back then.

  Good grief! It had been years ago. He hadn’t smoked then, but they were both different people by now! She had been tried, tested and spit out by life since then. Plus she wasn’t a callow, stars-in-her-eyes girl any longer. She was a respected member of an important research team.

  How long had he been there? Had he seen her exit the inn with determination, stumble through the darkness, put her key in the car door, only to come back with just as much determination?

  Casey wanted to escape, dash in the front door of the Gingerbread Inn without another word. Over her shoulder she could give instructions for him to leave her keys on the table on the front entryway.

  But that was childish. And that was not why she had come back. Her responses to him seemed very primal—flight or fight.

  She was going to have to see him sometime. She was rattled, but she was not letting that show! She was ready to fight!

  She had run from him once tonight, and she was not doing it again. Casey ignored the hammering of her heart and forced down her clamoring insecurities. She crossed the distance between them with all the confidence of the successful, purposeful woman she had become since their last meeting.

  This was an opportunity to face her demons head-on. To rid herself of the pull of such men, so that she could be a better mother. Her own mother would say that such a coincidence was heaven sent, though as a scientist Casey didn’t believe in such things.

  Smiling faintly, Turner watched her come.

  He had been exceptional looking all those years ago: dark-chocolate hair, eyes the color of pewter, high proud cheekbones, straight nose, strong chin, sensual full lips. Now, he had matured into something even finer.

  Though the night was frosty, his jacket was hanging over the railing beside him. Underneath a beautifully tailored dress shirt—a deep shade of walnut that set off the silver of his eyes—his shoulders were unbelievably broad, his chest deep. Casey could tell there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him. The shirt was open at the throat and he had rolled up the sleeves to just below his elbows. His forearms were corded with strength.

  She could actually feel some masculine power heat the cool air around him as he gazed at her, that smile lifting one corner of his sexy mouth. He was a man who was way too sure of himself.

  “Just keys,” she said, “to an ordinary room. Not a suite at the Waldorf.” She held out her hand for them.

  * * *

  The Waldorf Astoria with Casey Caravetta. When Turner had been lured here by the promise of endless ice, he hadn’t really thought of that.

  Of who else might be here. He certainly had not thought she would be.

  Casey had been a bridesmaid at Emily and Cole’s wedding. Turner had been the best man. Unknown to anyone, even his best friend, he had been on countdown.

  The newly formed and top secret Tango unit had been shipping out on their first mission four days after the wedding.

  Maybe it had been that heightened awareness that had made him see Casey in an entirely different light than he usually would have.

  They had spent the night of the wedding together—and not in the way he was used to spending nights with young women. She wasn’t, after all, his regular kind of girl.

  She had been almost comically uptight at first. Geeky and sweet. With just the tiniest nudge, she had poured out her heart to him. Her walls had come down and revealed a young woman who was brilliant and funny and deep. And damaged by life.

  He’d found himself unable to say good-night, and feeling compelled to give her something. A break from herself—from the rigid control she exercised over herself. He wanted her to have some carefree, no-strings-attached fun, a taste of the life-lit-from-within intensity that predeployment was making him feel.

  He’d had the means to do it. Settlements from his father’s death had left him with a whole pile of money that he wanted to get rid of. What if he used it to do something good?

  He’d had four days before he flew off to an uncertain future. Everyone who signed up for Tango knew they were in for highly dangerous work. With no guarantee they were ever coming back.

  It had been like adopting a little sister.

  Except, before the days had come to an end, he had not been feeling very brotherly toward her. Looking at her now, he could remember jumping on the bed at the Waldorf, and painting her toenails, and laughing until his stomach hurt. He could remember the feel of her hand in his, the light that had shone, wondrous, in her eyes, the break from a self-imposed discipline that had made him crush the fullness of her lips beneath his own on the final night....

  * * *

  As Case
y watched recognition darken Turner’s eyes, his smile faded. But not before she had noted teeth that were as white as the snow that fell around them. They drew Casey’s gaze, unwillingly, to the sinful sexiness of that mouth.

  But it was not the smile she remembered. The one she recalled had been boyish and open. Now, despite his flirtatious tone, and the faint smile, she could see something ever so subtly guarded in him.

  She met his eyes, and again noted a change. The once clear gray held shadows, like frozen water reflecting storm clouds.

  She frowned. Her memory, from those days together after Cole and Emily’s wedding, was of eyes that sparked with carefree mischief.

  Turner’s eyebrows edged up. He threw the cigarette away and got down off the railing.

  He reached out with his right hand and touched, ever so lightly, the hollow of her throat.

  “I did scare you,” he said apologetically. “Your heart is beating like that of a doe trapped against a fence by wolves.”

  More like a deer in the headlights, because though she ordered herself to slap his hand away, she stood absolutely paralyzed by his touch. His fingers radiated a stunningly sensual warmth on the cold of her neck.

  Still, by sheer force of will, she managed to keep her expression neutral. Better he think her heart was pounding like that from being startled, rather than from seeing him again.

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure which it was, especially with his merest touch causing a riot of sensation within her. Which it was best he not know about, as well!

  So, telling herself it was completely her choice, Casey didn’t move, not even when his hand drifted briefly to her hair and rested there for a deliciously suspended moment in time.

  “Casey Caravetta,” he said, his voice gruff, his hand dropping away. “No, wait. I’m sure I heard it was Dr. Caravetta now. Congratulations.”

  How was it that he had heard things about her when she had heard nothing about him? Not even a whisper.

  She felt just like that young bridesmaid again. The geeky girl who had been noticed by the most amazingly attractive man she had ever laid eyes on.

  His touch on the pulse at her throat had been soft, hardly a touch at all. Why did it feel as if a mark were burned into her skin?

  This was what she was fighting, Casey reminded herself. And really, she was armed with the knowledge now that it was nothing but chemistry: serotonin, oxytocin, adrenaline, dopamine, a system flooded with intoxication. Attraction was the pure and simple science of a brain wired to recreate the human race, but of course, it was way more palpable to people if it disguised itself as romance. She was a scientist; she should know better. She was a scientist and science had provided more convenient ways to have children.

  But somehow it was not a scientist that watched as Turner ran his hand through his thick, glossy hair. Snow had melted in it, and little drops flew off as he did so.

  She never looked away from him, and was astounded again at the stern lines that bracketed a mouth she remembered quirking upward with good humor and boyish charm.

  She had to gain control of herself! She had to remind herself—and him—about the painful past between them.

  “Are you just going to pretend you didn’t ditch me at the Waldorf Astoria?” she asked. She hoped for a cool note, but could hear her own fury.

  “I didn’t ditch you,” he said, genuinely perplexed. “You always knew I was going. I told you right from the beginning—three days.”

  “And on the morning of the fourth day, I woke up in that huge suite by myself! You didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye.”

  His eyes rested on her lips. “I said it the night before.” His voice was like gravel. Was it remembrance of that final kiss—the leashed passion in it—causing that slightly hoarse note?

  “Humph.” Did she have to sound like a disgruntled schoolmarm?

  “It’s not as if we were parting lovers, Casey. You were innocent then, and despite the showy underwear—”

  He had seen! Casey could only pray the darkness of the porch would hide the fact her cheeks probably matched the underwear at the moment!

  “—I bet not much has changed. I take back the remark about keys and chambers. Sheesh. I feel like I’ve propositioned a nun.”

  She flinched, and he jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean that I don’t find you—”

  “Stop!” she said. She did not want to hear all the reasons why she was not the girl for him. He’d already made that more than plain.

  “I wasn’t offended,” she said quickly, her tone deliberately icy. Well, maybe she was. A little. But he certainly didn’t have to know that. “I’m just a little sensitive on the topic of nuns right now.”

  His lips twitched. “That hasn’t changed. You have this way of saying things that is refreshing and funny.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny,” she said, annoyed.

  Her annoyance had the unfortunate effect of deepening his amusement.

  “I know you weren’t trying to be funny, but that’s part of what makes it so. I mean, who is sensitive on the topic of nuns? Right now? It would be like me saying, ‘I’m sensitive to the topic of Attila the Hun. Right now.’”

  “The comparison only works if I mentioned Attila the Hun in reference to you. Which I didn’t.”

  Rather than getting her point, he deepened his smile.

  “Dr. Caravetta,” he said, “you are funny, even if unintentionally. And brilliant. So, what makes you sensitive to the topic of nuns? Right now?”

  His lips were twitching, but his own amusement seemed to catch him off guard, as if he was not easily amused by much anymore. Was that why he contained it before it fully bloomed, or was it because he caught on she was not sharing his amusement?

  “It’s a long story, and one I am not prepared to go into in the middle of the night.” Or ever.

  “Okay,” he said. “Just to set the record straight, I wouldn’t have made that crack about the key to your chambers if I’d known it was you. Really. It feels as if you’re my best friend’s little sister.”

  “Which I am not! I’m not even remotely related to Cole.”

  “Logically, I know that. At a different level, you have this quality of innocence that makes me feel protective of you. Even after a glimpse of the flashy underwear. I mean you are, by your own admission, the kind of girl who is sensitive to nuns.”

  Flashy underwear? Protective of her? Little sister? Casey was being flooded with fight-or-flight chemistry again, because she had a very uncharacteristic desire to smack that smirk right off his face!

  Her memories of those days together were of electricity, of feeling like a woman for the first time in her life. Of acknowledging a deep and primal hunger within her that only one thing would fill. Her memories of those days were of being on fire with wanting.

  For him. For this man.

  Who probably set off that very same chemical reaction in every single female he came in contact with!

  But for the entire three days they had spent together, he had stopped short, way short, of anything that would have fulfilled that wanting. Yes, they had kissed on that final night—the memory made it feel as if that pulse in her throat was hammering harder—but he, not she, had put on the brakes. It was Turner who had sent her into the other bedroom, on those rare occasions when they had given in and slept.

  She felt they had connected so deeply on so many levels.

  She had been convinced at a soul level.

  While he’d been thinking it felt as if she was his best friend’s little sister!

  No wonder, with the dawn of the fourth day, he had disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.

  Now, as well as seeing her as his best friend’s little siste
r, he was going to think of nuns when he saw her? Which, of course, was better than him thinking of flashy underwear. Wasn’t it?

  “Don’t act as if you know anything about me on the basis of three days of acquaintance,” Casey said tightly, “because you don’t.”

  If he mentioned the underwear, she was going to die.

  Of course he mentioned the underwear.

  “But I do,” he said softly. “I know that, despite the undies, the only thing wild about you is your hair. Or at least it used to be.” He lifted his hand as if he was going to touch her again, and then drove it into his pocket instead. “Now it’s not even that.”

  “I’ll repeat,” she said, with a coolness she was far from feeling, “you don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know I liked your hair better the way it used to be.”

  “That’s about you,” she pointed out. “What you like.”

  “You’re right,” he said, cocking his head, considering her. “I am an accurate representative of the colossal self-centeredness of the male beast.”

  It seemed to her that her underwear should have intrigued a healthy male beast, at the very least, not been dismissed out of hand!

  “But those curls,” he added, mournfully. “It was as if a gypsy dancer was trapped inside of you, champing to get out.”

  It was still faintly dismissive, as if he found her funny rather than sexy. He, the one who had touched his lips to hers, and very nearly set that gypsy free!

  But, thank goodness, he hadn’t unleashed that family legacy of passion in her. Still, the silly girl in her who wanted to preen at his admiration of her hair had to be quashed. Immediately.

  So did the gypsy inside her who had, after all, chosen that underwear, and who knew exactly how to erase little sisters and nuns from his mind in association with her.

  An insane image materialized in her brain. Of her shocking him. Of her being the kind of woman who could pull off sexy red lace. Of her taking one step forward, capturing his lips, kissing him until he was begging her not to stop, but to go on.