One Snowbound Weekend.... Christy Lockhart
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in it.
She gave a soft sigh of relief. He might be angry, but he hadn’t shut her out completely. When he’d taken off her jeans, sensuality had arced between them. That gave her a glimmer of hope.
She’d always been a fighter, and more than once Shane had said he admired that about her. Well, he’d never seen her fight like this before. She wanted Shane’s love back, and she’d do anything to get it.
The only problem was, she didn’t know where to start because the enemy was inside her own head….
She wasn’t the only one with memory problems.
Shane shoved the bottle of aspirin back on the shelf in the kitchen and slammed the cupboard door.
Pivoting, he strode into the living room, Hardhat on his heels.
What the hell was Shane thinking, allowing his gaze to caress her the way his hands once had, forgetting the way she’d callously turned and run from their vows and commitment?
Oh, it was easy to forget, when all he could do was remember the way they’d talk and laugh, the way he shared his darkest secrets with her, her responses, soft and sensual, daring and demanding…her scent, perfume and shampoo mingling with feminine temptation…the feel of her yielding to his desires….
Having her pressed against him transported him back five years to a time he’d believed in love, and more, had actually taken a leap and trusted her with his heart.
Of all people, he should have realized that integrity didn’t exist in the female species. His mother had proved that, and so had Delilah.
He’d decided never to get involved with a woman again. That resolve had lasted until he’d seen Angie at her aunt Emma’s coffee shop. Angie had served him more than a drink—she’d served him sunshine and warmth, all with a bright smile. And the concrete encasing his heart had started to chip away.
He’d thought she was different, and when she’d married him, he’d known she was different.
Two months later, he’d learned his lesson. No woman, not even Angie, had integrity.
Grabbing his coat, he shrugged into it. He’d left the pile of wood outside, and if instinct proved right, it would only be a matter of time before the storm prevented him from going outside at all.
He opened the door and icy wind lashed at him, viciously chewing on his earlobes.
Suited his mood fine.
Hardhat tucked his tail between his legs and slunk back to the hearth. The dog might be a traitor, but he wasn’t dumb.
Needing an outlet for the emotional energy churning in his gut, Shane battled his way to the woodpile, grabbed an armload of split pine and hauled it through the snow.
He opened his eyes wide in the driving wind, trying to vanquish the image of light brown hair and haunted blue eyes. It didn’t help. He couldn’t get rid of her, no matter how hard he tried.
Her arrival on his doorstep—a place not easy to find—brought dozens of questions to mind, mainly, why was she here? Was his home her destination? And if it was, why?
The Dear John letter she’d left behind stated she didn’t want him to seek her out, said she never wanted to see him again, swore she’d never loved him. Their marriage had been a mistake, their love a lie.
His gut twisted as he remembered the pain, the disbelief, the grief that paralyzed.
He still hadn’t wanted to believe it, so he’d traveled to Chicago to seek her out. There, her father had set him straight, saying that Angie had grown up, realized she’d made a mistake in marrying a poor boy and begged her father to come and get her, bailing her out of her mistake.
Shoving aside the intrusive thoughts, Shane struggled back through the front door. He was determined to find out what the hell she wanted with him, what havoc she intended to wreak, and get her back out of his life.
After stacking the first load of wood in the storage closet, he went back for a second, then third, ignoring the soft sounds drifting from the master bathroom.
She was supposed to be asleep. Then again, she’d never been great at following orders, especially his.
By the fourth trip, he’d exhausted himself battling the elements. With the door bolted against the raging fury, her soft sounds became more difficult to ignore.
Water ran. Obviously she was drinking from the same glass he’d used earlier this morning, an intimacy a wife would automatically take.
He swallowed.
She thought they were still married.
He dropped his outer clothes near the door and strode to the fireplace, grabbing the poker and stabbing the embers. Hardhat barked a protest as metal slammed against concrete.
Squatting, Shane reached for a log and tossed it on the grate. It promised to be a long day, even longer evening with his ex-wife tucked between his sheets.
Three
She was the same woman, yet totally different.
Toward evening, he stood in the doorway, his shoulder propped against the jamb, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept…on his side of the bed.
Firelight from the living room flickered on her light brown hair. The strands sifted across the pillow, inviting his touch. “Angie?”
She didn’t respond.
He entered the room, his bare feet silent on the oak floor.
The comforter snuggled her body, tucked around her shoulders, and only her face peeked from beneath the warmth of down. Shane reached to shake her awake, but stopped, captivated by the light playing on her face.
The cut looked obscene against the paleness of her skin, and he’d do anything to take that ache away from her. No one deserved to be hurt like that.
Without thinking, he succumbed to temptation, feathering his fingers into her hair, letting the rumpled strands wind around his knuckles like he used to.
Before he could pull his hand back, her eyes flickered open. A slow smile slipped across her lips, and they parted in silent greeting. “Shane…” Reaching up, she stroked his hand, as if they were lovers. “Are you coming to bed?”
Instinct warned of danger. “No.” He loosened his grip on the silky lock of hair. No matter how tempting she was, no matter how he suddenly wanted to forget her desertion, he wouldn’t get tangled in her web. He’d done that once and it had cost him his heart. “I made you some soup.”
“Soup?”
“Chicken noodle. Figured it’s always good when you’re not feeling well.”
She blinked, as if remembering the last few hours. The welcome in her eyes and on her mouth faded. “Oh. I’d forgotten.” Her hand dropped away from his.
He shouldn’t want her touch, not when he intended to get her back out of his life. “I’ll bring it to you.” He returned to the kitchen, hoping he’d find sanity there.
Slamming drawers and cupboards, he ladled the warmed soup into a bowl, then piled everything on a tray, grabbing a box of Saltine crackers from the counter on the way back to his room.
She wiggled into a sitting position, the comforter peeling back to reveal that she was wearing one of his T-shirts. Old and faded, the white cotton conformed to her, and her breasts pushed against the fabric.
While he’d brought in the firewood, she’d been doing more than drinking a glass of water. She’d been undressing.
An image of their past flashed in his mind. When she’d slept in anything at all, it had been one of his T-shirts and nothing else.
And she would still think it was okay.