Snowbound Cinderella. Ruth Ryan Langan
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whole situation had the feeling of some fantasy gone awry. Maybe he really was losing it, and his imagination had taken over his senses.
To her credit she didn’t flinch or try to cover herself. With her hands on her hips she returned the stare. “Seen enough?” The words came from between clenched teeth. Had she been a cat, he thought, she’d have been hissing and spitting.
“You didn’t leave much for the imagination.” He nearly grinned before he caught himself. “But you might want to put on some clothes before you catch a chill.”
She turned away and stormed into the bedroom. Over her shoulder she called, “While I’m doing that, you can return your luggage to your car. Since I was here first, you’ll just have to leave and find yourself a lodge somewhere nearby.”
He walked to the window and stared morosely at the snowdrifts that were already up to the porch. “Sorry I can’t oblige you. I’m afraid we’re stuck with each other. At least for tonight.”
She came running, tying the sash of her robe as she did. Her frown was more pronounced. “What do you mean?”
“See for yourself.” He pointed. “Looks like we’re in the middle of a spring blizzard. Nobody’s going anywhere until it blows over.”
Like a child, she pressed her face to the window and peered out into the darkness. What she saw had her closing her eyes against the spurt of anger and frustration. Then, unwilling to believe what she’d seen, she walked to the front door and yanked it open. Snow blew in on a rush of bitter wind, nearly snatching the door from her grasp.
Ciara sighed with disgust. The last thing she wanted was to share this cabin for even one night with this stranger. With anyone. She wanted—needed desperately—to be alone.
With a shiver she leaned into the door, forcing it closed. For several seconds she stayed where she was, her forehead against the door, listening to the howling wind outside. Then, taking a deep breath she turned and crossed the room, determined to make the best of this intolerable situation.
“I’m sorry about— I don’t think I could have shot you.”
“Now there’s a comforting thought.”
She flushed. “I just thought I’d be alone up here.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Jace shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it carelessly over the back of the sofa. Then he crossed to the fireplace, piled several logs on the grate and added kindling, watching until a thin flame began licking along the bark. Next he rummaged through his duffel until he located the sack of groceries. “I’m going to make some coffee. Want some?”
“Thanks.” He moved so quickly that she found herself trapped between him and the counter in the kitchen area.
He felt the press of her body, but he didn’t show it. He kept his gaze deliberately averted. But in his mind’s eye he could still see the way she’d looked without the robe. It wasn’t something a man could easily forget.
“How long have you been here?” He measured coffee into the filter, then poured water and plugged in the coffeemaker.
“Since this morning.” Ciara brushed past him, annoyed by the little rush of heat as her body skimmed his. It was a body that was difficult to ignore. He had the taut, firm look of an athlete, with muscled arms and shoulders straining the sleeves of a charcoal sweater. She was a tall woman, yet he was taller easily by a head. Well over six feet. Thick auburn hair, with touches of gray at the temples, was badly in need of a trim. It fell in disarray over his collar.
Still tingling from the contact, she put as much distance as possible between them, settling herself on the sofa in front of the fire. “I got here before noon.”
“I didn’t see a car.” He searched through the cupboards until he located two mugs.
“Eden told me there was a small shed in back. I parked there.”
He nodded. “Something new, I guess. But then, I haven’t been here in years.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Out of the country. Do you take cream or sugar?”
“Just a pinch of sugar.” She watched as he moved efficiently around the kitchen, stashing eggs in the refrigerator, bread in the bread bin. He was obviously a man accustomed to being on his own and taking care of his own needs.
He filled two mugs with steaming coffee and carried them to the sofa. He handed one to her before settling himself beside her and stretching out his long legs toward the warmth of the fire. Until now, he hadn’t known how cold he was. Or how utterly weary. The long hours of traveling were beginning to take their toll.
She sipped. Sighed. “Umm. This coffee is fantastic.”
He tasted, then nodded his agreement. “I found it at a little store not far from the airport. I couldn’t believe they’d have fresh-ground coffee at such a place.”
“I guess you have been out of the country awhile.” She chuckled. “Everybody, including gas stations, is selling designer coffee.” She glanced over. “Where exactly have you been?”
“Here and there.” He shrugged, frowned, obviously annoyed by the question. “Where’s your home?”
It was apparent that he was a man who didn’t like to talk about himself. All right, Ciara thought. She’d play it his way, though most of the men she knew in her line of work loved nothing better than to go on and on about themselves and their accomplishments. “I live in California.”
“What part?”
Her voice unexpectedly lowered at the thought of the horrible scene she’d fled. Her impending wedding in two weeks to film star Brendan Swift had turned into a media circus. There had been a television crew on her doorstep. Another parked at the end of her drive. They’d trailed her for miles before she managed to lose them. “Malibu.”
The anger in her tone had him looking over at her. “You don’t care for it? I’ve always thought it was pretty country.”
“It can be pretty. I like the ocean. I just don’t always like—the storms. They can get downright mean.”
He had the idea she wasn’t talking about the weather. He stared down into his cup and felt the quick slice of pain as he remembered. “I know a little about storms.”
She was watching the fire, unaware that her voice took on an even harder edge. “I’ve ridden out a few of my own. But lately, I find myself sick of them.”
“Yeah. Well…” He drained his cup, stood. “I need to unpack and get some sleep.”
When he looked toward the master bedroom she shook her head, reading his mind. “I’ve already staked my claim on that room.”
“Is there another bedroom?”
She shrugged. “Not exactly a bedroom. But there’s a loft. I think there’s a bed up there.”
He glanced up, then without a word picked up his bags. As he did she spotted the sophisticated digital camera and laptop computer. An alarm went off in her mind. “Tell me, Jace Lockhart. Just what is it you were doing while you were traipsing…here and there?”
He settled the strap of the bag over his shoulder. “I reported on the world in crisis. The latest dictator’s madness. The latest terrorist bombings.”
“You’re a reporter?” She was suddenly on her feet, her hands twisting the sash of her robe with furious energy. This was slowly becoming her worst nightmare. Trapped in a cabin with a reporter.
He looked up, wondering what in the world had set her off. “That’s right. A TV reporter.”
Her tone hardened. “And you want me to believe you just arrived here tonight by accident, without any knowledge of the fact that I was here?”
He didn’t