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A Christmas Cowboy
Suzannah Davis
All I Want For Christmas… Mac Mahoney was in deep trouble. The hard-nosed reporter had foolishly gotten snowed in with his ex-girlfriend Marisa Rourke. Now they had to ignore the sizzle that still flared between them. And to make matters worse, her five-year-old was somehow convinced Mac was the daddy he'd ordered from Santa.Is a Daddy Considering their complicated - and extremely seductive - past, Mac was the last person Marisa wanted to meet under the mistletoe. He claimed all he wanted from her was a story, but she knew from experience that she couldn't quite trust him. How could she risk breaking her heart - or her son's - again?
A Christmas Cowboy
Suzannah Davis
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Brian, Jill and Brad
Special Thanks to A Martinez and the cast and crew of “Santa Barbara”
Contents
One (#u97ae3a4e-0b59-58e9-88a1-920a76bc8ba3)
Two (#u4370f48f-ab04-54d1-a1c4-9f96a3b110f4)
Three (#u7e1b374b-68a9-5f75-9e9d-731563d90190)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
One
Could a mother be charged with kidnapping her own son?
With a cry of frustration and fear, Marisa Rourke gave up her futile attempts to start a fire in the rustic hunting lodge’s massive stone fireplace. A kerosene lantern illuminated the small figure asleep in a pile of blankets on the old leather sofa. Bending over him, Marisa stroked her five-year-old son’s straight sandy hair. The golden tint was identical to her own, a happy coincidence of Nicky’s adoption.
To her relief, his cheeks were warm and his breathing deep and easy. Love flooded Marisa, a feeling so powerful she had to close her eyes. It was followed immediately by a surge of fierce protectiveness. Nicky was hers. Hers. And no one was going to take him away from her!
But how long before hypothermia became a threat to a small child? Outside, the December blizzard of the century had blown down all the power lines crossing the California High Sierras, and now the emergency generator refused to crank, giving the spacious, two-story log dwelling with its wide banks of wraparound porches all the characteristics of an icebox. Since cowboys were Nicky’s latest obsession, bedding down in front of the fireplace like ranch hands sleeping around a campfire had suited him just fine. In fact, so far, Nicky Latimore had found everything about this unexpected adventure with his mother perfectly charming.
Marisa wished her own feelings were as uncomplicated. A week ago, her life had been...well, if not exactly perfect, at least contented. Despite her industrialist husband’s death in a car accident three years ago, she was managing, juggling her booming acting career as Dinah Dillman on “Time Won’t Tell,” TV’s most popular daytime drama, and her duties as spokesperson for the Adopt-a-Child Foundation with the demands and joys of single parenthood. Until reporter Marcus Craig “Mac” Mahoney had bulled his way back into her life.
Even after ten years, she hadn’t been ready. Tall, sable-haired, everything about the tough investigative journalist from his changeable hazel green eyes to his ex-boxer’s physique had been so familiar Marisa could have wept. Instead, Mac’s scandalous accusations during the “Jackie Horton Live” television talk show regarding the illegal adoption racket of Dr. Franco Morris had turned her into a desperate runaway.
Again.
Shaking off a chill that bit deeper than the outside temperature, Marisa tucked Nicky’s blankets closer, reliving her panic upon learning that Elsie Powers, a Louisiana native now living in nearby Riverside, was claiming the good doctor had stolen her infant son—stolen Nicky!—under false pretenses and emotional duress. And Elsie wanted him back.
That’s why Marisa had run, escaping from Los Angeles with her child in her housekeeper’s anonymous sedan, leaving behind the paparazzi, her agent, her lawyers and the police. Like a wounded animal, she’d come to ground in the same secluded mountain hideaway that had been her sanctuary the last time Mac Mahoney had shattered her world. Only this time, there was even more at stake.
With a shudder of apprehension, Marisa swung a quilt around her shoulders and went back to work on the obstinate fire. Outside, the wind howled.
It was the wind, wasn’t it? Straightening, Marisa listened hard. Something was different, she realized. Had the tenor of that inhuman wailing changed somehow? She thought uneasily about wolves, then wrenched her galloping imagination back under control. She and Nicky were safe inside the lodge—except perhaps from frostbite if she didn’t get the fire going! There was no reason to fear—
A thump sounded on the porch, and Marisa surged to her feet. A three-sided balcony opening onto the second-floor bedrooms overlooked the large den, the base of its staircase spilling into the foyer at the front of the lodge. From her vantage in front of the fireplace, Marisa could see directly into the shadowy hall. Something struck the front door, making it vibrate on its hinges. Her heart leapt to her throat. With a quick glance at Nicky’s sleeping form, she gathered her courage, picked up the heavy cast-iron poker from the hearth and went to investigate.
The moment she reached the door, it rattled violently again, and she jumped back in alarm. What kind of animal would attack a human stronghold? And then she heard it: faint, wind-whipped echoes above the banshee scream of air. No wolf ever sounded like that—except the two-legged kind!
Warily, Marisa peeked through the heavy curtain covering the window beside the front door. The movement drew the attention of the snow-covered figure on the porch. A ferocious face glazed with ice and snow glared at her from the depths of a parka’s fur-lined hood. “Dammit, Marisa, open up!” he roared. “I’m freezing!”
The blood drained from her face.
Mac.
* * *
He was mad as hell and getting angrier by the minute.
Raising his gloved fist, Mac Mahoney pounded on the lodge door again. Half-blinded by driving sleet, lungs seared by the frigid wind, feet numb inside his boots after a mile-long trek from where his Jeep sat bogged in a snowbank, he was in no mood for any of Marisa Rourke’s foolishness. By God, the woman had already caused him enough trouble to last a lifetime!
The door creaked open a bare two inches. “Go away!”
He caught it just before it clicked shut in his face. Now he was furious. Shoving his shoulder against the door like a linebacker, he felt the momentary resistance of her weight on the other side, then he barreled through, flinging it wide open. A mountaineer reaching the summit of Mount Everest couldn’t have been more triumphant. Until he saw the poker.
“Hey!” He ducked the blow she aimed at his head.
“Get out!”
“Are you nuts?“
“Not crazy enough to tolerate the likes of you.“ Bundled in turtleneck and Scandinavian sweater, Marisa threw back her shoulder-length hair and glared at him, her eyes like blue ice. Snow laced with sleet blew in through the open doorway. “Get the hell out.”
Exasperated, Mac shoved back the hood of his green, multipocketed parka, wiping ice crystals from his dark eyebrows. “It’s snowing like the devil out there!”
“I don’t care if you fall off a glacier.” The knuckles of her hand grasping the poker turned white. “I’m warning you....”
Mac couldn’t help it. He laughed. Until the swipe she took at him caught him sharply on the top of the shoulder. Enraged, Mac sprang, catching her wrist and pinning her against the wall.
“Drop it!” The padding of his thick parka had saved him from major damage, but he spoke through teeth gritted with pain. Stubbornly she held on to the poker, her angry breaths pushing her breasts against his chest. The air was charged with the smell of snow and fury.
“You aren’t welcome here, Mahoney. Get it?”
“I didn’t spend the past hour slogging uphill on foot in this mess to freeze to death. Let go.” He squeezed harder.
She gave a cry, and her hand opened. The heavy poker clanged to the floor. Without releasing her, Mac kicked the front door shut. After the scream of the wind, the near silence was deafening. Her eyes glittered. “You are such a bastard.”
“So I’m told.” Showing his teeth, he leaned in closer. Even through his sodden, bulky clothing, he could feel her heat, smell the intoxicating scent of her perfume. His belly clenched in response, and the unwelcome sensation made him furious all over again. “So be warned. You try anything like that again, I won’t be so forgiving.”
Her lip curled, showing clearly what she thought of the quality of his mercy. “What are you doing here?”
“Better question, what are you?”
“I—” Her lashes lowered. “Vacationing.”
“Huh. More like running away. Again.” His mouth twisted in contempt. He released her and stepped back to strip out of his wet coat. “That’s always been your answer to everything, hasn’t it, Marisa?”
Her expression wavered.
Guilty, Mac thought. She’s guilty as hell.
He cast a glance at the shadowy interior of the lodge—heavy wood-and-stone construction, oversize furnishings, the requisite Indian blankets and antler trophies strategically positioned on the log walls. The masculine environment was at odds with Marisa’s slender femininity.
“So this is where you disappeared to ten years ago. Quite an interesting choice of refuge for a poor little rich girl, isn’t it?”
Her chin came up. “Save your insults, Mahoney. You don’t know anything about me—you never did! How did you find me?”
“Just played a hunch. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out you’d seek sanctuary at your Uncle Paul’s.”
“You didn’t figure it out before.”
His look was steady. “I didn’t try.” God, the satisfaction of saying that! After all these years with the acid eating away at his gut, to be able to tell her that her leaving him hadn’t meant a thing, that he’d picked up his life and gone on without missing a beat. If it were only true...
Mac tossed his parka and his soaked gloves aside, then massaged the tender lump swelling on his shoulder beneath his thermal underwear and plaid flannel shirt.
“Did Paul come with you?” he asked abruptly. As he recalled, Paul Willis was a garrulous old codger, a longtime travel writer who’d been a favorite friend of Marisa’s, as well as her godfather, during her teen years, when her well-to-do yachting parents had been out gallivanting around the world.
“He’s in India.”
“Too bad. I would have enjoyed seeing him again.”
Rubbing her bruised wrist, she gave him a hostile glare. “Cut the small talk. What do you really want?”
“Answers.”
“Crawl back under your rock, Mahoney. I don’t owe you anything.”
“Wrong. The way I see it, I’ve got ten years’ worth of explanations coming to me. I’ll settle for some straight talk about this Dr. Morris situation.”
“There is no ‘situation,’ except in your feeble brain!” she hissed.
“Let’s get one thing clear. You aren’t cheating me out of an ending this time around.”
Her gaze turned wary. “What do you mean?”
“I’m offering you a chance to tell your side of the story. Why else would I have tracked you to the back of beyond? A good journalist never lets a scoop slip out of his hands if he can help it, right?” His grin was cocky. “Besides, this black-market-baby story is just what I need to clinch a big contract with Independent News Network. So there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you blow my chances by disappearing on me again.”
“That’s what this vendetta is all about? About you? You son of a—” With an inarticulate cry of outrage, she launched herself at him again, fingers curled into punishing claws.
Mac grunted, fending her off, and finally grabbed her wrists and twisted them behind her back so that she arched against him. “My God! What’s the matter with you, woman?”
Panting, impotent, held fast against his bulk, she glared her hatred. “You have to ask? Using an innocent child for your own ends. You insensitive, selfish clod! Why can’t you leave us alone?”
Mac tightened his hold, looking down into her eyes. “Because I always finish what I start, Marisa. Or have you forgotten?”
“Go to hell!”
He laughed. “Sorry, no can do. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got ourselves a prime piece of the Polar Express roaring down outside. No one’s going anywhere anytime soon, not unless they’ve got suicide in mind. I guess you’re stuck with me.”
“What? No!” Panic flickered in her eyes.
“What’s the problem?” Holding both her wrists in one hand, he brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “As I recall, we once loved being alone together.”
She choked. “You—”
He caught her chin in the crook of his hand, forcing her face up to his. His mouth hovered over hers, tantalizing, insulting. “Maybe you’ve forgotten other things, too, princess. Like how you used to sigh and moan in my arms. Like how we felt when we were a part of each other.”
She trembled against him, color rolling over her cheekbones, the pulse at her temple throbbing. “Mac, no...”
“I haven’t forgotten, Marisa.” He bent closer, his eyes hooded. “I haven’t.”
“Mommy?”
Mac jerked and released her. Marisa pushed past him, going down on her knees beside the small, towheaded boy in rumpled Snoopy sweats and droopy socks. She gathered the child into her arms and pressed her flushed cheek against his, reciting a soothing litany. “Nicky, I’m sorry! Did I wake you up? Everything’s all right, honey.”
Wide-eyed with amazement, Nicky looked Mac over from head to heels. “Mommy, you found a cowboy!”
Mac couldn’t prevent a snort. He’d been called a lot of things, but this was a new one. “Sorry, pal. I’m a city boy from New Jersey.”
“You got boots.” Nicky’s tone was accusatory.
Mac glanced down at his old Ropers. “Yeah, well, fat lot of good they did me—my toes are frozen.”
“No more than you deserve for poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.” Marisa scooped up Nicky and held him protectively, as fierce as a lioness defending her cub. “It’s cold, Nicky. You have to get back under the covers.”
As if in response to her words, a huge shudder shook Mac. “Jeez, you’re right. It’s as cold as the devil in here. Why haven’t you got a fire going?”
She didn’t answer, but her expression was mutinous. After carrying the youngster back into the den, she settled him into a nest of blankets on the sofa. Bringing up the rear, Mac noticed the pile of spent matches and scorched kindling in the fireplace, and he laughed again.
“I see your trouble. Good thing I showed up, huh, Marisa? From the looks of things, you could use some help.”
“Not yours.” Her tone was scathing.
