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She shrugged a shoulder. “My residence and my mode of transportation are trashed,” she said, worry bubbling again. “Not to mention my brother has a brutal ‘I told you so.’”
“Is that where I’m taking you?”
On a sigh, Poppy nodded, then she reached for the door herself, and pulled it open. At the blast of hail-laden wind, she staggered back, only to be bolstered by Ryan’s bigger body. Whatever he said was inaudible over the sounds of the storm, but she plowed forward, his steadying hand on her shoulder.
Pebbles of frozen rain peppered her head and face as they fought their way toward his SUV. An unholy howl made her start as a new gust of wind wound its way through the trees. Both she and Ryan glanced upward, and then he pulled her into his embrace, her face pressed against his wet coat, protecting her as a flurry of small branches and leaves whipped around them.
“We’d better run!” Ryan said against her ear, then he gripped her hand in his and they raced toward the passenger side of his SUV. He tucked her inside and threw the suitcases on the backseat. As soon as Grimm had jumped aboard, Ryan made his way around the front.
Once behind the wheel, he drew off his stocking cap and scraped his hand down his wet face. “Are you sure you want to go out in this?”
“The other cabins are uninhabitable as yet and it’s not as if I can strike a tent on the ground in this weather,” she said, as the wind rocked the vehicle. “What else can I do?”
He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of what he was about to say and pressed a button to start the SUV’s engine. The dashboard came to life, with switches and dials and a touch screen the size of a paperback lighting up. She goggled, wondering if the vehicle could fly through the air or move underwater like a submarine. But now it was on wheels like a regular automobile and soon they were traversing the four miles to the highway, going slowly as they both tried peering through the windshield. The wipers worked madly against the onslaught of the hail and the headlights illuminated the blacktop littered with leaves, pinecones and fallen branches.
The heater blasted warmth, but Poppy still shivered, taking in the ominous conditions. “Are you going to be all right in your cabin?” she said to Ryan.
He didn’t spare her a glance. “I don’t think your brother would welcome me, too, would he?”
Brett didn’t have a kind word for anyone, not since he’d returned home, scarred in places you could and couldn’t see. Poppy rummaged through her purse, peering into the dark cavern of it for paper and pen so she could give Ryan her cell phone number. “I’ll return tomorrow to assess the damage—and I hope with somebody who can fix the worst of it.” Yes, she very much hoped her small cushion of cash was going to cover what needed to be covered.
“Uh-oh.” Ryan slowed the SUV. “I don’t think you’ll be returning tomorrow.”
“What?” Poppy frowned, still hunched over her purse as she focused on finding something to write on.
“I don’t think you’ll be returning tomorrow,” he repeated, bringing the SUV to a full stop. “Because you’re not going anywhere today, except back to my cabin.”
At that, Poppy’s head shot up, and in the beam of the headlights she saw the tree that had fallen across the private road that led to the resort, a good two miles short of the turnoff onto the highway.
CHAPTER FOUR
FUCKING MARCH, RYAN thought, as they did the reverse dash from his vehicle to the cabin’s front door. By the time they were inside, all three of them were dripping, though Poppy had to be worse off than he since fifteen minutes before she’d arrived wet already. The dog returned to the towel he’d taken to the fire on his first visit. Ryan made his way toward the bedroom with the suitcases, Poppy at his heels.
“Time to get into some dry clothes,” he said over his shoulder. “You can have the bedroom.”
“I certainly will not.” She yanked one of the bags from his hand. “I’ll change in the bathroom.”
“It’s too small for you and your suitcase.”
She ignored his warning and strode into the shoebox-size tiled room, then slammed the door. A few minutes later, a thump followed by a yelp told him her elbow had connected with the wall.
By the time he heard a couple more less-than-mysterious bumps, he’d changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt. A pair of thick socks were on his feet.
Standing in front of the fire, he saw her exit the bathroom, a scowl on her face. She stowed her suitcase inside the bedroom, then shot him a fulminating look. “But I’m not sleeping in there, you got that?”
He gazed back at her. She was dressed in a similar style to himself: sweats and T-shirt, with a pair of fuzzy slippers on her feet. “You’re pretty bad-tempered for a woman at my mercy.”
“At your mercy?” she repeated, waving a hand. “Don’t forget I have Grimm.”
At the sound of his name, the dog lifted his big head, assessed the situation through half-closed eyes then returned his skull to the floor with an audible thunk.
Ryan looked at the pet, looked back at Poppy. “Oh, I’m very afraid.”
“Well, I’m not afraid of you, either,” Poppy said. She glanced around the room, then her gaze settled on the window, as the storm continued to rage outside. “It’s not letting up.” She sighed.
“It’s not, no.”
“Still, I’m going to call a guy from town. He’ll get out here with a chain saw and clear the tree....” Her words trailed off.
“Once the storm lets up,” he finished for her.
She sighed again, then rummaged in her purse for her cell phone.
The hail continued to rattle the roof as she murmured into her phone and he went into the kitchen to rustle up some dinner. It was early, but what else was there for them to do? He thought it wiser to keep busy. So he heated soup, sliced cheese, threw some crackers onto a plate. Grimm shambled into the room and when Poppy finished her call she arrived as well with a plastic container of dog kibble.
They all began to eat.
Ryan pretended he couldn’t smell the sweet fragrance from her still-damp hair over the aroma of the tomato soup. When they cleaned up at the sink, he acted as if he wasn’t aware of her small female body under those layers of thick cotton. He was successful enough to relax his guard when they returned to the living room fire. As he bent to stoke it with a new log, he didn’t even think about the basket that he’d discovered in the corner of the room the day he’d moved in.
So he was startled when he turned to find her poking among the pile of DVDs of movies and sitcoms that went back ten years and more. “What are you doing?” he asked, hoping like hell it hadn’t come out like a squawk.
She glanced up at him. “I found this bunch at a yard sale and brought them back for potential guests. I saw you have a laptop. We could watch one on your computer. It would give me a chance to bone up on pop culture.”
“Outdated pop culture.” Hadn’t he seen the first season of Heaven Come Early there? If they watched, maybe she wouldn’t recognize his just-turned-teen self as one of the stars of the popular dramedy, its title based on the George Bernard Shaw quote “A happy family is but an earlier heaven.” Still, there was no reason to chance it. If she discovered who he was, word might get out and then his privacy would go poof! He saw her fingers brush over a DVD of Main Line, the last movie he’d made before he’d retired from on-camera work. “I thought you said you liked to read.”
Her quizzical look signaled he must sound a little desperate. Ryan tempered his voice. “The only good light is in here and I want to get back to my George R.R. Martin.”
“So then I’ll take the laptop to the bedroom—”
“I thought you had an aversion to the bedroom.”
Yes, desperate. But she didn’t push any more, instead crossing to her purse to pull out a paperback. Without another word, she settled at one end of the sofa. Realizing he’d boxed himself into a corner, Ryan retrieved his own book and took the opposite place.
Even the dramatic events of the seven kingdoms couldn’t keep his eyes off that basket of DVDs. He should have buried them somewhere when he’d first spotted them. Not that he regretted that part of his life. He’d been a child of Hollywood—well, Malibu, really—with his father a well-known and well-respected stunt director, his mother a successful makeup artist. He and Linus and their pals had started making movies at an early age and during a dinner party his folks threw, a casting agent had seen their latest and wondered aloud if Ryan wanted to try for the part in an upcoming show.
It had seemed like a great way to get out of school, which was damn boring in seventh grade.
A teen star had been born.
He’d gotten a kick out of it, to tell the truth. He’d enjoyed pretending he was someone else and it had taken a while for fame to catch up with him...years before it smacked him hard in the face. But by the time he was twenty-one, twenty-two, he didn’t like the long hours wearing heavy makeup, the bullshit from the suits, the celebrity press that wrote ridiculous stories probably planted by studio publicists. The women who came for his face and stayed for his fame.
And he’d garnered enough money to stop making films in order to actually make films. And cable series and TV movies.
Maybe people would have forgotten him and he could have gone on to live a nonnotorious life. But then came that March. Fucking March.
“You could scare small children with that expression you’re wearing,” Poppy suddenly said.
He never wanted to be around small children again. So he grunted, and turned a page he hadn’t read.
But her comment returned Poppy smack-dab to the center of his consciousness. He cast a sidelong look at her, watching the firelight play over her innocent angel face, noting her curly lashes and the tail of hair she idly played with as she pretended to enjoy her book.
Because she wasn’t turning any pages.
Time passed.
More time passed.
The hail changed to a torrential rain that was a dull roar against the roof. The walls seemed to close in, creating an intimacy that was unwelcome. Risky. Still, Ryan adjusted his position on the cushions, pushing his back deeper into the sofa’s angle so he could pretend to read and watch her at the same time. She continued to stare straight ahead, thinking...what?
Then she turned her head quickly, too quickly for him to redirect his gaze. She’d caught him. Their eyes caught, too.
The walls drew closer.
He tightened his hold on his book, though he wanted to throw it aside, then grab her to him and escape March and all its terrible cruelties in her fragrant female body. He knew what lust was, knew its power, and it was gathering in his loins, in his chest, and he wanted to give in to it. The landlady wasn’t afraid of him or immune to him, he could see that by the flush on her face, the quick flutter of the pulse in her neck.
Why the hell couldn’t they indulge?
Because after the deed was done he would still be himself, he knew. It would still be this particular month, and if he wasn’t able to get away from her in the morning—unlikely, as it appeared she’d remain stuck in his cabin—then he chanced dragging her down into hell with him.
Nothing good ever came of March.
Her gaze still not leaving his, she wet her lips with her tongue.
Ryan’s body tightened all over. He was more than half-hard, and he forced himself to look away so that he wouldn’t go full-ready. But shit, that mouth— Don’t think about her mouth.
Clearing his throat, Ryan shot up from his seat. “You want a drink? Coffee? Beer? Wine?”
“Caffeine keeps me up,” she said.
Since he was already uncomfortably up himself, he took that as a sign to go for beer or wine. God knew he needed something to take off the edge. In the kitchen, he found the opener and a bottle of red. Since she had stocked the cabinets, he didn’t suppose she’d object to drinking out of the large glass tumblers.
He placed one in her hand, careful not to touch her, not to look at her. Careful not to think about her mouth. Kissing her mouth.
Knowing he couldn’t go back to pretend-reading, and because thoughts of bed just made him jumpy, he looked about for an activity to occupy them. A box of jigsaw puzzle pieces sat on a nearby shelf. He grabbed it up.
“You like to do this sort of thing?” he asked, dumping the pieces onto the coffee table in front of the sofa.
Poppy set her book aside. “What’s it a picture of? It’s something else I found at a garage sale, but I didn’t look at it too closely.”
He sat beside her and sifted through the cardboard snippets, turning some faceup. They all seemed pinkish in color. “This isn’t the original box. Maybe it’s one of those really difficult ones that are just the puzzle, no helpful photo.”
“Those take a lot of time,” she said, starting to move pieces around, as she sipped at her wine.
“And concentration,” he added. We won’t be able to think of anything perilous.
“Look for the corners first,” Poppy advised, apparently getting into the spirit of the thing. With a triumphant sound, she held one up.
“Good for you.” Ryan found a couple of pieces already joined and set them in the center.
They both continued to work, each of them seeming to find a part of the whole that they claimed as their own. The fire crackled. The very generous pour of wine in each glass was consumed. After some minutes went by, Poppy murmured, “Oh, there is a picture. I think it’s a woman. I have some of her face.”
He glanced over, noting she’d constructed a nose, and part of one eye. “I’m still getting nothing but pink,” he said, trying to work a little faster. As diversions went, the activity was a success, and he congratulated himself on his brilliant idea.
Until...
It stopped being brilliant.
He stared down at the section of the puzzle he’d completed. “Uh...”
“Hmm?” His companion-in-puzzles fit one piece to another, tossed back the last swallow in her glass, then set it aside.
“Maybe we should quit,” Ryan suggested.
“What? No.” With a frown, she turned her head, then jerked it back when she saw what he’d wrought.
Naked tits. Overinflated, pearly pink and topped with tight, upstanding nipples.
A squeak of horror escaped Poppy’s lips, followed by a moment of stunned silence. Then she started to laugh. As she laughed harder, she put one palm over her belly, and the other over her mouth.
Need—rash, blazing and no longer deniable—overtook Ryan. That mouth, he thought again. He was going to have that mouth. It was imperative he taste the laughter bubbling from it, inhale the sound into his shrunken soul. He had to kiss her.
* * *
POPPY’S GUARD WAS down, thanks to an outrageous pair of puzzle breasts. Maybe because of the wine she’d drunk or maybe because she’d been walking a tightrope of tension all evening, hyperaware of Ryan’s very-male presence in a room that had kept getting smaller by the second, but for whatever reason the sight of those naked boobs had tickled her sense of the ridiculous. Aware she might sound the tiniest bit hysterical, she pressed her hand harder to her lips, still giggling like mad when Ryan reached over and drew it away.
The gesture didn’t immediately alert her to a threat. She still couldn’t believe that she’d been so anxious to smother the sexual vibrations humming in the room that she’d gladly dived into working a puzzle...of an X-rated image. Even with the knowledge that her car and her cabin were half-ruined lurking at the back of her mind—or because that knowledge was lurking at the back of her mind—it struck her as hilariously funny. Even now another laugh rose in her throat.
“Poppy,” Ryan said, his voice soft.
Her gaze shifted to his face, and the glow in his blue eyes sent her to serious in a hurry.
But it didn’t send her body anywhere safe. Instead, she sat frozen on the couch, her hand cradled in his much larger one. The contrast made her feel feminine and breathless and...oh, boy, curious. Because she knew what that tone in his voice signaled. She knew what was coming.
And she hadn’t been kissed in over five years.
So sue her, she had a curiosity about kissing. Strike that. She had a curiosity about how Ryan would kiss.
And then...and then he was showing her. His mouth brushed over hers, the touch as light as a snowflake, though the brief caress sent heat racing like a flash fire over her skin. When his lips came back a second time, she parted her mouth, hoping to entice him to make it firmer. Hoping he’d brush his tongue with hers.
It had been aeons since she’d been French-kissed.
On the third gentle pass, she speared her hand in Ryan’s hair to keep their lips locked. He made a sound, low in his throat. Gratified? Smug? She didn’t care. Her muscles tensed, her body quivering as she anticipated his next move.
His tongue, all right, but now it brushed like damp butterfly wings against her bottom lip. Her thighs clenched and he rubbed his thumb over the knuckles of the hand he held. Soothing, every stroke of his soothing, as if he knew she was all of a sudden so keyed up that a stronger touch might shatter her. Who would blame her for that?
Five-plus years without a proper kiss.
Ryan’s free arm came around her shoulders to draw her closer. She breathed in his scent as tears stung the corners of her eyes, and she squeezed them tight, mortified that she might have to explain—again—a crying jag. It had just been so long since she’d snuggled up to something this big, this warm, this human.
