Читать книгу A Husband In Her Stocking - Christine Pacheco, Christine Pacheco - Страница 9

One

Kyle Murdock swore as he turned up the collar on his black leather jacket. He raised his shoulders, fighting in vain for protection against the bite of a cold December wind.

Snow dusted his hair, and several flakes settled on his nose. Odd, only a few hours ago, the skies had been incredibly blue, hardly a cloud in sight.

Now the world was a different place. The landscape had changed. Branches had been buried beneath a blanket of white, and wind had whipped innocent flakes, plowing them into one another, making minifortresses to block his path. Kyle had been left dependent on the help of a stranger.

That was, if anyone heard his knock.

For a third time, he pounded his uncovered knuckles against unyielding wood.

Someone had to be inside the farmhouse—after all, an inviting glow in the curtained window had attracted his attention, luring him from where the weather had stranded him, Kyle paused, listening. He heard nothing but a howl through the treetops.

The remnants of a waning Colorado sun offered no solace against the encroaching evening’s threat. He shivered. The three-mile journey to the nearest town of Jefferson would be hellacious. And to be honest, Kyle wasn’t sure he would even make it.

This definitely wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the holiday. His sister, Pamela, and her family were expecting him. And he’d always believed Christmas was for children. There was little Kyle enjoyed more than watching his niece and nephew on Christmas morning, expressions full of belief and wonder.

Cupping his hands near his mouth, he blew air onto them and shifted his weight from leg to leg.

Slowly, accompanied by the squeak of a rusty hinge, the door to the old farmhouse opened. Light and welcoming heat spilled through the partial opening, but the soft sound of a woman’s voice—soothing, yet steeled with hesitation—stole what little breath remained in his lungs.

“Can I help you?”

He moved a few inches to the right so she could see him, while she retained protection and anonymity. With a numbed thumb, he pointed toward the Harley, which was partially buried in a ditch. “My bike’s stuck.”

She didn’t say anything, and the door denied access to her face.

“If you don’t mind, I need to use your phone, maybe call a tow truck.”

A few seconds of silence. Another heartbeat closer to hypotltermia.

Then slowly, as if on the whisper of an angel’s wings, the door opened wider.

He didn’t wait for a second invitation. Wiping the soles of his boots on the step, he entered the house, transferring his wet leather gloves into one hand.

The woman sealed out the blizzard and closed Kyle in. Heat reached out, enveloping him and allowing him to suck a welcome breath deep into his chest.

He’d barely noted her eye and hair color when the noise from a sudden crash made her face drain of color.

“Excuse me,” she said, turning.

Before he formed a word, she’d dashed away. Kyle stood there for a few moments, debating what to do. Mind his own business? Offer assistance?

“Darn it.”

The faint sound of her pseudo curse reached him, galvanizing him into action. Not stopping to think, he followed the direction she’d taken.

As he strode through the living room, a second crash exploded. Breaking into a near run, he found her in the kitchen, kneeling in front of a huge cupboard, cans of food scattered around her.

A white dog rested a paw triumphantly on a colorful bag sporting a picture of a collie.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Evidently startled, she swung around to look at him. A fringe of layered blond hair shaded her face, but not her wide and wary eyes.

Just then, the animal growled, hackles raised.

“Snowflake...” the woman warned, a sigh of exasperation escaping.

The mangy mutt stalked toward him, and Kyle remained rooted on the spot.

“He’s more bark than bite. He wouldn’t hurt a soul,” she said, pushing up to a standing position.

“Hi, guy,” Kyle said, holding his hand steady and not trusting her words of promise.

Snowflake growled again, then sniffed Kyle’s hand.

“Mind your manners, Snowflake.”

After looking toward his mistress, the dog sat. Apparently satisfied, Snowflake offered his paw. Kyle dutifully shook it.

“Some protector,” she said, but rumpled Snowflake’s fur affectionately when the dog returned to her side. “You managed to get all the way into the kitchen before he noticed you were in the house.” Snowflake stretched out and placed his head on his paws. “Now he thinks you’re his best friend.”

“Obviously he senses you’re in no danger.”

No response.

“He’s right.”

The woman wiped her hand down the thigh of cream-colored leggings. For the first time he noticed just how attractive his savior was. Blond, hazel-eyed, and with ladylike curves all in the right places. A potent combination.

“Kyle Murdock,” he said, extending a hand.

Surprisingly she took it. Heat met cold. He felt the icy tentacles of winter’s grip melting away at her touch. Maybe, just maybe, he’d survive the storm, after all.

She was more petite than he’d realized, only a few notches above five feet. Her smaller hand disappeared inside his larger one, and he had an insane urge to hold on to it longer than was polite.

With a slight smile, she extricated her hand.

Kyle realized her wide-open eyes——expressive and large—were her most compelling feature, making a man think of long, hot nights and a bed barely big enough for two.

Right now her eyes contained a hint of caution that made the hazel color appear darker than he suspected was normal. He reminded himself he should be on his way, try to find a hotel before the storm worsened.

“Mind if I use your phone?”

She pointed to a small oak stand and said, “It’s right over there.”

The woman moved aside, and he took his time removing the unnecessary aviator shades from his eyes. In anonymity, he savored her subtle beauty. She wasn’t gorgeous in the normal sense, but the aura of dignity and serenity she wore—a complete antithesis to what raged inside him—transcended the usual, making her seem extraordinary.

She seemed alluring, unpretentious. And so different from the woman he’d nearly married.

Dismissing the thought, as it was leading him in a direction he didn’t dare go, Kyle tucked his glasses inside a pocket of his jacket. He crossed to the far wall and placed his gloves on the oak telephone stand, then thumbed through the directory until he found the single listing for a towing service. He punched in the numbers.

One ring, followed by a second. Then silence ricocheted down the line. “The phone’s dead.”

She swallowed deeply, folding her arms around her middle. The action stretched the cotton material of her pastel pink sweater taut across her breasts.

Kyle gulped.

He hadn’t imagined the woman could have such unbelievable impact on his long neglected libido.

Turning away, he replaced the phone in its cradle, trying to erase the vivid sight of her from his mind.

Through the window above the sink, he saw the swirling snow and dreaded the thought of braving the brutal elements again. Facing her once more, he asked, “Maybe your husband could help me dig out the Harley?”

Several seconds of silence yawned between them.

“I don’t have a husband.”

She lived out here all alone? And opened her door to strangers? He didn’t like it. Not one bit. And the fact he didn’t like something that was none of his business irritated the hell out of him.

“But I do have a twelve-gauge shotgun.”

He raised a brow.

“And competency in its use.”

“Noted.” He allowed a smile. Her tentative one was reward enough.

Just as quickly, though, the smile disappeared and her brow furrowed.

It was interesting to watch her undisguised play of emotions. She’d knotted a hand at her side, and her shoulders were slightly rounded, protective. But her whiskey-colored eyes remained wide.

“You must be cold,” she said softly, almost reluctantly.

“Frozen,” he admitted. “I was trying to make it to Conifer before nightfall—”

“You still can. I’ll drive you. My car’s in the port.” Her voice held a breathless note. Obviously she was relieved to have arrived at a logical conclusion. And he hated to shatter that resolution.

She reached for a coat that hung near the back door but stopped at Kyle’s words. “It’s snowed in.” She looked at him, and he noted a frown had settled on her features. “The carport that’s at the side of the house?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I noticed when I was walking up to the door that there’s two, maybe three, feet of snow blocking it.”

The woman dropped her hand.

Kyle grabbed the gloves he’d placed on the phone stand and offered a wan grin. “I appreciate your help.” He stuffed unwilling fingers into the soggy, cold leather, then started back toward the front door.

“Wait,” she said, the word uttered so softly he wasn’t sure he’d actually heard it.

Kyle Murdock stopped and leveled his disturbingly blue eyes on her. Meghan wished for her word back. Common sense warred with what resided in her heart.

She couldn’t allow a stranger who rode a Harley and wore danger cloaked by black leather to stay in her house.

Nor could she send him back out in the cold. She’d noticed the way wind had bitten at his hands and face. The elements were merciless, and her heart wouldn’t permit her to turn him away.

“Yes?”

The sound of his voice worked as a balm on her lonely soul. She’d been absorbed in her work for several days. No neighbors had stopped by, and the phone hadn’t rung, not even with her mother’s obligatory weekly phone call. Until she had opened the front door, Meghan hadn’t even realized it had been snowing.

Still, she knew not just any voice would work on her senses the way Kyle Murdock’s did. No...there was something special about his. Low, deep, masculine, but with a cadence that spoke of education and reassurance, despite his attire.

She shouldn’t trust him.

Was too smart to trust him.

“Mr. Murdock—”

“Kyle,” he corrected her softly, sensually.

“Kyle,” she repeated, the harshness of the single syllable swirling in her mind. “You appear to be stranded here.”

“I’ll walk to town.”

“It’s three miles.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Even though he tried to hide it, she saw his involuntary wince and noticed the way a solitary snowflake melted into the clear-night darkness of his thick hair. The leather gloves he wore were damp and stiff. And the man was already half-frozen.

If anything happened to him, Meghan would never forgive herself. That would be a greater sin than hospitality—even with the risks. Besides, she did have the gun, even if she couldn’t imagine using it on him.

He didn’t need to know that, though.

She swallowed, trying to moisten her mouth. “Please...stay.”

“I appreciate the offer, Ms....”

He had intentionally trailed off, trying to get her to supply her name. For some reason, she steadfastly held on to that information, as if it offered protection.

“Mr. Murdock—Kyle,” she amended when he opened his mouth to speak again. “There’s apparently a blizzard out there. In whiteout conditions, you can’t see a hundred feet in front of you. You’d be lucky not to get lost, even luckier to make it back to town.”

She lowered her voice, trying to keep her tone reasonable. “Jefferson doesn’t have a hotel, and Kenosha Pass is probably closed.”

She swallowed, waiting for him to frame his response. Meghan forced herself to unknot the hand at her side, realizing the action had radiated tension up her arm and across her shoulder.

His response didn’t matter to her. He was a grown man. If he wanted to battle the elements like the warrior he appeared to be, it was none of her concern.

At least, that’s what she tried telling herself.

In honesty, she wanted him to stay.

Pretending his decision meant little or nothing to her, Meghan looked into his compelling eyes. Mouth dry as clay baked in the summer sun, she said, “You can hang your coat on the peg.”

He appraised her for a few seconds, each moment seeming to grow and stretch with tension. Finally, he gave a slight nod.

Her offer had been accepted. For better or worse.

She offered a quick prayer that it was for the better.

The sound of a metal snap surrendering under his grip riveted her interest. A second snap released, then the drag of a zipper filled the kitchen.

The sound reminded her of sex.

Within seconds, he’d shucked the jacket. A crimsoncolored flannel shirt snuggled against his shoulders, conforming as if made exclusively for him. The top button hung open. She wildly wondered what resided beneath.

Kyle was big, well muscled, all male. And she was stuck with him under her roof until the storm blew over. That could take twenty minutes, twenty-four hours or several days. She gulped. “I’ll get you a towel,” she said, desperate to get away.

Meghan went through the living room and down the hall, grabbing two towels from the linen closet. She stalled on her return, leaning against a wall. A long-denied part of her was well aware of his masculinity, along with its not-so-subtle effects on her.

Kyle Murdock bothered her.

Still, she saw that snow was steadily melting from his boots, making a mess on the worn tile flooring. Taking a deep breath, she shoved away from the wall and crossed back to the kitchen.

Kyle’s large coat hung from a peg next to hers, leather contrasting with down, black contrasting with pale pink, masculine contrasting with feminine.

“Thanks,” he said, reaching for a towel and scrubbing at his hair.

The result was intimately devastating.

Cropped hair now contained a hint of curl, a wayward lock falling across his forehead. Kyle shoved it back, then bent to remove his riding boots. To distract herself from the sight of him in tight, damp black jeans, she mopped water and ice with a towel.

Within a minute, he stood there, a large man in the kitchen that suddenly seemed small. “We can light a fire,” she said, then wondered why her voice contained a hoarse scratch. Meghan cleared her throat and added, “To help you dry off... warm up.”

He followed her into the living room. She realized no man, other than her father, had ever been in her house.

She reached for a log, only to have it slide from her grip. Meghan swore as a splinter sank into her fingertip.

Before she could extract the piece of wood, Kyle was at her side. He took her hand and stole her breath. With gentleness that belied his size, he cradled her hand in his much colder one, yet it was anything but a chill that seeped into her.

In fact, the oozing sensation that spilled through her surprised her with its welcoming warmth.

Kyle raised his palm slightly to see the sliver better, then closed the splinter between thumb and forefinger.

“Damn,” he muttered, not able to grasp the small fragment well enough to pull it out. “Let me try again.”

The feel of his blunted nail on her skin sent a shiver racing toward her toes.

“That hurt?”

He glanced up from what he was doing, meeting her gaze. She clearly saw his expression and read concern in the way his eyebrows drew together. “No,” she whispered.

“Give me a sec, I’ll get it out of there.”

Kyle looked away, breaking the spellbinding hold he had over her. Meghan blinked, suddenly glad she hadn’t sent him away.

“Got it.”

She gasped when he pulled out the tiny piece of wood.

“Okay?”

The momentary pain receded. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do for the woman who saved me from freezing to death.” He smiled then, the act transforming his features. He no longer seemed frightening or overwhelming.

Scratch that, she realized. Kyle Murdock was definitely overwhelming. Thinking he wasn’t would only be pure illusion.

He released her, and the air no longer seemed as warm.

“I’ll light the fire,” Kyle said.

She seized the offer. “And I’ll make coffee.”

“That’d be great.”

She headed for the kitchen.

“Ma’am?”

Meghan paused, the sound of his baritone sending skitters across her senses.

“Thank you.”

She escaped.

In the kitchen again, Meghan leaned against the counter, allowing the breath she’d been holding to rush out. Her finger throbbed as she recalled the feel of him. His touch had been warm, even though it shouldn’t have been—not when he was so cold.

Motions automatic, she dumped the dregs of the coffee she’d made this morning and rinsed the pot. As the caffeine-rich water gurgled into the carafe, Meghan moved to the stove, trying to block out the image of Kyle Murdock that filled her mind’s eye.

She failed.

He was completely unlike her ex-husband, Jack, different from any of the men she socialized with. Kyle was rough around the edges, potent and sexy.

Not the kind of man she thought she wanted.

In an attempt to stay busy, she grabbed a spoon to stir the stew on the stove. Meghan grimaced. She’d gotten so carried away sculpting the final batch of angels that dinner had started to burn, sticking to the bottom of the pan.

Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d eaten nothing all day except a bowl of cereal before the sun poked past the horizon.

Then a second, more intrusive thought rocked her: When she ate, Kyle Murdock would be sitting at the small table with her.

Her shoulders sagged. This situation was getting more and more complicated by the minute.

The faint scent of sulphur wafted on the air, and she heard the crackle of wood.

Kyle Murdock was making himself at home in her house.

The splashing noise from the coffeemaker diminished, and the bread-making machine, bought as an indulgence during a lonely Thanksgiving weekend, beeped three times, indicating it was done.

Snowflake pawed at the dog food he’d proudly pulled from the cupboard, telling Meghan in no uncertain terms that he was hungry, too.

After obligingly dumping moist food in a bowl adorned with Snowflake’s name, Meghan started to stack the metal cans again, making a mental note to buy a latch for the cupboard door. Snowflake had made his favorite pastime—eating—into an annoying habit.

“Anything I can do to help?”

The sound of Kyle’s rich baritone made Meghan jump. How on earth had he approached without her hearing?

She didn’t look at him; instead, she picked up a metal can and added it to the pile. “Everything’s under control.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” she lied.

He crouched next to her, muscular thigh pressed against her own, softer one. Strange sensations startled her.

Without a word, Kyle straightened the haphazard stack she’d made, then reached for the final can.

Reluctantly, she gave it to him.

He stood, offering his hand to her.

Meghan looked at him.

“I scare you.”

“No.” Her lie was blatant.

“I do.”

She shook her head too fast.

He continued to hold out his hand. A challenge?

Against her better sense, Meghan accepted. She swore to herself she wasn’t frightened, yet she was forced to admit she felt a definite awareness of him as a powerful male.

He pulled her up, not stopping until she stood barely inches from him. Her pulse thundered and heat suffused her.

She felt...womanly.

“Prove it.”

She had to look up, a long way, to meet his gaze. He was tall, a little over six foot, a huge contrast to her five feet three inches. His hands were large, and as she couldn’t help but notice, lacked a wedding band.

The scent of him, that of mountain air and power, combined with his proximity, his touch, his commanding hold, made Meghan moisten her teeth with her tongue. She recognized the nervous gesture, had cultivated it over the years. And she’d never hated the habit as much as she did at this second.

“Prove it,” he challenged again. “Prove you’re not scared of me.”

She swallowed. “Prove it?”

“Give me something.”

Her mind raced in symphony with the hammering of her heart.

“Your name,” Kyle said softly. “Tell me your name.”