Читать книгу Too Close For Comfort - Colleen Collins, Colleen Collins - Страница 11

CYD CUT THE ENGINE of the snowmobile. “We’re here,” she said. “Time to get off.”

Under different circumstances, Jeffrey would have grinned at a lady saying it was time to “get off.” But after careening over miles of snow in the gut-chilling Alaskan wilderness with nothing but moonlight as a guide, he wasn’t sure if he could even move, much less smile.

Cyd had parked in front of a log cabin, its windows ablaze with light, smoke from the chimney disappearing into the snow-laden sky. An animal’s howl punctured the night.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Babette.” Cyd leaned over the back of the machine, untying a pouch filled with jerky Harry had insisted she take. Jeffrey hadn’t asked, but figured it was in case they got stuck en route.

“Babette?”

“Aunt Geri’s dog.”

It howled again. A long, mournful sound unlike any dog Jeffrey had known.

He stared at the log cabin, which had at first appeared like some kind of Norman Rockwell painting, but was rapidly taking on the sinister image of a Steven King novel. “Dog? Sounds more like a wolf.”

“Wolf?” Cyd muttered something under her breath that sounded like “city slicker.” “You better start walking to the cabin. If you keep standing there, your feet will stick to the ice and we’ll have to chop them off.”

“Anyone ever told you to try stand-up comedy?”

She giggled as she brushed ice off the pouch. “No, but if you’re good, maybe I’ll sing a few bars.”

Her comeback took him aback for a moment. Rough and tumble Cyd had a sense of humor, too?

Jeffrey started heading toward the cabin, his feet crunching through the snow. The air smelled smoky, traced with the tang of evergreen. Just as he reached the door, it shook with the weight of something heavy hitting it from the other side. Sniffling and scratching followed, along with a guttural growl.

Jeffrey stared at the door, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. Having street smarts didn’t exactly prepare one on how to deal with Cujo.

“Just go in!” Cyd yelled. “Babette’s a pussycat.”

He looked back at the expanse of moon-glazed, glittering snow that stretched as far as the eye could see. Maybe retracing his steps and having his feet chopped off wasn’t such a bad thing.

A huffing, stomping sound distracted him. “Doesn’t anybody in New York or L.A. know when to get out of the cold?” With a roll of her eyes, Cyd nudged past him, grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. “Aunt Geri?” she called out.

He followed Cyd inside, blinking into the haze of light. A woodstove, the fire crackling behind its glass door, sat across the room. The scents of baked bread and coffee wove around him, lulling him out of his mood.

“Hi there, big girl,” Cyd cooed, scratching and patting a big, furry head.

He should’ve known that Cyd and wild beasts would be best pals.

“This is Jeffrey,” she said, pointing the furry beast’s face at Jeffrey.

“Hi,” he said, his eyes adjusting to the light. Babette’s yellow eyes took in Jeffrey. She barked, loudly. He put his hand down for her to sniff, hoping she’d eaten something recently. She rubbed her wet nose against his hand, her tail swinging wildly.

Cyd looked up at Jeffrey. “She likes you.”

“Good.” He’d outwitted death, again. “What kind of dog is she?”

“Mongrel. Part Shepherd, part Husky, and something else.”

“Moose?”

Cyd looked at Jeffrey. “City Slicker,” she teased, her chocolate brown eyes twinkling.

“Northern Rowdy,” he countered.

“Rowdy?” She looked surprised, then burst into laughter. He liked the sound. Loud, infectious. “Sounds about right,” she said, pulling the hood of her parka down.

Her face emerged all pink, touched with flakes of snow. Add those devilish brown eyes and wild mass of cropped raven hair, and she looked like sweetness and sin all rolled into one. She was still laughing to herself, repeating the word “rowdy” as she pulled off her parka. Jeffrey felt like leaning over and kissing those pretty lips that curved so deliciously when she smiled. He had the crazy thought that kissing Cyd would be like tasting life itself.

She hung her parka on one of the hooks mounted on the wall next to the front door. “What’re you staring at?”

“Your face—” He reached over and brushed some flakes of snow off her cheeks. His gloves were bulky, cold. He pulled them off, tossed them aside and continued brushing her flushed cheeks. Most women needed makeup to look pretty, but not Cyd. Her beauty was like this land. Wild, clean. As though she’d been forged from the sky, the earth.

“We need to get you closer to the fire, warm you up,” he said.

She flashed him a look that bordered on shy, which was almost more stunning that her usual tough, don’t-mess-with-me attitude. Was she unaccustomed to a man showing tenderness, offering concern for her well-being? A jolt of sadness shot through Jeffrey.

“First, off with our boots,” she said softly, looking away. She leaned over and began unlacing hers. “Just toss them here next to the front door.”

As Cyd worked on her boots, she called out again, “Aunt Geri?”

Babette barked.

“She’ll probably be back in a minute,” Cyd commented, pulling off her socks and laying them across her boots. After putting on one of several pairs of slippers piled in a heap on the floor, she walked to the woodstove.

Jeffrey pulled off a wet, heavy boot and looked around the cabin. His first thought was “cozy.” His second was “eclectic.” The cozy part was the old leather couch topped with a fur pelt, the high-back wooden chairs in front of the woodstove, the multicolored braided rug on the hardwood floor. The eclectic was the assortment of fishing gear and ski equipment in one corner, the pile of miscellaneous tools in another. It was as though someone could walk through the living room and grab whatever they needed on their way out to go fishing, skiing or fixing.

To the left, through a sliding glass door, he spied a glassed-in porch with a covered hot tub. At first he thought the walls were painted white until he realized the glass ceiling and walls were caked with snow.

Cyd stood in front of the woodstove, holding her hands to the heat. She wriggled her toes and moaned pleasurably.

Jeffrey, pulling off his parka, looked up. He hadn’t had a quiet minute with her since they’d met, and he took advantage of the moment to look at this little rowdy who had become his cohort. And his opponent, yet she didn’t seem so preoccupied with that aspect at the moment.

She looked to be five-four, maybe more, although she had the attitude of someone seven foot. She wore a bulky, white knit sweater with bright red, yellow and pink flowers embroidered along the neckline. Cyd wearing flowers? Not that the sweater wasn’t pretty, it’s just that flowers seemed so…un-Cyd. She seemed more the type to have wild animals crocheted into her clothes, not dainty blossoms.

Her jeans were faded. And tight. He settled on that compact behind, remembering how it undulated with great purpose as she marched in front of him. It had looked round and firm and…

She turned to warm her backside.

His gaze shot up to her face.

“What’re you thinking about?” Cyd asked.

“I, uh, was thinking about things with great purpose.”

She ran her hands through her damp hair. “You city types worry too much about the wrong things.”

“It’s all a matter of semantics.”

She stopped fussing with her hair and shot him a look. “Huh?”

“Semantics. How words go together.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like I said, you worry about the wrong things.”

He laughed, more than willing to let her win this battle. Besides, he liked looking at her taut body. Liked how her wet, black hair had a mind of its own. Unmanageable, wild. Just like Cyd. And those lips. Damn if they didn’t have the lush pink color of a rose, although she’d probably kill him if she knew he thought that. Hard to believe those rose-petal lips could devour a slab of moose.

She pulled off her bulky sweater.

A hot wave swept through his belly.

She wore a black long-sleeved T-shirt that outlined her breasts just oh so fine. Round, pert…and when she turned just right in the light, he could see the hardened tips of her nipples…

“Now what’re you thinking about?” She tossed her sweater over the back of a chair.

He didn’t answer. What words could sum up the cascade of feelings that rushed through him, firing his blood? His mind tried to step in and say it was her fault for kick-starting his libido with that rub-a-thon back in the sled basket, but he knew differently. Ever since he’d met Cyd—or more specifically, since he’d realized she wasn’t a he—his gut told him he’d met his match. She was sharp, tough and hot.

Sweetly, daringly hot.

The kind of woman you didn’t make love to, but with whom you embarked on a fiery sexual adventure.

Cyd held Jeffrey’s gaze. Her eyes darkened. Her cheeks flushed crimson. Self-consciously, she turned away and stared at the golden and red flames. “The fire’s good,” she whispered.

“Sure is,” Jeffrey murmured, moving forward and standing next to her. Far away enough to give her room, show her respect. Close enough to sense her heat, catch her scent. Fresh and sweet, the way the world smelled after a spring rain.

They stood side by side, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Babette lay on the edge of the hearth, next to a bone and a plastic squeaky toy that had seen better days.

When Cyd slid Jeffrey a sideways glance, he saw how her long, black eyelashes cast spiky shadows on her cheeks. Caught a look of longing in her eyes that flamed his needs even higher. Was she feeling what he felt? Or did she view him as another of her competitions. Maybe that was what was behind some of her antagonistic actions. She was accustomed to competing, not communing with guys.

If so, tonight he’d let her win. He’d let her have anything if she’d reward him with a kiss, a touch…

He blinked and turned his gaze to the flames. What in the hell am I thinking? I’m here on business not pleasure. Top priority is to research Arctic Luck, then fly back to L.A. tomorrow. The last thing I need to think about is a roll in the sack with Cyd. One hundred percent of his focus needed to be on Monday morning’s meeting, which would cinch him a promotion and a better career if he played his cards right.

He cleared his throat, as though that would clear his mind, and looked around for something to distract his libido. His gaze landed on an assortment of pictures on the wall. Several photos were of a burly man and a woman, who appeared to be outdoors, some school pictures of children, and a large group photo.

The latter, especially, drew his attention. He stepped forward for a better look.

“Is this you?” he asked incredulously, pointing to a young girl with long black hair curled prettily around her shoulders.

“Yes.”

He would have recognized those big chocolate brown eyes anywhere, but not the dress, the long styled hair. Interesting. Whereas he’d gone from street tough to executive, she’d gone from sweet girl to tough independent. They’d both started out one way, and somewhere along the road of life, taken a sharp one-eighty.

He wondered what her one-eighty was…and why they chose almost completely different paths. But even if they’d ended up in such different lifestyles, they shared a fundamental knowledge about survival that one learned only on the streets or in the wilderness.

Maybe the city slicker and the northern rowdy weren’t so different, after all.

“When was this picture taken?” he asked.

“When I was fourteen.”

Jeffrey stared intently at the picture, then back to Cyd. “It’s not in Alaska.”

“Seattle.”

“You look very happy.”

“I was.”

Cyd stared at the picture, remembering how life had been way back when. How her dad loved managing the movie theater, and how her mom laughed a lot, even though she spent most of her time chasing down two toddlers, Cyd’s younger siblings. Cyd, being older and being her daddy’s girl, had spent her free time tagging along with him to the theater, watching him thread the big reels of film or helping out at the ticket booth and snack bar.

She didn’t like the memories that had just been resurrected. Memories of a sweeter life, one where her family had been whole.

She stared at Jeffrey, long and hard, fighting more memories. How her dad changed when he lost his theater to some big-business movie chain. He’d always been such a fun, gregarious guy, but after he’d had to close down the theater, he’d grown tired, sadder. Then one day he moved his family to Alaska, the last “safe place in the world” her dad had claimed.

And then…

She didn’t want to think about that.

“I don’t want your film series to come to Alaska,” she blurted.

The front door creaked open.

A big body, swathed in an even bigger blue coat, clumped into the room. Babette leaped to her feet and started barking energetically, her tail thumping double-time. The person stopped, took one look at Cyd and opened her arms wide. “Sweetie girl!”

With a laugh, Cyd rushed forward into the hug. After some back-thumping and greetings, Cyd turned to Jeffrey. “This is my aunt Geri. Geri, Jeffrey.”

“Jeffrey,” Geri said with a smile, removing her beaver cap. A long silver braid fell over her shoulder. “Nice to meet ya.” She pulled off a red mitten and shook his hand heartily. She gave Babette a rub behind the ear.