Miss Imogen Radford glowered at the large boot prints leading to the hand-carved door of her family’s hunting cabin. Boot prints that continued over the threshold and into her private sanctum, the one place available for her to stew in a vat of well-earned misery.
“Haven’t I dealt with enough lately?”
Jilted by her fiancé—check. Lackluster reception at her first photography exhibition—check. Artistic block and crippling self-doubt ever since—check.
And now an intruder.
Whoever it was, they’d better be bleeding. Sore at the very least. She and her Aunt Judith hadn’t spent hours setting booby traps around the perimeter of the cabin for nothing. That had been part of their agreement: Judith would stay in the nearby town and give Imogen time to sulk in privacy and rediscover her muse. But only as long as she stayed within the confines of their protective traps and returned to Seattle in January. The alternative—attending a slew of holiday parties hand-selected by her parents that would surely be equal parts mortifying and insufferable—had her leaping headlong into accepting Judith’s terms.
At least she would be able to use the self-defense techniques she’d recently learned at a meeting of the Seattle Suffrage Society. Bolstered by the silver lining, she dropped her bundles in the soft snow, freed her chin from her coat’s wide roll collar of French marten fur, and raised two fists.
“Prepare. For. Pain.” Each whispered word was punctuated by a quick jab into the icy afternoon air.
Well, more like awkward thrusts.
She tried once more, then shrugged. It was hard to make proper fists while wearing thick wool mittens. Besides, what were fists compared to her aunt’s prized Remington double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun?
The intruder wouldn’t know Imogen had never fired it in her life.
She quickly removed her mittens and unhooked the leather strap securing the abhorrent thing across her back. She hefted it to her shoulder with both hands, then nudged the door open with the toe of her brown leather boot.
“Hello? Is someone there?” The wobble in her voice made her wince, so she squared her shoulders before adding, “I’m armed.” She shuffled inside, the shotgun aimed upward, her pointer finger curled around the trigger as her aunt had showed her.
No movement but the tremble of the barrel in front of her.
No sound but her own half-swallowed gasps and the muffled crunch of snow where her boots met the wooden floor.
She pirouetted in a slow circle, each new frame of empty space easing the tightness in her chest. The photography equipment appeared untouched, the bed was still the same chaotic jumble of all her favorite blankets—
No. Not the same.
A man lay sprawled in her cozy den. A head covered in bright red hair rested on her goose-down pillow. Pale, freckled—and, dash it all, gorgeously muscled—shoulders peeked from the cocoon of wool and flannel. And was that...? Yes, her nightgown was tucked under his chin as if he’d cuddled it in his sleep.
Unacceptable.
She closed her eyes and called forth the voice of righteous indignation her mother used on gardeners who didn’t properly prune her roses. On her only daughter who preferred doing things her own way.
A ragged snore ricocheted through the silent room like a gunshot. Imogen jumped, every muscle in her body tightening at once. The ensuing explosion—an actual gunshot this time—was deafening.
She flew backward into a chair with a pained grunt before toppling over. The shotgun skidded across the floor, and a pile of fabric—clothing she’d meant to organize—tumbled from the chair and buried her lower half. Splintered wood chips rained down from the fresh hole in the ceiling, and one of her carefully cut paper snowflakes lost its grip on the rafters and fluttered down to land on her face. She lay stunned, her worldview shrunk to the size of a diamond-shaped pinhole.
“Ouch,” she whispered.
The man flailed about in the blankets, his loud curses filling the room, and then two feet thudded to the floor.
“What the—who the—where are you?”
Imogen twitched her nose and a new view, hexagonal now, revealed a man spinning in a tight circle, a hand clutched over his heart.
Dear God, had she shot him? She thrust into a seated position. The snowflake didn’t budge, somehow stuck in the flyaway hairs at her forehead. She raised both hands to untangle it and called, “Are you hurt?”
The spinning man stopped and faced her. “Should I be?”
The snowflake crumpled in her fist at his tone. It was the same incredulous tone her fiancé had used when she revealed she had no plans to relegate her profession to a hobby once they married. Yanking the snowflake free, she opened her mouth to deliver a much-needed skewering.
“Listen here, you vile intruder—glug.”
Imogen lost her train of thought. She was far too busy staring at the very attractive—and very naked—man illuminated by the fading light shining through the window. She skipped his profile, surely a waste of time when she only had seconds before he covered up. She started at his wide shoulders and worked her way down, devouring him inch by inch. As an artist, she’d seen her fair share of nude models. Had developed a reverence for the human form with all its perfect imperfections.
This man’s body robbed her of coherent speech.
His broad chest heaved with each deep breath, and his clenched hands hovered on each side of his abdomen. She ignored the threatening stance, too intrigued by the pronounced dips between each muscle. But what truly fascinated her were the freckles scattered over his body in random, intricate patterns. Two bands of freckles, dense as the Milky Way, started above the vees in his hips, curved around his groin, and ended mid-thigh.
Two celestial parentheses illuminating his crotch.
So she stared. How could she not?
His cock jutted from its nest of red-blonde curls. She was entranced by its slight upward curve. The man shifted on his feet, and his cock bobbed and dipped like it was waving hello.
She licked her very dry, very numb lips.
“Oh, I see,” she said faintly. “Danger arouses you.”
The man’s large hands shot forward to cover his cock. “Danger does not—I was—” He let out a growl like a bear denied its honey. “I was dreaming.”
“Dreaming about what? Your mother?”
The silence that followed was thicker than a church door.
On one very sane level, Imogen knew it was dangerous to taunt a naked man. Especially when her only means of defense was halfway across the room. But this man had invaded her space. And when had she ever done as expected? Her muscles coiled, ready to spring into action should the man move one hairy toe in her direction. Instead, he broke into boisterous laughter.
“I should have known the owner of this cabin would be a rare bird.”
Biting back her own smile, Imogen finally stopped staring at the man’s solid thighs and met his gaze. An instant later, the room went fuzzy at the edges and her fingers flew to her parted lips.
It had been years since she’d last seen those brilliant blue eyes, but she’d know them anywhere. They belonged to the boy who’d chased away the cruel children teasing her when she was ten years old. The boy who picked her book out of the mud and asked her what it was about. The boy who turned out to be the son of the new hired help, and who had transformed her lonely existence into something exhilarating. Who had been her best friend for six, wonderful years…until he’d broken her heart.
“Tommy?”
The man’s good humor evaporated like water hissing on a hot iron. “Move forward,” he barked. “Show your face.”
Shoving to her feet, she resisted the temptation to smooth her rumpled hair or straighten her crooked coat. If there was one person on earth she needn’t bother to impress, it was Tommy. He’d see right through the attempt, anyway. She lifted her chin and stepped into the light.
“Imogen?”
Her stomach somersaulted at the thread of hope in his voice. “It’s me.”
His teeth worried at his full bottom lip as he continued to stare. The familiar, unconscious habit comforted her. Perhaps a glimmer of the boy she’d known—and loved—had survived after all this time. At last, his lips twisted into a half smile.
“Looks like you finally grew into those big eyes of yours.”
So that’s how he wanted to play their reunion. It didn’t really surprise her. Tommy had always shied away from discussing the harder things in life. Glossed right over them like a polished marble floor. As tempted as she was to flay him open, she would oblige. It would be a nice break from sobbing into her mountain of pillows.
“Too bad I can’t say the same about your ears.”
He barked out a laugh. “Diabolical as ever. That much hasn’t changed since I last saw you.”
The casual mention of one of the worst days of her life knotted her stomach. Her laugh was high pitched. “Goodness, I barely remember.”
Such acting deserved a medal.
“Yes, well…ahem.”
Her gaze, which had begun wandering the defined contours of his biceps again, snapped upward. Tommy’s lips curled into a smirk, and he tossed his unruly red hair back from his brow in a slow, deliberate movement. He widened his stance, various muscle groups bunching and flexing, and her mouth watered. It was as if he knew she wouldn’t be able to look away. Like he was inviting her to admire every inch of him.
“Permission to cover up? Or do you require more time to ogle me?” His words dripped with a roguish irreverence that sent a delicious shiver down her spine.
What was she supposed to do with this version of her former friend? The gangly, troubled young man had been replaced with a virile, cocky man who bothered her. Who inflicted chaos on her nervous system and roused her hunger for a man’s touch. His touch, damn him.
“By all means.” She snuck one last peek at his sculpted chest before turning around. Clasping her hands behind her back, she distracted herself from the intimate sounds of him dressing by staring at the hole in the ceiling. As if willpower alone would patch it right up. “What are you doing out here?”
“Business.”
“What sort of business?”
There was movement in the corner of her eye, and she tilted her head slightly to see what he was doing. He was crouched on the floor in his union suit, and he was placing what looked like a shiny satchel under her bed. He fluffed a blanket and laid it casually on top to hide it from view.
“I manage a bookshop.”
Imogen was glad he couldn’t see her expression, which most likely resembled a soprano who had forgotten the next note. But how had he gone from barely literate when she’d known him to running a bookshop? The dogged determination required for such a feat staggered her. Made her feel…proud. But why would a bookshop manager need to hide a satchel under her bed?
“You can turn around now.”
She snapped her mouth shut and faced him with a raised brow. “All those afternoons we spent working on the alphabet must have paid off.”
“They did,” he said in a tone she couldn’t quite decipher. “More than you know, Genie.”
Genie.
The nickname he’d given her after she’d helped him stumble through her copy of Arabian Nights. He’d claimed that since she’d appeared in his life like a mystical being, she owed him three wishes. But they’d run out of time.
“You never did get those wishes,” she said, slowly drowning in his cerulean eyes. His expression contorted, as if assailed by the same multitude of memories as she was, and he took a step closer. Her breath caught.
Then he broke their gaze, rubbing a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “I never could decide between giving the mayor horns or resurrecting a ghost ship.”
She forced another laugh. Hunted for something to say. “Where are your trousers?”
If she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she might have missed the mask that slid over his face. It dulled his features into a polished facade, the guise of an accomplished salesman. Or a liar.
“My horse spooked and threw me into a ravine. By the time I extracted myself, he was gone.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “Why were you riding in your underwear?”
He met her stare without flinching. “There was a disturbance at my accommodations, and I had to leave in a rush.”
“You’re the redheaded scoundrel they’re talking about in town?”
The mask slipped. “What do you mean?”
“When Aunt Judith dropped off fresh supplies this morning, she also shared some scintillating gossip. Apparently, Mrs. Wigglesbottom has a long-winded tale about a guest who made her daughter promises, then slipped away before an engagement could be secured. Then there’s the stableboy, who claims the same man lulled his watch dogs to sleep by waving his hand and muttering an incantation. And let’s not forget the baker, who swears the scoundrel stole three loaves of bread and his wife’s Christmas present on the way out.” She swallowed a chuckle. Trust Tommy to get caught up in something so ridiculous. “I wonder which parts are true.”
Tommy, however, didn’t smile. “Is someone looking for me? Genie, I swear I didn’t touch that girl.”
Despite the painful way their relationship ended, Imogen knew in her heart he spoke the truth. Even if he had always lived by his own moral code, those weaker than himself were always treated kindly. She’d seen it too many times to discount it.
“I know,” she said finally. “But that doesn’t mean you can hide out here.”
“Of course not. I only need a favor.” His tone grew smoother and more persuasive with every word. “A wish granted, if you will.”
Her lips pressed into a firm line. He was using his charm on her? “What do you want? To go back in time and answer all the letters I sent you from boarding school?”
He winced, then tried to cover it by moving to stand before the snowflake-taped window. “I was obeying your father’s order to leave you alone.”
“Not that tired excuse again,” she scoffed.
“Don’t blame me for your family’s snobbery. What was it he said? Ah, yes. ‘Keep your filthy, ill-bred hands off my daughter.’”
“If you’d waited to kiss me until after my birthday party, we never would have ended up in that position!” He waved a dismissive hand in the air, and she gritted her teeth. “Just tell me what you want.”
“Clothing.” His words were clipped. “I must reach Seattle as quickly as possible.”
“Afraid Miss Wigglesbottom will come to demand your hand in marriage?”
“Among other things.”
The hidden satchel flashed across her mind. She sighed and shook her head. Fate had clearly made a mistake bringing them back together. She couldn’t possibly heal from her recent setbacks with Tommy’s presence opening up old wounds. Besides, the oaf would put a serious dent in the time allocated for wallowing.
The words yes, of course, the sooner the better were on the tip of her tongue, but she paused. His profile was lit by the glow of the afternoon sun, softening his rough edges while casting others in shadow. As she stared, colors became more vibrant, textures more pronounced. Something stirred in her breast, and she tilted her head to the side to consider its significance.
Before the recent onslaught of rejections, she’d been sure of herself and her art. She’d even signed herself up for the Seattle Photography Exhibition, a fast-approaching event that put her images alongside those of the nation’s best photographers. A successful showing could catapult her name nationwide. Failure would ensure she slipped into obscurity, cursed to take boring family portraits for the rest of her life.
And she had nothing to show.
Her workstation in the corner of the room was stacked with rejected glass plates. Each one uninspired, dull, second-rate. Solitude was supposed to provide clarity. Galvanize her imagination. Instead, she’d lain around scratching her stomach and contemplating how bread dough worked. A half-written letter of withdrawal sat beside the plates, though she hadn’t yet found the strength to finish it.
But as she stared at Tommy, so effortlessly elegant and photogenic in nothing but his underwear, her muse, dormant for weeks, stretched with catlike grace inside her. Perhaps this morsel of inspiration was fate’s apology for bringing him back into her life? A gift to explore once she was alone again?
“What do you say, Genie? Ready to finally grant me my wish?”
The smug, calculating look in his eye told her he expected her to fall at his feet, just like she had when she was a naïve sixteen-year-old. Unfortunately for him, she’d learned her lesson only too well. Not only that, she was more than prepared to use his own tactics against him.
“I’ll give you all the clothing you need.” Her smile was mostly teeth. “After you tell me what’s in your satchel. You know, the one you hid when I wasn’t looking.”