Chapter Nine

DAY TWO

Maisa woke shivering. She wasn’t a morning person even at the best of times, and having spent the night on the foldout bed in Dyadya’s couch she wasn’t particularly rested.

And that didn’t even take into account that the cabin was freezing.

“Turn up the heat!” she yelled, pulling the blanket over her head.

There was no reply, which she didn’t even notice for a couple of minutes.

The blanket tickled her nose. Maisa sighed in exasperation and peeked out from beneath her cave. The room was light, so it was morning, but she didn’t see Dyadya. The old man liked to rise practically at the crack of dawn, and usually he was up well before Maisa woke. She could easily see into the kitchen from the couch and it was empty—even the coffeemaker wasn’t on. Dyadya liked his hot tea, but he kept an old Mr. Coffee on the counter for when she came to visit.

Maisa frowned. Maybe her uncle was beginning to take it easy as he aged. Or maybe he wasn’t feeling well.

Vague worry made her wrap the blanket around her shoulders, put on her glasses, and get up. She yelped when her bare feet hit the cold floorboards. Swearing under her breath she tiptoed to the little bathroom next to the kitchen. Empty. She peeked in Dyadya’s bedroom. His bed was already neatly made. Huh. The cabin was tiny. All that was left was another bedroom that had long ago been turned into a storage area—boxes, old electronics, bric-a-brac piled to the ceiling. Even so, a quick look proved Dyadya wasn’t there. Her breath misted in front of her face as she stood there blankly.

It was really hard to think without coffee.

A sudden pounding at the front door made Maisa jump, then she smiled in relief.

“Did you lock yourself out?” she called as she pulled open the door.

Powdery snow drifted across the threshold, pulled inward by the wake of the door. Outside everything had turned white—sky, ground, trees. Everything but Sam West, standing square on the thin concrete step, weight on one hip, hands shoved in the pockets of his parka, cowboy hat tilted over his eyes. Sam blazed in Technicolor.

For a moment she simply stared, as if his sudden appearance had made every thought vanish from her brain.

His electric blue eyes flicked up and down her body and she felt like every nerve had been zapped. Her brain kicked in, flailing in panic, and she was suddenly aware of two things. One, behind her, next to the foldout couch, was a suitcase that contained a fortune in diamonds. And two, she was wearing only a thin black sweater and pink panties under the blanket. Her pajamas had been in her suitcase—the one not holding diamonds.

She wasn’t entirely sure which realization was the more disturbing.

Maisa licked her lips. “What?” Her voice came out a raspy croak. Oh, lovely.

“Good morning to you, too, May.” A slow smile curved the corner of his lips and her gaze fixated on it helplessly. Jesus. Did the man’s every move have to reek of sex?

He stepped toward her and her eyes snapped up in alarm. “What? What?”

“Mind if I come in?”

Well of course she did, but she couldn’t figure out if it would be suspicious to deny him entry—or more suspicious to invite him in, given her antipathy. And as it turned out, it didn’t really matter anyway: Sam was advancing toward her, obviously intent on entering with or without her permission.

She moved before he could touch her and wordlessly pulled the door open wider. Then she abandoned the door altogether and turned to walk back into the house. Not an admission of defeat—a strategic retreat.

“George home?” She heard the door slam behind him. “I see his truck’s gone.”

“Nope.” She went straight into the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboard for the store-brand coffee Dyadya insisted was just the same as any name brand. He was utterly wrong, but she’d learned to live with bland coffee when she visited. At least it would be hot. And caffeinated.

She needed her brain working with Sam in the house.

“Your heat’s out.” His voice was closer and she saw out of the corner of her eye that he was lounging in the kitchen doorway. Despite the cold he’d half-unzipped his navy parka, revealing a light blue chamois shirt, the top button undone. She could see the base of his neck, looking strong and kind of like it wanted to be licked.

Not that she was looking.

Memories of last night’s debacle on the dance floor came flooding back. In the light of morning some of her life choices were glaringly poor.

Which didn’t stop her from clenching with desire.

Caffeine.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered in reply as she filled the glass carafe from the sink, studiously keeping her eyes on her hands. He wasn’t near her, but she still felt crowded in the galley kitchen, his big body barring the way out.

He sighed. “Know where George is?”

“Nope.”

“Know when he’ll be back?”

“Nope.” She concentrated very carefully on measuring coffee. After she’d returned from town last night she’d found Dyadya waiting up for her. He’d plied her with hot borscht and assured her once again that the weather would be better in the morning, they could make plans, go together, it would all be fine, and probably there had only been a very small mix-up. The diamonds? Oh no, he doubted very much that they were stolen.

Lying old coot. Where the hell was he?

Sam shifted and she was aware of every single molecule of air separating their bodies. “May. Was your uncle here last night?”

“Yes.” Maisa’s hand trembled just a bit. Ground coffee dusted the counter.

She ignored it as she ignored the man standing beside her. She could hear him breathing, slow and even. Patient and waiting. There wasn’t any reason for him to stay now. He’d come for George, apparently, not her, and George wasn’t here.

And she was being a bitch.

For a moment she wondered if he was going to finally break. If her hostility and one-word answers would drive him over the edge into walking out and leaving her.

Giving her up.

But he merely took a deep breath, his broad chest expanding, and let it out slowly. She’d never seen Sam West lose it—not even on that night. He used his cool, his ease, like other men used the threat of physical power: as a stone wall to keep everyone off. He was contained, controlled, but not tightly wound. The opposite, in fact. He was so loose-limbed, so damned relaxed, you might be fooled into thinking he hadn’t a care in the world. That he himself didn’t care.

Except she knew better. Once or twice—and last night—she’d thought she’d seen the ragged edges of his control. She’d always had the suspicion that Sam kept his deeper emotions well hidden precisely because they were so strong. Maybe even volatile. She shivered a little, and almost dropped the blanket at the thought—that under all that damned cool, there was a heaving miasma of white-hot heat.

That thought really, really shouldn’t have made her mouth go dry.

Maisa slammed the basket in the coffeemaker harder than necessary and hit the On button.

Damn Sam West and her own libido anyway.

The coffeemaker sat there, mute and with no green light.

She turned the power button off and back on again. Nothing happened.

“Your electricity’s out,” Sam drawled, oblivious to rejection, hatred, and something very like fear. “I told George he ought to get a backup generator.”

She looked at him finally. He’d opened the refrigerator door and was peering into the dark interior.

She felt really, really frustrated. “Well, shit.”

He shut the fridge door. “You’d better come to my cabin.”

“No.” She pouted at the dead coffeemaker. “Dyadya can deal with the stupid electricity when he returns. I’ll be fine until then.”

“It’s freezing in here, May.”

“I can build a fire in the fireplace.”

“You’ll suffocate yourself if you do,” he said, the gentleness in his voice making her want to throw something. “That chimney hasn’t been used for years. Doubt it’ll draw—it’s probably blocked with bird nests and such.”

“I can…” Her forehead wrinkled as she thought, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Her toes were beginning to ache from the cold linoleum. “I can put on my coat.”

He chuckled, his breath blowing across the fine hairs at her nape, and she realized that he’d snuck up on her while she wasn’t looking, her defenses down because of frozen toes and lack of caffeine.

“May,” he whispered, too close and too kind, “I came over because the storm dumped about a foot of snow last night and more’s coming today. You’re not going to get anyone out to fix your power today—or even tomorrow. You’ll be frozen before George comes back from wherever he ran off to. Come home with me.”

“No.”

His mouth tightened and she held her breath, wondering if this was finally it. Would he let it out, all those feelings he kept inside? She had to be driving him to the very edge of his control.

But he just reached out with one hand. She watched it approach and saw it: a tiny tremor, a small crack in his enormous defenses, and something in her crowed in triumph.

He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and she felt that minuscule tremor—the only physical symptom of what she was doing to him. “You’re coming with me, May. I’m not letting you stay here out of stubborn fear.”

That made her chin jerk, dislodging his fingers from her face. She glared. “I’m not afraid.”

He leaned close and his mouth was no longer kind or gentle. “You’re shit-scared out of your skin, sweetheart.”

“I—” She had a comeback, a really nasty one, too, but she was having trouble remembering it.

And then he stepped even closer, the slick material of his parka brushing up against the fuzz of the blanket she clutched over her heart. “You want me to prove it to you?”

No. Oh, no, she didn’t want that, thank you. Except… maybe she really did.

Her glare was made less effective by the sudden shiver that wracked her body. Still, she gave it her best. “I can’t just leave.”

His smile was slow and nearly sweet. Nearly being the operative word. “I’ve got coffee.”