That bitter wind couldn’t touch her. Not here.
She shifted in her cocoon, hesitant to open her eyes, wanting nothing more than to enjoy this sleepy, delicious warmth. A hazy memory told her she’d been very cold recently, making her exponentially appreciate the warmth.
She’d also been very, very hot—
Her eyelids popped open. She lay unmoving, staring onto patio doors that led onto a gray and white world. Snow fell heavily outside the doors, nearly shutting out the light of day.
She was in Alex Carradine’s house. She’d had sex with Mitchell’s son last night.
And it had been spectacular.
Panic trickled into her awareness. The memories of their heated, nighttime encounter played across her mind in graphic detail. Much to her horror, her pussy clenched in renewed desire.
Please God—say it didn’t really happen. Maybe it was just the mother of all wet dreams?
She threw back the sleeping bag and sat up. She was alone, but Alex’s lingering spicy scent informed her that her panic wasn’t created from a super-vivid dream. No…she really had fucked Alex as if her life depended on it last night. She really had become a creature she hardly recognized as herself, really had become transformed by raw lust.
The memory of their flame-gilded sexual encounter strangely seemed both hyper-realistic and dream-like at once. She recalled every touch, every uttered word, every nuance of ecstasy on Alex’s bold, handsome face as he drove into her body, and yet—it was as if it had happened to someone else, and she—Angeline—had watched in fascinated amazement.
She’d never known herself to be consumed by pure desire, so she couldn’t quite recognize this new facet of her personality. She recalled how she’d stared at her reflection in Alex’s bathroom mirror last night, both curious and horrified by the stranger she saw looking back at her.
What the hell was she going to tell Mitchell?
Hadn’t Alex implied that Mitchell had invited her up to his ski resort, knowing full well it would irritate Alex?
What if Alex had been intent on making love to her in order to dig at his father in return? What if they considered her nothing more than a pawn to be used in their family battle?
Panic twisted in her belly.
A thumping noise just outside the patio doors made her jump in alarm. Two large, dark forms emerged from the curtain of swirling snow. Angeline scurried out of the sleeping bags, alarmed at the idea of Alex seeing her wearing only his flannel shirt—which was stupid, of course, since he’d seen her in far less last night.
She glanced arou
nd the floor, desperately searching for her discarded clothing. By the time she located the garments draped over the back of the couch—Alex must have laid them there this morning—Angeline realized Alex wasn’t going to enter the patio doors, however. He must have just passed outside the doors on the way to wherever else he was going.
What could he be thinking, wandering around out there in a blizzard? Angeline thought as she hauled on her panties and jeans.
She hesitated before she unbuttoned the flannel shirt. Alex’s scent clung to the material. She experienced a nearly overwhelming desire to bury her face in the lapel.
From the direction of the garage, she heard a door bang open and noises like something being dragged across the concrete floor. Was he scraping the snow and ice off his boots? She frantically finished unbuttoning the shirt and hurried into her bra and sweater. She was making her way toward the kitchen, her heart seemingly lodged somewhere near her tonsils, when the back door opened, and Alex entered.
Angeline paused next to the lunch counter, her arms wrapped around herself in a defensive posture. He’d removed his coat, hat and boots already and wore a dark blue flannel shirt and jeans. She recognized her black duffel bag hanging on his shoulder. He set it down and ran his fingers through his short, dark hair, still unaware of her observance.
“Good morning,” Angeline croaked through a dry throat when he glanced up and saw her standing there. His gaze dropped slowly over her body. His dark brows knitted together as if in puzzlement—or irritation, she couldn’t tell which.
“Good morning,” he said eventually as he came farther into the kitchen. “Did you just get up?”
Angeline’s cheeks heated when she met his direct, blue-eyed gaze. Why did his stare always make her feel so naked? She nodded.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?” he asked.
Again, she nodded, temporarily unable to speak.
He opened up a cupboard and withdrew two mugs. “I got your stuff from your SUV.”
“I see that. Thank you. You really shouldn’t have gone out in the storm. You might have gotten lost.”
He stood at the stove, pouring coffee into the cups. His only response to her statement was to shrug his broad shoulders. He glanced up at her face as he handed her the mug. Some ice crystals clung to his dark goatee. She resisted an urge to feel them melting beneath her stroking finger.