Snowbound

Lizzie—one of my sisters—was such a brat.”

“That would be normal. Cheerful, willing and

thirteen? Call the therapist.”

She was pleased by the smile that transformed his

face from remote to rakish.

“You’re the expert.” He reached into her trunk for her

bag. “Just the one?”

“What d’ye mean, just the one? Airlines would reject

it. It must weigh sixty pounds.”

He grunted as he heaved it out of the trunk. “You

know, we do have laundry facilities here.”

She poked him with her elbow, and he laughed out

loud.

The limp was more evident weighted down as he was,

and she saw him wince climbing the steps to the porch,

but she knew better than to offer to take the bag from him.

Besides…she’d had a heck of a time hoisting it into her

trunk. She wasn’t lying; the darn thing felt as if she’d

filled it with books instead of just her winter boots, ski

pants and wool sweaters as well as plenty of changes of

clothes. Okay, and a few books. Presumably she’d have

to entertain herself some of the time while he worked.

Inside, heat radiated from the enormous fireplace.

The room, too, looked just as she remembered it, except

there were strange people here. Unjust, perhaps, but for

a moment she resented them, wanting to see Dieter and

Erin and yes, even Amy instead of the middle-aged

woman who lifted her head from a book and nodded,

the kids who played checkers at the table, the couple

strolling in from the kitchen.

“A new guest?” the woman, not much older than

Fiona, asked with a pleasant smile.

“In a way,” she said, smiling in return. “I’m actually

a friend of John’s.”

“Oh, how nice. You’ll be here for Christmas, then?”

When she nodded, the woman sighed. “We’re leaving

on the twenty-fourth. Unfortunately. You know the drill.

His family Christmas Eve. Mine Christmas Day.

Neither satisfied.”

Fiona had friends with the same problem, so she

nodded sympathetically.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll see you around.” They started

up the stairs to their room.

The moment of truth had only been delayed. Here it

was, inescapable.

Face utterly expressionless, voice equally so, John

asked, “Shall I take your bag upstairs?”

But she’d known the answer from the moment she

saw him. “Your room is fine.” Her boldness evaporated.

“That is, if…um, that’s what you intended…”

The sudden heat in his eyes all but scorched her.

“Hoped. Not intended. If you’d be more comfortable

having your own room…”

Still shy, knowing her cheeks must glow, she shook

her head.

John made a sound that didn’t quite take shape as a

word, then started for the back of the lodge pulling her

gigantic suitcase behind him. Fiona had to trot a couple

of steps to catch up and reach the swinging door to the

kitchen before him to hold it open.

Three more people sat at the long table eating, a

solitary older man reading and a couple laughing just

before they turned their heads to see who’d come into

the kitchen.

Even as she exchanged greetings with them, she was

startled by the dismay she felt. All she wanted was to

be alone with John. Being alone was going to be a chal196

lenge. They couldn’t just go into his apartment, close

the door and…well, do anything, not when they knew

there were people right here in the kitchen.

He didn’t seem to give a damn. The moment the

door shut behind Fiona, John yanked her into his arms.

“Your guests…”

“To hell with ’em.”

This kiss was hungry, raw. He had her plastered

against him, and she tried to squeeze even closer. His

tongue drove into her mouth, sliding against hers. She

whimpered, he groaned. His hair was thick, coarse silk

in her clutching hand, the muscles in his shoulder

powerful and bunched.

Somebody knocked on the door and they both froze.

John lifted his head to mumble a profanity. Fiona

rested her forehead against his chest and seized the

chance to breathe.

“Do you know where he is?” they heard a muffled

voice ask.