Authors: Sherryl Woods
He shrugged, but there was a soft light in his eyes as he said gently, “If I had the answer
to that one, it might scare us both to death.”
Lindsay's expression grew even more puzzled. “Then you're not sure?”
“Nope,” he admitted.
“But you seem so confident. It's as though you're in on a secret and haven't told me.”
“I think the gods are the only ones in on the secret at this point. I only know that some instinct tells me I shouldn't let you get away.”
“Do you always trust your instincts?”
He hesitated for a moment and Lindsay saw all sorts of emotions race across his face. “I do now,” he said quietly.
There was something in the way he said those three words, so solemnly and with such great sadness, that touched Lindsay's heart. “Didn't you always?”
“No. Once I was too caught up in my writing to pay any attention to my instincts.”
“And something happened?”
“Something happened,” he said tersely, his eyes growing cold. She could sense him withdrawing into some distant time and place and knew it was the end of the discussion
even before he turned and called to the waitress for the check.
As they drove out of Denver, Mark kept up a running commentary on the scenery, much of which was veiled by a hazy fog. But as they neared Boulder, the fog lifted and Lindsay could see the snow-covered mountains rising majestically like a scenic designer's well-executed backdrop for the town huddled at the bottom. It was picturesque, truly impressive, in fact. She could appreciate it aesthetically. She'd just prefer to appreciate it on a postcard or from a very long distance...say 500 miles or so south.
They headed straight for a shopping mall and by midafternoon, ignoring Lindsay's protests that it was a waste of money to be buying clothes for a once-in-a-lifetime ski trip, Mark had her in a shop being fitted for boots, cross-country skis, a wonderfully warm down jacket with matching pants, jeans, another sweater, color-coordinated knit cap and mittens, and long underwear.
Lindsay held up the thick, thermal underwear and regarded it with disgust. “This is the most hideous, unfeminine excuse for lingerie I've ever seen.”
Mark's eyes gleamed wickedly. “Do you want to be warm or sexy?”
“Both. I can do that in Los Angeles.”
“You're in Boulder.”
“A mistake I'm still trying to figure out how I made.”
“You couldn't resist my offer?” he suggested, giving her a bold wink. The sales clerk practically swooned at Mark's feet. It was apparently a reaction he was used to, because he didn't even seem to notice it. Lindsay glowered at him and thought of suggesting that he take the obviously infatuated clerk skiing with him. But there was the contract and she still had a little glimmer of hope that she could get him to sign it, if she played along with him for just a while. If she had to stand around in the snow for a few hours, she could do it. She'd hate it, but she could do it.
“Good point,” she replied, then inquired brightly, “When are we going to start talking about the contract?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Before you go back to L.A.”
Lindsay's eyes lit up. “There's a flight tonight.”
“Not that soon. Go try on the clothes.”
The jeans and sweater were no problem, but when she came out of the dressing room a few minutes later in the ski clothes, she had a scowl on her face. There was a strange light, a gleam of approval in Mark's eyes and he was grinning at her. He tugged the cap down until it covered her ears.
“I look like an overstuffed sausage,” she grumbled.
“You look cute, the perfect snow bunny.”
“You have a distorted mind.”
“It helps when you're writing,” he said, then turned to the sales clerk. “We'll take everything.”
Before Lindsay could blink, he'd paid for the purchase in cash and whisked her out the door.
“Is Morrie paying for this?” she asked hopefully. It would serve him right. The things had cost a fortune, maybe not as much as a trip to Monte Carlo, but there were far fewer strings attached...she hoped.
“Nope. It's a present from me.”
“I don't want any presents from you.” Especially not clothing that was suitable only for slightly daft individuals who thought slipping
and sliding around outdoors with a wind-chill factor below zero was great sport.
“Don't be ungrateful. It's not becoming.”
“It's no less becoming than this ridiculous outfit.”
“Tell the truth,” he demanded. “Weren't you warmer when we came out to the car?”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“Then the clothes are serving their purpose. I consider it money well spent.”
Lindsay shrugged. “It's your money.”
“Exactly.”
“I don't see why we couldn't just sit in front of the fire this afternoon and drink hot chocolate. Maybe fix some popcorn.”
The idea held a certain romantic appeal that she didn't care to analyze too closely.
“Later,” he promised, twisting around to gaze at her huddled against the door of the car. The look in his eyes offered far more intriguing possibilities than hot chocolate and popcorn.
“We've got a whole weekend ahead of us. We'll get around to everything, bright eyes.” He smiled at her lazily and those dimples set her heartbeat fluttering crazily again. “All in good time.”
Lindsay suddenly decided a good romp in the snow was exactly what she needed. It would encase her heart in ice again. Despite the blasts of wind that had frozen her ears and the snow that had chilled her toes, her damn heart had been thawing all afternoon.
O
nce they had left the edge of town, it took nearly another hour to reach Mark's house. By Lindsay's standards that put it in an isolated wilderness, albeit a Christmas-card-perfect setting complete with snow-covered pine trees and rolling fields that bore not a single footprint to mar the pristine beauty. The silence there was overpowering, and she knew enough about writers to understand why the utter peacefulness of the location might appeal to Mark. She also knew herself well
enough to realize that it was going to be all she could do to keep from going stir-crazy in such an environment even with the intriguing, infuriating Mark Channing to keep her company.
With Mark clearly anxious to get her onto skis before she could rally a satisfactory defense, she barely had time to glance around the interior of the house, which was all stone and glass and rough-hewn wood. It seemed to blend right into the natural setting, as though it had been put there by God's hand, not man's. The floors were covered with lovely, hand-woven Indian carpets, except in front of the fireplace, where there was a huge, oddly lumpy sheepskin rug.
To Lindsay's utter astonishment, the rug rippled a bit like the surface of a pond, then staggered to its feet. The largest, shaggiest dog she had ever seen meandered over to Mark, wagged its tail once and licked his hand in a sort of low-key welcome that brought an immediate smile to her lips.
“Shadow, this is Lindsay,” Mark said as the dog cocked its head and looked at her. At least she thought he was looking at her. His
dark, button eyes were shaded by a thick fringe of shaggy fur.
She held out her hand and Shadow sniffed it politely, then, bored with his effort to greet the newcomers, wandered back toward the fire and flopped down again, obviously no longer interested in their presence in what was clearly his domain.
“You leave him here alone?” she asked incredulously, adding dryly, “Does he cook his own meals and build his own fires?”
Mark grinned. “Of course not. Mrs. Tynan looks after him. She brought him back up here today. She lit the fire and probably stocked the refrigerator as well, if I know her. When I stopped by to see her this morning on my way to pick you up, I told her I was bringing a lovely guest back with me.”
“Is Mrs. Tynan your housekeeper?”
“Hardly. You'll meet her. She runs the general store about a mile from here. She's a crusty old gal, who talks like she could bite nails in two, but she's got a heart a mile wide.”
There was a warm note in Mark's voice that suggested Mrs. Tynan was someone very special to him. But Lindsay knew something
about small, tight-knit environments. Gossip ran rampant and, if an efficiency expert had done a flow diagram of its path, it would have led right back to someplace like a general store. The idea did not exactly cheer her. This visit was awkward enough, with its increasingly disturbing mix of personal and business implications, without adding all sorts of interested local speculation about who Mark Channing might be romancing now.
“You told the woman who runs the general store that you were bringing me here?” Lindsay asked with evident dismay. “Why on earth would you do something like that?”
“Well, I didn't exactly give her your name, occupation and physical description. Just the general idea. Anything more, she assumed herself,” he countered lightly, then taunted, “She'd have found out about you soon enough anyway. She's been trying to get me married off for several years now. I'm sure she'll be thrilled to meet you.”
Despite her misgivings, a little flutter of excitement built in the pit of Lindsay's stomach at his casual reference to marriage. When she recovered from the unwanted, though definitely titillating reaction, she said tartly, “Not
when she finds out my only interest in you is limited to discovering how distinctively you can sign your name on a contract.”
Mark regarded her doubtfully. “That's your only interest?” he queried softly, taking a step that brought him within mere inches of her. That little flutter returned in full measure and her heart palpitated erratically as he provocatively trailed a finger down her cheek and across her lips. Dark eyes, glittering with amusement, challenged hers.
Lindsay's breath caught in her throat. She didn't dare risk speaking, so she merely nodded. It was less emphatic than she might have liked.
“Like hell,” he muttered disbelievingly, then walked off to put her suitcase in a room down the hall. She wished like crazy that her room was a minimum of four miles from his, but it looked like a very short hallway.
In the meantime she stood right where he'd left her, her feet planted so firmly in place she felt as if she'd been born and reared right there and might very well die there, if he touched her again like that and didn't do more. A whole lot more! A kiss would be a start, but only a start. She had a feeling that
once she was in Mark Channing's arms, she'd never want him to let go.
That
, Lindsay Tabor, she told herself sternly, is something you are not about to risk.
When he came back a moment later, he obviously noted that she hadn't budged and he smirked knowingly. “Let's go skiing, bright eyes.”
He said it in that low, seductive voice that could have lured her into crime, sin and most certainly anything less dangerous. Skiing fell somewhere in the middle. In fact, by comparison, it was beginning to seem infinitely safer and more appealing by the minute.
As it turned out, however, her original assessment had been the accurate one. The skiing experience was pretty awful; if anything, even more dreadful than she had anticipated it might be. Its only virtue, as far as she could see, was that it did get her out of that house where all sorts of newly imagined dangers suddenly loomed.
In the meantime, though, her nose was cold. Her feet refused to do what she told them, not that she could blame them since they were standing on long, skinny strips of
wood that skidded worse than bald tires. And her backside was frozen and sore from landing on it repeatedly.
They kept at the lesson for what seemed like an eternity, though in reality Lindsay knew that it was barely more than an hour. She kept telling herself she was scrappy, a born fighter, that she was not going to be defeated by a sport other people without her college education, law degree and responsible career could do as easily as walking. Even little bitty children could ski, she reminded herself in disgust as she toppled over again.
As a result of these internal pep talks, every time her skis shot out from under her, she got determinedly to her feet again and tried putting one foot cautiously in front of the other. As long as she simply picked them up and plunked them down, she did okay. But whenever she tried to glide in the smooth, easy motion that Mark had patiently demonstrated over and over, she felt as though she were out of control and, arms whirling frantically and futilely, down she went. She thought about making snow angels while she was down there, but she wasn't feeling the least bit angelic. Besides, Mark pulled her back up al
most immediately just so she could fall again. It confirmed her impression of his perversity.
“You'll do better tomorrow,” he consoled, finally taking pity on her and helping her back into the house, where Shadow lifted his head and thumped his tail once in greeting, then went right back to his nap.
“If I live,” she muttered, wishing she could go lie down in front of the fire and put her head on Shadow's back. She wondered if he'd mind or even notice. That dog seemed to need vitamins. On the other hand, he'd been inside in front of the fire, while she'd been outside freezing her tush off. It didn't take a genius to figure out which of them was in better shape physically and mentally.
“Once you've had a nice hot bath, you'll feel a whole lot better,” Mark assured her. He regarded her hopefully. “You have to agree it was beautiful out there this afternoon. That sky was something. I've never seen it so blue. Have you ever seen anything quite so gorgeous?”
“The beach at Maui,” she countered dryly, as she rubbed her icy hands together. They felt as though millions of tiny needles were
jabbing them. She'd almost liked it better when they were numb.
“It's hardly the same.”