me.” She batted at the snow on her jeans. “I saw five guys crammed into the front seat.”
“Sheriff’ll pick them up. You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“Why?” She probed her temple. “Am I bleeding?”
“Hope not. I can rescue your vehicle, but I’m not so good with blood.”
Love the voice, she thought again, and looked closer. From what she could see of his face, he had an incredible pair of hazel eyes.
Beside them, the Land Rover groaned and slid another few inches downward.
“Uh…” Although she wanted to make a grab for the door handle, Sasha regarded his SUV instead. “Now might be a really good time for that rescue.”
“I’ll get the cable. Can you turn my truck around?”
If she couldn’t, her father, who’d been designing North American race cars for thirty years, would disown her.
Drawing up the hood of her coat, Sasha crunched through a frozen drift to the driver’s-side door. Six more payments. That’s all she had left on the four-wheel drive vehicle her mother had warned her not to buy. She glanced skyward for the second time. “If you have any compassion, you won’t let her find out about this.”
The stranger’s truck was blissfully warm, the passenger seat strewn with papers, files, a laptop computer and various other electronic gadgets. A badge sat front and center on the dash. Under it she glimpsed a photo driver’s license. Too curious to resist, Sasha regarded the badge. Denver PD. Now what would a Denver cop be doing in the northernmost part of the state. Then she extracted the license and the question slipped away.
“Wow.” Stunned, she studied the man’s picture. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous was all she could think, and, God, this probably wasn’t even a good shot.
She scanned the personal info. Dominick Law. Thirty-six years old; six feet two inches tall; brown hair—too long, but also gorgeous; hazel eyes; one hundred and seventy pounds. That would make him tall and lean as well as stunning.
His features were positively arresting, on the narrow side and highlighted by a great mouth, a straight nose and the hint of a dimple in his right cheek.
“Okay, not good.” As if singed, her fingers dropped both badge and license back on the dash. “You’re on a business trip, Sasha. It’s no time to mimic Mommy dearest.”
As a distraction, she set the wipers in motion and watched Detective Gorgeous hook the cable to the winch and secure the other end to her rear bumper.
Blustery gusts buffeted the windshield and almost blotted out the sight of her tilted vehicle. She waited for his signal, then maneuvered the truck around and revved the engine. Officer Law kept it very well tuned.
All in all, it took them less than ten minutes to get her Land Rover back on level ground. Well, relatively level. The ruts were treacherous underfoot, and the driving snow stung her eyes.
With her hood up, Sasha worked her way back to him. “You’re a lifesaver, Detective.”
“Saw the badge, huh?” Crouching, he checked the cable. “You’re good to go now, Ms…”
“Myer. Sasha.” She caught her hood before it blew down. “Just Sasha.”
“Nick.”
“I’m really happy to meet you, Nick.” Then she noticed a dent in the front end of her Rover and bent to inspect it. “That better be fixable.” She went to her knees, peered underneath. “Did you see any damage?”
“Other than the dent, no. Where are you headed?”
“Painter’s Bluff.”
His amazing eyes grew speculative. “You have blond hair, don’t you?”
“Courtesy of my Swedish grandmother. Why?” Amusement kindled in her as she stood, a mood she couldn’t discern in the serious detective. “Are blondes illegal in Painter’s Bluff?”
“Apparently you never saw Skye Painter in her prime.”
Sasha smiled. “You mean she’s not in her prime now? Could have fooled me. I’m going to be working for her, on her resort.” She gestured into the blizzard. “Up on Hollow-back Mountain.”
“You’re a contractor?”
“Architect. Beat, Streete and Myer. We’re new but extremely innovative, or so our PR claims.”
“Do you work out of Denver?”
The cop tone surprised her. “I do, yes. Is that a problem, Detective Law?”
His lips took on a slight curve. “Beautiful women are usually a problem—one way or another.”
Unperturbed, she widened her smile. “Sounds like the voice of bad experience to me. Thanks again for your help. Now if you’ll unhook us, we can both be on our way.”
His stare seemed to penetrate her skin and made her want to step back. She held her ground and his gaze. “Have I broken a law, Detective?”
“It’s Nick, and not that I know of.”
“Then I can go.”
“If your vehicle cooperates.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t damaged.”
“That I can see. The proof will be in the drive.”
“Unless we freeze to death first. Neither of us is dressed for this.”
He half smiled. “Tell you what. You take my truck into Painter’s Bluff, and I’ll check out your Land Rover.”
Because her teeth were going to chatter in a minute, and he was, after all, a cop, Sasha went with the suggestion. “I’m staying at the hotel.”
“Which one?”
“There are two?”
“Three. Skye Painter’s Mountain House, the Hollowback Inn and Annie’s Barn on the edge of town.”
For a moment, Sasha forgot to be cold, and laughed. “Let me guess, Annie ran a bordello, right?”
“Rumor has it Butch and Sundance were regulars.”
“Spoken like a proud local.” She tipped her head. “And yet your badge says Denver PD. Are you a man of mystery, Nick Law?”
“I have my moments. You’re at Mountain House, right?” At her nod, he walked her back to his truck and opened the door. “I’ll go first. Once you’re settled you’ll need to see Sheriff Pyle about the guys who sideswiped you.” His eyes caught hers and held.
Sasha shivered. She had the ridiculous feeling that he was stripping away her clothing piece by piece. It felt sexual, and yet it didn’t, exciting in a kinky sort of way, but unnerving at the same time. And just plain weird all around.
Before she could comment, he’d pulled off his glove and caught her chin between his thumb and fingers. “Drive safely, Sasha Myer, and don’t stop for anyone.”
Then he was gone, and she was alone in a stranger’s truck in the middle of a blizzard, with Bruce Springsteen pouring from the speakers.
Gorgeous and odd. What was she getting herself into up here?
“YOU’RE NOT NICK.”
Barely five feet through the front door of Mountain House, Sasha found herself nose to nose with a blond man in his mid-thirties. He wore jeans, a pale blue shirt and a sheepskin vest. Sky-blue eyes traveled past her to the snowy street, then returned to give her a thorough head-to-toe assessment.
“I’d know that black 4x4 anywhere. Why are you driving it?”
In the warmth of the rustic lobby Sasha pushed back