his low rider with women of easy virtue. Years of barroom brawls and morning afters spent in the cool-down tank at the local sheriff’s office. Years of fast living and hard times.
He smiled the grin that his ex-wife had told him would drive fear into the heart of the devil himself, and drawled in that deep Texan accent his daddy had taught him to use on a stubborn woman. “Darlin’, it involves me, you and a warm, dry room.”
Two
Miranda wrestled with the instinctive urge to bolt. The prospect of being lost in the woods seemed less frightening then being caught alone with this man. His sexy tempting grin, and soft drawling voice signaled trouble. Those chocolate-colored eyes saw right through her limited defenses.
“What?” she asked, stalling for time.
Her heart raced and her body sent fight-or-flight signals to her brain. Calm down. He’s just a man. She bit back the hysterical laughter she felt welling in the back of her throat. He was so much more than just a man. And she knew it all the way to her guarded inner soul.
Using the composure she’d cultivated to use on the tough good-old-boy-network customers, she said, “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Romero. I’m not...”
He silenced her with a long look, boldly roaming her face then traveling slowly all the way down her shivering body. The diamond stud in his ear winked at her, catching the fire from a jagged streak of lightning.
A crooked smile creased his face. Something changed in the air around her and in the intent in his eyes. What had frightened her earlier?
“I meant dinner, darlin’. Maybe some dry clothes. Nothing more.”
His casual shrug made a mockery of her fear. Get a grip, she warned—he wasn’t interested in anything more than getting her out of the storm. Stealing a glance at her sodden attire, she cringed. Wet cloth adhered to her skin like a diecast mold, clinging to her body to reveal what she’d hoped to have hidden. She looked like the loser in a wet T-shirt contest.
“Okay,” she said, hoping to sound more confident than she felt. Going toe-to-toe with a disgruntled business manager or arguing the finer points of tax laws she could handle. But on the basic man-to-woman interchanges, she was at a loss.
She wrapped her arms around her middle, feeling too exposed. Fatigue stole around her like cold on a winter’s day, sapping her strength. What she really wanted was a bed to climb into and her comfortable sweats so that she’d be warm again. She wondered what it would be like if she stayed in the cabin with this warm, sexy man.
She cast a nervous glance in his direction. Luke stared out at the rain. It was obvious he’d already dismissed her from his mind. She wished he were as easily banished from her thoughts.
She’d never been this aware of a man before. No man had ever sparked a deep response in her. But Luke Romero was different. She wanted to know more about him. Why live on the top of a mountain? Why wear cowboy boots and a Stetson in a log cabin? Why help her though it was obvious he guarded his privacy?
His body heat radiated out to her in waves reminding her that it was still raining. She wanted to go closer to him and absorb his warmth into her tired body. She wanted to lean against him, to feel herself surrounded by him. Wait a minute, Miranda. No man who offered his support would want a woman who had nothing to give in return.
He opened the door, gesturing for her to step inside with a quick jerk of his head. So much for country charm.
She hesitated. Her mother had drilled into her at a very young age not to come into the house wet. “I’m soaked.”
He glanced down, apparently noticing the puddle at his feet for the first time. He’d left his Stetson in the cab of his truck. The incongruity of a fully dressed man with wet hair probed her imagination.
“Close your eyes,” he commanded. The man was obviously used to being in charge.
She gulped. Had he somehow peeked into her mind and read her lecherous thoughts. “Why?”
“I’m going to strip out of these wet clothes and go find something dry for us to wear.”
I’m going to have a heart attack, she thought. She stared at him unsure of her own reactions. In a shaking voice, she said, “I have dry clothes in my car.”
“I’ll go get them. Which bag?”
“The green-striped canvas one on the passenger seat.” She reached into her pocket, pulling out her key ring. “It’s the big square one.”
He loped down the steps and back out into the rain. Miranda tried not to stare at him. But the image of bunching leg muscles and buttocks stayed firmly in her mind. What did his bare legs look like? His chest had a light mat of hair. Would his legs be hairy? What color was the hair? Stop it! she ordered herself.
While she waited, she studied the porch. A battered lawn chair stood guard in one corner and a basket with wood shavings lay in the other. The place was neat and tidy. She wasn’t surprised. He looked like a man who avoided clutter.
He returned a minute later with her overnight bag slung over his shoulder. She shivered as the cold, wet wind gusted up onto the scant shelter of his porch. A wave of heat seemed to come alive and stretch out of the open door, reaching around her body. Luke nudged her closer to the doorway, but she hesitated.
Luke reached around her and grabbed a worn, dry poncho from somewhere inside the cabin. “Drape this over yourself while you take off those wet clothes.”
She hesitated before reaching for the garment. Her fingers brushed the back of his hand and a shiver coursed through her body. He stepped back.
“Turn around,” he said, the drawl in his voice lower and deeper than before.
She hesitated.
“I mean now, darlin’. Get changed.” The sharp command bore little resemblance to that soft teasing tone of just moments earlier.
She pivoted away from him and stood rooted to the spot like a hundred-year-old sequoia. There was no mistaking the sound of his zipper opening. She pictured him as he’d been earlier in his bath, chest and back naked. Still she couldn’t force her fingers to move. Oh, God, help me.
“I’m not watching you, darlin’. You can get changed.” Again the words were smooth as honey dripping over her skin. She sighed, wishing for a tenth of his confidence and ease in this situation.
His soft, drawling voice tiptoed down her spine like a cat burglar in an art museum. She heard him walk inside the house and stood there for a moment longer. The night was cold and damp.
Come on, coward, get changed.
She dropped her wet clothing on the floor by her feet and pulled on the clean underwear and khakis. She bent, digging through her bag before she unearthed the long-sleeved thermal top.
Dropping the poncho to the floor, she pulled her shirt over her head and finger combed her wet hair. She peeked into the cabin and found Luke by the fireplace, adding wood to the fire. He’d changed into a flannel shirt and wheat-colored jeans. The cigar he’d put out earlier was lit and clenched between his teeth. Its fragrance now familiar to her.
Stepping over the threshold, she quietly closed the door behind her. Heat seeped through her clothes and into her skin, warming her completely.
The exposed-beam cabin welcomed her like a pair of worn shoes, knowing the fit and feel of her feet. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall of the cabin. Plate glass windows lined another and a bank of glass doors the final. The effect was one of openness. Miranda imagined that on a clear night the stars would seem to be within arms’ reach, almost touchable.
A winding staircase led to an open loft, and though the cabin had a definite masculine feel to it, she’d never felt more at home. Not even in the sophisticated home of her childhood or the trendy little condo she’d spent a large chunk of her savings on. She sighed, moving closer to the fire