Large stains of it marred the otherwise pristine carpet of white. There was, she noticed with a growing nausea, more than a dozen misshapen splotches leading up to, and away from, the front door. Even as she watched, the puddles spread wider, unevenly tainting the snow and melting into it with fresh heat.
The sound of glass shattering behind her propelled Murphy into action. Whoever was out there had broken the sliding glass door.
Reeboks were great, but they did nothing to keep feet warm and dry in blizzard conditions. Murphy learned that quickly as she bolted straight into the snowdrift, then straight out of it. Her attention never strayed from the snow-covered windshield of her decrepit VW. Even when she heard the heavy, staggered chase of footsteps closing in behind her.
Tom could tease her about the car all he wanted, but right now the ratty looking VW that was more parts rust than metal and paint looked like heaven.
The door handle felt like sculpted ice in her hand. The muscles in her shoulders screamed a protest as she wrenched the door open and tossed Moonshine into the driver's seat.
The overhead light had stopped working years ago; she didn't expect it to flick on and she wasn't disappointed as she scooted behind the steering wheel and slammed the door shut.
Murphy didn't glance at the house, didn't dare. She could feel the intruder's presence bearing down on her. With her elbow, she jammed down the lock on the driver's door. It was a two door car, so she only had to stretch to the right to punch the passenger door's lock down, too.
Then and only then did she allow herself a small sigh of relief. The biting cold air turned her breath to mist as she fumbled in her coat pocket for her…
“No. No!” Murphy punched her fist hard against the steering wheel. The blow rocked up her arm, past her shoulder. The pain didn't change anything. Moonshine meowed next to her, as though confirming what she'd already realized with a mounting sense of dread.
Her keys were in her coat pocket. Her coat was back in the house, draped atop her brother's bed in the master bedroom…where she'd tossed it an hour ago when she'd arrived.
A fist slammed against the window next to Murphy's head.
This time, she did scream. Loud and hard.
The second blow hit the window with enough force to threaten shattering the glass. She felt the vibrations of the blow in her fingers and palms as it ricocheted through the steering wheel she clutched in a death-grip.
“Open the door, lady. Now! I swear to God, if you don't, I'll put my fist right through this glass.”
The words were muffled by the car door separating them. They still managed to penetrate Murphy down to the shivering core.
Instinct made her look at the man who delivered a third, resounding blow to the driver's-side window. The glass was foggy from her breath, but not foggy enough to obscure the face that was so close to the window that his breath fogged the other side.
The man's skin was as pale as the snow dusting his shaggy, sandy brown hair. His eyes were narrow, a piercing shade of blue in the glow of moonlight glinting sharply off snow. The muscles in his cheeks were tight, the ones in the square line of his jaw bunched hard as he gritted his teeth and lifted his fist to pound the window a fourth time.
His fist didn't make it that far.
As she watched, the stranger winced and his fingers uncurled, splaying over the cold, snow-and breath-slickened glass. His palm was big and wide, obscuring his face from view. But not for long. He'd barely regained his balance when his hand, as though it couldn't stand the sudden burden of his weight, shifted and slid weakly down the slippery window.
Even over the raspy give and take of her breaths, Murphy heard him grunt. She watched the man's fingers coil loosely inward, his bluntly cut fingernails clawing the flakes of snow clinging to the outside of the glass before his hand dropped away entirely.
He collapsed to his knees. He didn't go down easily. In fact, he looked like he was fighting not only to stay conscious, but to get right back up.
It was a fight he lost.
Both his knees collided with the snow covered, frozen ground. His head snapped back, as though he'd been clipped in the jaw by an invisible fist.
His eyes opened, his gaze locking with Murphy's.
Through the breath-fogged glass, she watched as his eyelids reluctantly swooped down…a split second before he fell forward, face first in the snow beside her car.
Chapter 2
Murphy's Law #2: If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will cause
the most damage will go wrong first…
FIRE AND ICE.
Garrett felt both sensations equally as strong.
The former came from his right thigh—a burning pain that pulsed in time to his heartbeat and made his breath catch in his lungs. The latter emanated from everywhere else.
The phrase “cold to the marrow” took on a whole new meaning. He felt like he'd fallen asleep in the walk-in freezer at his father's grocery store. His left cheek was frigid and wet from the snow the wind kept blowing into his face. His right cheek…well, he couldn't feel that at all. It was a disquieting observation.
A noise grumbled in his ears. He frowned, concentrated, and realized it was actually two noises.
The first was the ratty chug-cough-chug of a car engine. Close by. The second was closer, and not easily recognized. It took him a second to recognize it as a groan; low, deep, scratchy. It took two more seconds to trace the sound back to himself.
The engine cut out. A car door opened, closed. Feet crunched over snow. Hesitated. Approached. The footsteps stopped close to his left side.
The heat of a body invaded his bomber jacket and denim-clad hip. Tensing instinctively, he felt a bolt of pain shoot up his right thigh. Higher. He groaned, and this time he knew he made the sound. Not that he cared. He hurt too much to care about much of anything.
A whisper of scent teased him. The aroma was subtle and soft. Soothing. Familiar, yet unplaceable. What was it…?
A full minute elapsed before something clicked in Garrett's naturally deductive mind and he pigeon-holed the smell.
Ivory Soap.
Ninety-nine point forty-four percent pure.
And it floats.
He sighed. All things considered, he must be in pretty bad shape indeed to be thinking about something so trivial at a time like this.
He cracked one eye open. It took longer than expected thanks to his lashes being wet, sticking together. His gaze was blurry; from pain, loss of blood, or the glare of a full moon on snow? He had no idea.
A movement out of the corner of his eye snagged his attention. Frowning, Garrett brought the stranger into focus.
A woman.
She looked fuzzy around the edges. With the moon at her back, he couldn't see much. Yet he saw enough. A quick glance assured him that: a) she was alone and, b) she wasn't armed.
He relaxed. Not a lot, but a bit.
Even her thick, baggy sweater couldn't conceal the feminine curves lurking beneath. Slender, but, he suspected, athletically firm. Since she was crouched beside him, it wasn't possible to tell her height. Intuition suggested she wasn't short, and his intuition was usually right on the mark.
“Where are you hurt?” Her voice, soft and a little too high, was edged with a ring of authority. He wondered if she was a school teacher, then just as quickly wondered why the hell he should care.
Where are you hurt? she'd asked. Everywhere, he wanted to say, but didn't. Instead, Garrett closed his eyes, concentrated on finding the root of pain that seemed to have no beginning or