In The Arms Of A Stranger. Kristen Robinette

gone easy on the questions because of it. She was grateful. It was only natural that someone in his position would be anxious—obligated even—to sort out the details of the accident. And again he’d used that soft, hypnotic voice. She realized that, intentional or not, he used it when he wanted to soothe her or needed her cooperation.

      Like now.

      At first she was reluctant, but talking about the events surrounding the accident proved easier than she’d imagined, likely because she’d relived it in her head countless times already. And each time she relived it, certain details grew clearer, jumped out at her. Her years as a reporter were probably to blame. She’d reported on and written about catastrophic events for so many years that certain dramatic details tended to jump out at her, stick in her memory, even when she would rather they didn’t.

      This was similar, she realized, as she recited the events to Luke for at least the third time. The one detail that kept emerging, each time with more intensity, was that the mother had been drinking. She was surprised to hear the anger in her voice. She hadn’t realized how angry she was at the infant’s mother until now. But she was. Because of one reckless decision, a little boy would grow up without a mother.

      Just as she had.

      Finally weary of her own voice, she stilled, waiting for Luke’s response. It was slow in coming, and when it did it was that same, controlled voice that made her feel as if she was his entire focus.

      “I’m glad you and the baby are okay.” The words were a near whisper in the darkness. No questions. No commentary.

      Maybe it was the purging of the details, but Dana was suddenly so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. She propped her cheek against the pillow and watched the baby as he slept.

      “Lie down next to him.” Luke’s voice vibrated with some emotion that Dana didn’t recognize. “He could use your body heat until the room warms.”

      Dana eased her shoulders to the mattress and curled her body around the baby’s. She felt drugged by his nearness, by the sweet, sound sleep that possessed him. In the back of her mind she recognized that the adrenaline that had saved their lives was now depleted.

      As she closed her eyes, the last image she saw was of Luke standing at the window. Standing guard.

      Luke heard the gentle sound of Dana’s breathing and knew she’d drifted off to sleep. He walked to the bed. It was an invasion of her privacy, violated some damned code of honor to watch her as she slept, but he didn’t care. He was drawn to her. Maybe it was that he admired her fierce maternal instincts, or maybe it was as simple as the arousal he’d fought since the moment he’d laid eyes on her long, bare legs.

      Or maybe it was that her story didn’t entirely ring true.

      He looked down at her. Her face was pale in the moonlight, her features near perfect as she slept. Yet he recognized a pattern to her behavior that didn’t fit the angelic features. She’d repeated her story over and over again, literally cramming the details down his throat as if she were desperate for him to believe how the events took place.

      As if she were convincing herself in the process.

      Why would a woman alone want to vacation in a mountain cabin in the middle of nowhere? Especially a woman like Dana Langston. His eyes flowed over her. Even with the trickle of blood staining her cheek and little makeup on, she looked more like cruise ship material. Glitz and glamour. And wouldn’t a woman in her position be brighter than to drive headlong into a storm?

      He had to admit he’d been caught off guard by the storm, as well. But he’d at least known the storm had changed course, just decided in a fit of male bravado that he could outrun it. But no matter how well intended, his actions were just as stupid as hers. Maybe his sense of suspicion had become overblown through the years. A job hazard, he mused.

      Still, he had had all sorts of questions about Dana Langston. And all sorts of ideas. His mind flashed to the scrap of panties she wore, pulled tight as she stepped out of her jeans. Hell, not half of his ideas were honorable. But the other half clung to a sense of duty.

      Between the two, one thing was clear: she was hiding something.

      The question was, What?