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www.millsandboon.co.uk
For Brian, Jill and Brad
Special Thanks to A Martinez and the cast and crew of “Santa Barbara”
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Epilogue
One
Could a mother be charged with kidnapping her own son?
With a cry of frustration and fear, Marisa Rourke gave up her futile attempts to start a fire in the rustic hunting lodge’s massive stone fireplace. A kerosene lantern illuminated the small figure asleep in a pile of blankets on the old leather sofa. Bending over him, Marisa stroked her five-year-old son’s straight sandy hair. The golden tint was identical to her own, a happy coincidence of Nicky’s adoption.
To her relief, his cheeks were warm and his breathing deep and easy. Love flooded Marisa, a feeling so powerful she had to close her eyes. It was followed immediately by a surge of fierce protectiveness. Nicky was hers. Hers. And no one was going to take him away from her!
But how long before hypothermia became a threat to a small child? Outside, the December blizzard of the century had blown down all the power lines crossing the California High Sierras, and now the emergency generator refused to crank, giving the spacious, two-story log dwelling with its wide banks of wraparound porches all the characteristics of an icebox. Since cowboys were Nicky’s latest obsession, bedding down in front of the fireplace like ranch hands sleeping around a campfire had suited him just fine. In fact, so far, Nicky Latimore had found everything about this unexpected adventure with his mother perfectly charming.
Marisa wished her own feelings were as uncomplicated. A week ago, her life had been...well, if not exactly perfect, at least contented. Despite her industrialist husband’s death in a car accident three years ago, she was managing, juggling her booming acting career as Dinah Dillman on “Time Won’t Tell,” TV’s most popular daytime drama, and her duties as spokesperson for the Adopt-a-Child Foundation with the demands and joys of single parenthood. Until reporter Marcus Craig “Mac” Mahoney had bulled his way back into her life.
Even after ten years, she hadn’t been ready. Tall, sable-haired, everything about the tough investigative journalist from his changeable hazel green eyes to his ex-boxer’s physique had been so familiar Marisa could have wept. Instead, Mac’s scandalous accusations during the “Jackie Horton Live” television talk show regarding the illegal adoption racket of Dr. Franco Morris had turned her into a desperate runaway.
Again.
Shaking off a chill that bit deeper than the outside temperature, Marisa tucked Nicky’s blankets closer, reliving her panic upon learning that Elsie Powers, a Louisiana native now living in nearby Riverside, was claiming the good doctor had stolen her infant son—stolen Nicky!—under false pretenses and emotional duress. And Elsie wanted him back.
That’s why Marisa had run, escaping from Los Angeles with her child in her housekeeper’s anonymous sedan, leaving behind the paparazzi, her agent, her lawyers and the police. Like a wounded animal, she’d come to ground in the same secluded mountain hideaway that had been her sanctuary the last time Mac Mahoney had shattered her world. Only this time, there was even more at stake.
With a shudder of apprehension, Marisa swung a quilt around her shoulders and went back to work on the obstinate fire. Outside, the wind howled.
It was the wind, wasn’t it? Straightening, Marisa listened hard. Something was different, she realized. Had the tenor of that inhuman wailing changed somehow? She thought uneasily about wolves, then wrenched her galloping imagination back under control. She and Nicky were safe inside the lodge—except perhaps from frostbite if she didn’t get the fire going! There was no reason to fear—
A thump sounded on the porch, and Marisa surged to her feet. A three-sided balcony opening onto the second-floor bedrooms overlooked the large den, the base of its staircase spilling into the foyer at the front of the lodge. From her vantage in front of the fireplace, Marisa could see directly into the shadowy hall. Something struck the front door, making it vibrate on its hinges. Her heart leapt to her throat. With a quick glance at Nicky’s sleeping form, she gathered her courage, picked up the heavy cast-iron poker from the hearth and went to investigate.
The moment she reached the door, it rattled violently again, and she jumped back in alarm. What kind of animal would attack a human stronghold? And then she heard it: faint, wind-whipped echoes above the banshee scream of air. No wolf ever sounded like that—except the two-legged kind!
Warily, Marisa peeked through the heavy curtain covering the window beside the front door. The movement drew the attention of the snow-covered figure on the porch. A ferocious face glazed with ice and snow glared at her from the depths of a parka’s fur-lined hood. “Dammit, Marisa, open up!” he roared. “I’m freezing!”
The blood drained from her face.
Mac.
* * *
He was mad as hell and getting angrier by the minute.
Raising his gloved fist, Mac Mahoney pounded on the lodge door again. Half-blinded by driving sleet, lungs seared by the frigid wind, feet numb inside his boots after a mile-long trek from where his Jeep sat bogged in a snowbank, he was in no mood for any of Marisa Rourke’s foolishness. By God, the woman had already caused him enough trouble to last a lifetime!
The door creaked open a bare two inches. “Go away!”
He caught it just before it clicked shut in his face. Now he was furious. Shoving his shoulder against the door like a linebacker, he felt the momentary resistance of her weight on the other side, then he barreled through, flinging it wide open. A mountaineer reaching the summit of Mount Everest couldn’t have been more triumphant. Until he saw the poker.
“Hey!” He ducked the blow she aimed at his head.
“Get out!”
“Are you nuts?“
“Not crazy enough to tolerate the likes of you.“ Bundled in turtleneck and Scandinavian sweater, Marisa threw back her shoulder-length hair and glared at him, her eyes like blue ice. Snow laced with sleet blew in through the open doorway. “Get the hell out.”
Exasperated, Mac shoved back the hood of his green, multipocketed parka, wiping ice crystals from his dark eyebrows. “It’s snowing like the devil out there!”
“I don’t care if you fall off a glacier.” The knuckles of her hand grasping the poker turned white. “I’m warning you....”
Mac couldn’t help it. He laughed. Until the swipe she took at him caught him sharply on the top of the shoulder. Enraged, Mac sprang, catching her wrist and pinning her against the wall.
“Drop it!” The padding of his thick parka had saved him from major damage, but he spoke through teeth gritted with pain. Stubbornly she held on to the poker, her angry breaths pushing her breasts against his chest. The air was charged with the smell of snow and fury.
“You aren’t welcome here, Mahoney. Get it?”
“I didn’t spend the past hour slogging uphill on foot in this mess to freeze to death. Let go.” He squeezed harder.
She gave a cry, and her hand opened. The heavy poker clanged to the floor. Without releasing her, Mac kicked the front door shut. After the scream of the wind, the near silence was deafening. Her eyes glittered. “You are such a bastard.”
“So I’m told.” Showing his teeth, he leaned in closer. Even through his sodden, bulky clothing, he could feel her heat, smell the intoxicating scent of her perfume. His belly clenched in response, and the unwelcome sensation made him furious all over again. “So be warned. You try anything like that again, I won’t be so forgiving.”
Her lip curled, showing clearly what she thought of the quality of his mercy. “What are you doing here?”
“Better question, what are you?”
“I—” Her lashes lowered. “Vacationing.”
“Huh. More like running away. Again.” His mouth twisted in contempt. He released her and stepped back to strip out of his wet coat. “That’s always been your answer to everything, hasn’t it, Marisa?”
Her expression wavered.
Guilty, Mac thought. She’s guilty as hell.
He cast a glance at the shadowy interior of the lodge—heavy wood-and-stone construction, oversize furnishings, the requisite Indian blankets and antler trophies strategically positioned on the log walls. The masculine environment was at odds with Marisa’s slender femininity.
“So this is where you disappeared to ten years ago. Quite an interesting choice of refuge for a poor little rich girl, isn’t it?”
Her chin came up. “Save your insults, Mahoney. You don’t know anything about me—you never did! How did you find me?”
“Just played a hunch. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out you’d seek sanctuary at your Uncle Paul’s.”
“You didn’t figure it out before.”
His look was steady. “I didn’t try.” God, the satisfaction of saying that! After all these years with the acid eating away at his gut, to be able to tell her that her leaving him hadn’t meant a thing, that he’d picked up his life and gone on without missing a beat. If it were only true...
Mac tossed his parka and his soaked gloves aside, then massaged the tender lump swelling on his shoulder beneath his thermal underwear and plaid flannel shirt.
“Did Paul come with you?” he asked abruptly. As he recalled, Paul Willis was a garrulous old codger, a longtime travel writer who’d been a favorite friend of Marisa’s, as well as her godfather, during her teen years, when her well-to-do yachting parents had been out gallivanting around the world.
“He’s in India.”
“Too bad. I would have enjoyed seeing him again.”
Rubbing her bruised wrist, she gave him a hostile glare. “Cut the small talk. What do you really want?”
“Answers.”
“Crawl back under your rock, Mahoney. I don’t owe you anything.”
“Wrong. The way I see it, I’ve got ten years’ worth of explanations coming to me. I’ll settle for some straight talk about this Dr. Morris situation.”
“There is no ‘situation,’ except in your feeble brain!” she hissed.
“Let’s get one thing clear. You aren’t cheating me out of an ending this time around.”
Her gaze turned wary. “What do you mean?”
“I’m offering you a chance to tell your side of the story. Why else would I have tracked you to the back of beyond? A good journalist never lets a scoop slip out of his hands if he can help it, right?” His grin was cocky. “Besides, this black-market-baby story is just what I need to clinch a big contract with Independent News Network. So there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you blow my chances by disappearing on me again.”
“That’s what this vendetta is all about? About you? You son of a—” With an inarticulate cry of outrage, she launched herself at him again, fingers curled into punishing claws.
Mac grunted, fending her off, and finally grabbed her wrists and twisted them behind her back so that she arched against him. “My God! What’s the matter with you, woman?”
Panting, impotent, held fast against his bulk, she glared her hatred. “You have to ask? Using an innocent child for your own ends. You insensitive, selfish clod! Why can’t you leave us alone?”
Mac tightened his hold, looking down into her eyes. “Because I always finish what I start, Marisa. Or have you forgotten?”
“Go to hell!”
He laughed. “Sorry, no can do. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got ourselves a prime piece of the Polar Express roaring down outside. No one’s going anywhere anytime soon, not unless they’ve got suicide in mind. I guess you’re stuck with me.”
“What? No!” Panic flickered in her eyes.
“What’s the problem?” Holding both her wrists in one hand, he brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “As I recall, we once loved being alone together.”
She choked. “You—”
He caught her chin in the crook of his hand, forcing her face up to his. His mouth hovered over hers, tantalizing, insulting. “Maybe you’ve forgotten other things, too, princess. Like how you used to sigh and moan in my arms. Like how we felt when we were a part of each other.”
She trembled against him, color rolling over her cheekbones, the pulse at her temple throbbing. “Mac, no...”
“I haven’t forgotten, Marisa.” He bent closer, his eyes hooded. “I haven’t.”
“Mommy?”
Mac jerked and released her. Marisa pushed past him, going down on her knees beside the small, towheaded boy in rumpled Snoopy sweats and droopy socks. She gathered the child into her arms and pressed her flushed cheek against his, reciting a soothing litany. “Nicky, I’m sorry! Did I wake you up? Everything’s all right, honey.”
Wide-eyed with amazement, Nicky looked Mac over from head to heels. “Mommy, you found a cowboy!”
Mac couldn’t prevent a snort. He’d been called a lot of things, but this was a new one. “Sorry, pal. I’m a city boy from New Jersey.”
“You got boots.” Nicky’s tone was accusatory.
Mac glanced down at his old Ropers. “Yeah, well, fat lot of good they did me—my toes are frozen.”
“No more than you deserve for poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.” Marisa scooped up Nicky and held him protectively, as fierce as a lioness defending her cub. “It’s cold, Nicky. You have to get back under the covers.”
As if in response to her words, a huge shudder shook Mac. “Jeez, you’re right. It’s as cold as the devil in here. Why haven’t you got a fire going?”
She didn’t answer, but her expression was mutinous. After carrying the youngster back into the den, she settled him into a nest of blankets on the sofa. Bringing up the rear, Mac noticed the pile of spent matches and scorched kindling in the fireplace, and he laughed again.
“I see your trouble. Good thing I showed up, huh, Marisa? From the looks of things, you could use some help.”
“Not yours.” Her tone was scathing.
“As they say, ‘beggars can’t be choosers,’ princess.”
She cast him a resentful look over her shoulder. “Don’t call me that!”
Shrugging, Mac sat down on the edge of the stone hearth to tug off his boots and peel off his icy socks. “There’s another one about ‘if the shoe fits...’”
Nicky watched the exchange with sleepy-eyed interest. “What’s the cowboy’s name, Mommy?”
“Judas,” she said. “Now go back to sleep.”
“Funny name for a cowboy,” Nicky mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
Mac’s jaw clamped in annoyance. Fatigue and cold had made his muscles ache and his temper short. He tried to massage life back into his numb feet. “The name’s Mac, kid. Your mother’s been reading too many bad TV scripts.”
“You call him Mr. Mahoney, Nicky. He’s a reporter who’s always had a way with words—as long as it’s a cliché or a cut.”
Mac blew out an exasperated breath. “Look, dammit, we can keep this up all night, or we can call a truce and make the best of it.”
“Suits me, since I have nothing I want to say to you. And I’ll thank you to watch your language around my son!” Nicky was curled into a ball and already snoozing again, so Marisa tucked the blankets around him, then went to the hearth and struck one match, then another. The kindling caught but died out immediately. “Damn.”
“Watch your language,” Mac mimicked, reaching for the box of matches. “Let me do that.”
“I can take care of it!” She held on to her end of the matchbox in a small tug-of-war.
Mac lifted an eyebrow. “And I can see how well you’ve done so far.” He saw anger play across her expressive features and pointed a warning finger at her straight nose. “Look, I’m tired, cold and hungry. You take another swing at me and I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
Evidently she believed him. She released the matchbox. “Fine. Go ahead. But I’d like to remind you that your circumstances are all your own doing. No one invited you here.”
Busy rearranging logs and crumpling newspaper, Mac smiled dryly. “I’ve never let a little thing like that stop me before.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
She stared at the tiny flame that flickered, caught and began to grow under the stack of logs. Mac observed the dark smudges of fatigue—or stress—beneath her eyes. He steeled himself not to feel any sympathy. “How long has the power been off?”
“Since about noon. The phones are out and the generator won’t work, either.”
“No wonder it’s so cold in here.” He propped one bare foot on the hearth, toasting his sole before the fire’s growing warmth. “When did you get here?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“Must have been a hard trip, just the two of you.”
She snapped her gaze from the fire’s mesmerizing dance. “What is this, an interrogation?”
“Good grief, you’re one suspicious female. Forget it!”
Frowning, she leaned her hands against the mantel, her knuckles white. “Forget you’re the one who’s unleashed a pack of lies about my husband and my son and just forced me to spread out the welcome mat for you? Not bloody likely, Mahoney! I’d love nothing better than to see the back of you right this moment.”
“Tough talk, babe. But I know you’re too softhearted to send me packing in the middle of a blizzard.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “Not that I’d go.”
She smiled back, too sweetly. “I wouldn’t force a rabid dog out in weather like this, but you’re another matter. So keep your distance and don’t press your luck. And first thing in the morning, you’re out of here, understood?”
“Sure.” His assurance was meaningless.
He knew it.
She knew it.
Still, the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease a bit. Maybe she believed him. And maybe she was lying to herself the way she’d once lied to him. It would be interesting to find out.
Marisa moved away from the fire. “I’m bunking with Nicky. Find yourself a place to bed down and stay out of my way.”
“I’m just beginning to defrost. I’ll stay by the fire.” He pushed a pair of overstuffed chairs together at the end of the sofa.
Marisa seemed ready to protest, but then her mouth compressed in annoyed resignation. “I’ll find some extra blankets.”
Mac pushed her to see what would happen. “And a sandwich? And some dry socks?”
She rounded on him angrily. Her eyes moved from his bare feet, up the long length of denim-covered legs to the mocking expression on his face. Whatever she saw made her swallow. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The corner of his mouth lifted at her concession. “Thank you.”
She brushed her hand over her sleeping son’s fair head, flicking Mac a suspicious look. Apparently deciding Nicky wouldn’t come to any harm in Mac’s presence for the moment, she picked up the lantern and left the room.
Mac’s smile faded, and he let out an unsteady breath.
From the way his gut twisted just looking at her, he was still just as foolishly susceptible to Marisa Rourke as a mature thirty-year-old woman as he’d been to the lovely journalism student he’d known ten years ago. Lucky for him that now she’d declared all-out war between them.
Not that he blamed her. He hadn’t exactly been comfortable with the way Jackie Horton had blindsided her on the television talk show. But Jackie and Mac’s longtime producer, Tom Powell, had insisted on pinning the actress down under a cross fire of startling accusations.
“An elite baby mill...”
“Police today arrested exclusive Bel Air physician, Dr. Franco Morris...”
“Marisa, isn’t it true that you and your late husband, Victor Latimore, used Dr. Morris to acquire your own baby?”
“We have copies of Dr. Morris’s records, verifying names, dates and fees...”
“It’s a lie! You’ll hear from my attorney!” she shouted.
Mac grimaced at the memory. But it had to be done, for impact value, Tom had said. To pull the viewing public into the story, raise an outcry, close the baby mill. And Mac had agreed. Dr. Franco Morris had been preying on innocents long enough. Bottom line was, as always, get the job done.
Mac shrugged and began to unbutton his damp shirt. Every detail he unearthed was another step closer to putting the dirty doctor behind bars permanently. The involvement of a celebrity of Marisa’s stature—Mac’s mouth tightened in disdain at the application of such a term to a soap opera star—would insure that the black-market-baby investigation got the media attention it deserved. And, of course, there was the matter of that contract....
Heck, he wasn’t unsympathetic! The kid was cute enough, and Marisa’s maternal affection appeared genuine. Like it or not, however, Marisa Rourke Latimore had to accept responsibility for her and her dead husband’s actions. And Mac should have his butt kicked for not anticipating that at the first hint of confrontation Marisa would tuck in her pretty tail and head for the hills—literally. Actions had consequences. How the hell did she think she could run away from this mess?
After spreading out his shirt on the stone hearth to dry, Mac stared into the now-blazing fire, his hands resting on the snap of his denims. He’d tackled plenty of tough assignments all over the globe—hostage crises, earthquakes, revolutions—but he knew that this one could be more than he’d bargained for, especially if he let old memories get in the way of the truth. His instincts told him those old memories were far from dead for Marisa, too. Mac hadn’t missed the way her mouth trembled when he touched her. The chemistry was still there, despite everything.
Not that he wanted to fan the ashes of a dead love affair into life again. He’d learned the hard way what he could count on, what he couldn’t. Still, in Mac’s book, Marisa owed him. A period of enforced isolation with an old lover hadn’t been in his game plan when he’d discovered her involvement in the Morris story, but he was human enough to take advantage of the present situation. He would enjoy seeing that she finally paid—at least in some small measure—for the way she’d betrayed him so long ago.
His smile returned at the prospect. He unfastened his jeans, then slid out of them and draped them over a chair back. They began to steam almost immediately. Clad in long-sleeved thermal undershirt and long johns, he rested both hands on the mantel, letting the waves of heat soak into him. The frantic detective work and two-day drive in stinking weather, not to mention that mile hike uphill in a snowstorm, were catching up with him, and the warmth was making him drowsy.
“Here, this is the only thing I could—” Behind him, Marisa’s words broke off with a small gasp of outrage.
Mac straightened, stretched and gave her a lazy glance over his shoulder. “Get a grip, princess. You’ve seen me in my skivvies before.”
“Not an experience I wanted to repeat,” she snapped. Face flaming, she dropped blankets, a rolled-up pair of wool socks and a paper plate holding a ham sandwich into a pile beside the chairs he’d chosen. “But I suppose your behaving with the least bit of common decency is too much to expect.”
“Hey, I was wet. You want me to sleep in damp clothes and catch my death?”
“It’s a thought.” Without looking at him, she kicked off her shoes and crawled onto the sofa beside her son, arranging the blankets over them both.