Take My Breath Away
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Leaving his interest in her still as keen as the moment he’d taken her hand in his and felt a strong, sizzling, decidedly sexual jolt.
* * *
POPPY SHOVED HER cell phone in her jeans pocket, her son’s excited voice still echoing in her head. And then we saw Mickey at breakfast and Donald, too, and it was the best pancakes in my whole life.
How could hearing such happiness make her heart ache so much? Trying to shake off the melancholy, she bent to yank the squeegee from the bucket of water at her feet and returned to the task of cleaning the outside windows of cabin three. She’d managed to extract the broken key from the knob with needle-nose pliers and was intent on getting it clean inside and out.
Thanks to good weather, much of the snow in the clearing had melted, leaving slushy, continent-shaped patches. It was still dazzling white on the ski slopes’ mountaintop, but from her vantage point the sun was warm enough that she’d discarded her jacket and was working in a thermal T-shirt covered by a plaid flannel shirt. It was another hand-me-down of Brett’s, oversize and with a bleach stain on the front. She’d done nothing more with her hair than a loose side braid.
The mascara and the pink lip gloss were her only concessions to vanity...and to the renter she hoped to engage in conversation if he emerged from his cabin sometime soon.
It had been five days since he moved in, two since they’d had their last verbal exchange over the woodpile. She thought it was time she put on her friendly face and made nice. There was good reason for it. As the manager of the cabins, it was part of her job description to provide a pleasant environment. She knew this from her years running Inn Klein’s front desk. Every guest was a possible return guest, not to mention a point of referral. If Ryan Harris enjoyed his stay, he might spread the word about the cabins to family and friends. And if she was going to convince her siblings that she was right to do something more than ignore the abandoned ski resort property, she needed to show them it could be a moneymaker.
At the moment she was a little concerned that Ryan Harris wasn’t enjoying his stay. Not that she’d been spying—she’d just been casually glancing out her windows—but she’d noticed the man had her same nocturnal habit. As in, not sleeping. She’d get up and go to the kitchen for water only to see that his interior lights were on, as well. Most relaxed and stress-free people weren’t up and about at 2:00 a.m. and 3:00 a.m. and 4:30 a.m.
He’d looked tired when she’d seen him heading to his car the day before. Maybe he needed an extra blanket at night. Or perhaps the house’s furnace was working improperly. Wasn’t it up to her to address those needs?
Are you offering turn-down service?
Her belly flipped at the memory of those words and for the millionth time she wondered why that harmless sexual innuendo had flustered her so. Her flushed reaction was mortifying to recall, and recall it she did, about once an hour. Each time she wished she could erase it from her memory, but since that wasn’t possible, she’d decided another interaction, one normal and congenial, would be the way to stop the other from establishing an endless replay loop in her head.
It was damn silly to get so unnerved around him, she knew that. Sure, he was incredibly good-looking, but at twenty-seven, Poppy had encountered plenty of handsome men, including the one who had fathered Mason. But even Denny Howell hadn’t made the hair on her head tingle at the roots.
Are you offering turn-down service?
Her imagination ignited and her mind started off in a dangerous direction as her arm moved the squeegee down the dirty glass. But before any clothes were shed, she heard the click of her guest’s cabin door being opened. Showtime, she told herself, pushing other thoughts away. Pasting a smile on her face, she turned.
“Mr. Harris!” she called, waggling her tool to get his attention. “Ryan!”
Even from across the clearing his blue gaze knocked her back a little. Hot prickles rose on her skin and she considered scrubbing her face with a handful of snow.
It would only make her mascara run.
So she kept the smile pinned in place as he made his way to her side. Today, his jeans were as battered as hers, but he wore them with a navy wool sweater that had carved bone buttons riding along one shoulder. His jacket was thrown over his arm. He’d nicked his chin shaving, and a dab of toilet paper was stuck on the cut, drawing her attention to his perfectly formed lips.
She swallowed her sigh and pointed with her forefinger to her own chin. “Um...”
He cocked an eyebrow, clearly puzzled.
She tapped her face. “Looks like your razor’s new.”
With a stifled curse, he felt for the bit of tissue. For some reason that small sign of imperfection relaxed her. She could do this. They could have a simple conversation. Maybe she’d even invite him over for dinner...?
No. That was taking hospitality much too far. But friendly she could manage. “How’s your morning going?” she asked in a bright voice.
His eyebrow winged up for a second time. “Uh, good?”
Apparently her new game face was something of a surprise. “Terrific!” she enthused. “I’m glad to know my first guest is comfortable. You are comfortable, right?”
“March is not a comfortable month.”
As responses went, it was a wet blanket. “Oh. Well.” Be affable, she told herself, wondering how to follow up. When nothing came to mind, she turned back and started on the windows again. To get the high corners she rose on tiptoes, then jumped a little to reach the final inches.
She jumped a lot when he came up close behind her and grabbed the squeegee. “Here, let me get that.”
His smell enveloped her, that clean, woody scent that she found delicious. When temptation compelled her to turn her face into his throat and breathe him in, she forced herself to duck from under his arm. Without comment, he finished the corners of that window and then moved to the final one.
“I can handle it from there,” she said, when he’d cleared the highest reaches.
He glanced over at her. “I don’t mind finishing. A little exercise will do me good. The push-ups I’m making myself do at night aren’t exactly wearing me out.”
Poppy’s imagination wandered off again, conjuring up his powerful body. Naked. By a bed. Swallowing, she forced herself to think of something else. “My mom always said clean windows make the world look brighter.”
“Your mom around?” he asked, dropping the washing tool into the bucket, and idly swishing it in the now-cloudy water.
“No. My dad died twelve years ago. Mom six. But I’m still washing windows and hearing her voice when I do so. I’ll clean yours today if it won’t bother you.”
“You bothering me?” Facing her now, he let his gaze settle on her face. “Well...”
He was doing it again, Poppy thought, going breathless. His piercing blue eyes were stealing her will. Her intent was to be friendly but businesslike, all that a good cabins-keeper should be when they wanted to cement the possibility of return attendance and/or good word-of-mouth. Yet with those beautiful eyes focused on her she could only think of his overwhelming, masculine allure.
His magnetism was undeniable.
“I want to tell you...” That when he looked at her she wanted to confess to him all her secrets. Like that he made her liquid inside. Hot. And the outside of her was hot now, too, so sensitive that her shirt’s waffle-weave against her skin felt like a man’s finger pads dragging over her flesh. The small hairs on her body rose as if trying to get his attention.
She tried reining in her wayward hormones. What had she wanted to talk to him about again? Oh, she remembered! “I saw you were up in the middle of the night.”
She’d watched his lights through her window, wondering what kept him awake, feeling foolishly like a teenager mooning after the boy across the street. But it was a man’s kisses and a man’s hands on her body she’d thought of until she became so twitchy that she’d retreated to a cool shower. Afterward, she’d visited Mason’s room, touching his crayon drawings and his dinosaur collection as a way to remember who she was. A mother. A woman who stood strong, and on her own two feet. One who didn’t need a man, not for anything.
He was still staring at her with those mesmerizing eyes. “It appears you’re having trouble sleeping,” she said, remembering, at last, why she’d called him over. “Is there anything I can do?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You, too, then.”
“What?”
“If you know I’m not sleeping, it must be because you aren’t, either.”
“Well, that’s because I—” But he didn’t want to hear her single-mother money woes or her yearning for her son or her longing for other things she hadn’t realized she’d even been missing until he’d taken her hand in his the day they’d met. “Yes.”
“While I’m out, I’ll see if I can pick us up some extra z’s,” he said lightly. “See you later, Poppy.”
“See you later,” she echoed, shoving her hands in her pockets as she watched him step toward his car. Her fingers found her phone, and an idea she’d formed in the night bubbled to the surface. “Oh,” she said, pulling it out. “Hey.”
He turned, an inquiring expression on his face.
“Before you go...can I take your picture?”
In one lightning move he was back, his body crowding hers, their noses inches apart. “What for?” he demanded. “What are you going to do with a photo of me?”
Startled, she blinked up at him, aware of his bigness, the odd light in his eyes, the broad wall of his chest almost pressed to the tips of her breasts. Grimm, she thought, flicking her glance toward her cabin where her dog was surely snoring on the couch, Grimm, I need you.
What a lie. She didn’t want rescue. And she wasn’t exactly afraid—or not just afraid, anyway. Even with the man’s mood so suddenly dark, his very proximity sent a thrill of adrenaline shooting through her veins. As his breath brushed her cheek, her nipples bunched and she felt a sweet spasm between her thighs.
Ryan’s head drew even closer. “Why do you want my picture?”
With his blue eyes filling her vision, her body clenched again. Oh, boy. She definitely was something more than scared. She was acutely aroused, which should be shameful, considering his face didn’t express a jot of reciprocal sexual interest.
“Poppy?”
She licked her dry lips. “For a website my sister doesn’t yet know she’ll be building for the cabins. Because you’re the first guest.”
He moved back so abruptly she went dizzy, swaying like a drunk on her feet. “No photos, Poppy. I want my privacy.”
She put her hand to her head. It felt as if she’d chugged something too intoxicating, too fast. “Okay.”
“You—” He broke off, combed his fingers through his hair, then scrubbed his palm down his face. “You just keep your distance, all right?”
She nodded, though he was already stalking toward his SUV. Without another word, he climbed in, started the engine, drove off.
As he took the turn toward the highway, Poppy kept her gaze on the SUV and fanned her hot cheeks. She should have known they could never be friends. Not when her body had picked up this inconvenient and oh-so-uncomfortable interest in having a lover.
CHAPTER THREE
SIX DAYS AFTER taking up residence at the cabins, Ryan tramped through the surrounding woods, taking deliberate breaths of the crisp air. On each exhale, he tried pushing the thoughts from his churning mind. He wanted to clear every corner and rid its rafters of all the sticky webs and their clinging hairy spiders. Eleven months out of the year he somehow managed to blank out the memories and the pain. Sure, he walked around like an automaton, but that was better than the man he became in March, the one who staggered about, falling into sharp-toothed emotional depths, crawling free only to stumble and plunge once again.
His footsteps were quiet on the patches of melting snow and wet leaves. The sound of soft crying didn’t register at first—it seemed a natural accompaniment to his March mood—but then he heard a dog whine. Grimm.
Without thinking, Ryan moved toward the noise, and from behind a tree he observed his landlady, seated on a fallen log, her dog at her knee, her face in her hands. Concern propelled him forward. “Poppy?”
Her body jerked. As her hands fell, her gaze caught on him. “Oh,” she said, and made hasty swipes at her wet cheeks. “You startled me.”
“Sorry.” Grimm bounded over and Ryan palmed the soft fur on the dog’s head. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Fine.” She made a little sweeping gesture with one hand. “Just out for a walk. You?”
“Same.” He narrowed his eyes, noting one of her boots was off. Her heel, covered in a rainbow-striped sock, rested on the banged-up leather. “What’s wrong with your foot?”
“Nothing, really. I twisted my ankle on a stupid pinecone.”
He drew closer. “Hurts pretty bad?”
She shook her head.
“You were crying.”
“No—”
“I saw the tears on your face, Poppy.” Even the dumb bastard that March made of him couldn’t miss that. The lashes circling her big gray eyes were still spiky from the dampness. He hunkered down beside her log. “Let me see,” he said, reaching toward her foot.
“No.” She drew back sharply, as if his touch might be toxic. “Just go on. I don’t need any help.”
Ryan sat back on his heels, frustrated by her stubbornness. But what did he expect, he thought, pissed at himself. He’d been a capital-A asshole to her the day before, when presuming her request for his photo was something less than innocent. He’d been stewing about that, too, wondering if he should apologize for his harsh tone.
Her eyes had been wide and fixed on his face, the sweet scent of her hair invading him with every breath. Despite his agitation, he’d still cataloged both those details. And more: the heat of her slender body, the nearness of her breasts to his chest wall, the sweet curves of her lips that he’d followed with his gaze as her tongue came out to moisten them.
As angry as he’d been, he’d still gone hard.
Jesus.
Shaking his head, he tried to dispel the memory. But in March, the damn things had sharp claws that dug in, held on. Ryan blew out a stream of air then softened his voice. “Poppy, you need to let me do something for you. I’m not the nicest guy in the world, but I can’t leave you here, obviously in pain.” Doing her a good deed would make up for his rudeness and settle the score between them, he thought, cheering a little.
Then he could put at least one of the things plaguing him—her—out of his mind for the rest of his stay.
“There’s really no pain—” she began.
“Tears. I saw them, remember?”
Her gaze shifted away, shifted back. “Look. What do you know about women?”
The question almost made him laugh. If she followed entertainment gossip, she’d know he’d been linked with the most beautiful women in the world since he was thirteen years old. Suppressing a smile, he said, “They come with parts that are different than mine.”
She rolled her pretty eyes. “Let me try a different question. Have you ever allowed yourself a good cry?”
“No.” His belly cramped, hard, at the thought.
“I didn’t think so. Men can be so repressed.”
Ryan snorted. “I assure you I’m not repressed.”
Shaking her head, Poppy bent to slip her foot back into her shoe. “I walked into that one, I suppose. What I’m trying to say is that I twisted my ankle, which brought a couple of tears to my eyes. Then I let the floodgates open for a minute to release some tension.”
What was she tense about? He considered asking the follow-up, then shut his mouth and stood when she did. Just do the good deed, Hamilton. Make sure she gets safely back to her place and then you can forget all about her.
“I was a Boy Scout once.” At least he’d played one on TV. “So indulge me and let me see you home,” he said, crooking his elbow in her direction.
Her glance flicked from his arm to his face. “Only if you understand I’ll snatch you bald if you ever tell you caught me in a moment of weakness.”
He blinked. “Harsh.”
“Believe it,” she said, then placed her fingertips on his forearm and started limping in the direction of the cabins.
Ryan paced slowly beside her as the clearing came into view. “You know, you can lean on me a little.”
She shook her head. “Never.” Then her body stiffened. “Oh, hell. Oh, no.”
“What?” He glanced around, looking for trouble.
“Pick me up, Ryan,” she ordered in urgent tones. “Pick me up and then make a run for your cabin.”
His pulse’s speed shot from normal to NASCAR. Without taking time to identify the threat, he scooped her into his arms and sprinted forward. Grimm scampered beside them, as if happy to be part of a new game, oblivious to the danger.
It had to be a bear, Ryan thought, adrenaline giving him an extra burst of velocity. Though he didn’t dare look for it, he could imagine the hulking, stinking presence with the slavering jaws, mouth open wide in order to take a bite of them.
At his back door he set Poppy down to fumble for his keys. “Shit,” he said, then finally yanked them out. She grabbed the ring from his hand and did the unlocking herself. With the door open, he hustled the three of them inside, daring a look over his shoulder as he slammed it shut.
There was nothing there.
His heartbeat evening out, he stared at Poppy as she twisted the dead bolt, her focus still telegraphing emergency. Then she hurry-hobbled to the window, where she drew the curtains. The cabin’s rear door led directly into the bedroom and now she slid to the floor so her back was against the mattress. “Get down over here,” she directed. “You, too, Grimm.”
The dog complied and Ryan did, too, though he couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on. Maybe the landlady had been hiding her tinfoil hat. “Uh, Poppy?”
“Shh.” She glanced around.
Ryan did, too. There wasn’t much to see, the bed he’d made that morning, the stack of books on the dresser, through the open door a slice of the short hall that led to the living area. “Who are we hiding from?” he whispered, since that point was now obvious. “The U.S. marshal? Escaped convicts?”
“A combination of the two,” she murmured. “My sisters.”
Now Ryan could hear a car pulling up—a sound she must have detected as they neared the clearing. Doors opened, shut. In the distance, knuckles rapped on Poppy’s cabin door. Then silence. When the car didn’t start up again, he assumed the visitors were awaiting her return. “Will they go away soon?”
She shrugged. “Hard to say.”
Bemused, Ryan settled himself more comfortably on the braided rug, his legs crossed at the ankle. A dozen questions presented themselves, but he reminded himself he was intent on booting her out of his head. No point in learning any more about her.
Time ticked by. Grimm flopped onto his side with a groan and promptly fell asleep. Ryan considered doing the same, but he found himself too attuned to Poppy to find such relaxation. From a foot away, he could feel her nerves humming like plucked guitar strings.
He saw his hand reach out to apply a soothing stroke to her shoulder, then he commanded it to drop. When it landed on the floor with a muffled thunk, she looked over at him.
God. There was just something so damn...sweet about her looks. The wide forehead, the big fringed eyes, that valentine of a mouth. It was a rosy pink that matched the sweater that clung to her small, high breasts. His gaze ran down her slender, jean-encased legs, then back to her lips. She’d taste like cotton candy, he decided, and...
And he shouldn’t be contemplating her taste.
“You must think I’m crazy,” Poppy said.
“No.” That would be him, getting hung up on his landlady when he was here to be a hermit.
“Go ahead, admit it.” Her little smile revealed the fascinating dimple in her left cheek.
Looking away from her, he shrugged. “I’ve got a brother who is often annoying. I’ve been known to duck him when I can.”
“Yes, well...” She sighed. “Here’s the deal. They’re not entirely on board with renting out the cabins. I don’t want to get into yet another discussion with them about it.”
“They’re against making money?”
She laughed a little. “Walkers are never against making money. We’re just not too good at keeping hold of it. This land... The family legend is it’s cursed. Can you believe such a thing?”
March was cursed. In his darker moments Ryan thought he might be, as well. He shrugged again. “Is there a good reason?”
“Any number. Because it was Native-American land stolen for the timber it provided. Because in the early years one Walker logger killed another logger over a woman—who then promised retribution through the ages. Simpler version—my father was a piss-poor financial manager.”
She said it with a wry affection.
“Was he?” Ryan asked.
“My siblings, everybody around consider him a foolish ne’er-do-well who should have sold out long ago...but then he made a deal with the devil that essentially means we can’t.” A little sigh caused a strand of golden-brown hair curved against her cheek to tremble. “I’d like to prove that there’s still something good here at our mountain.” She paused, her gaze dropping to her lap. “Not to mention that I could really use the cash.”
“Well—”
Her fingers gripped his forearm as her head shot up. “Shh! I think they’re coming over here.”
Ryan’s eyebrows rose. Was her sibling radar that fine-tuned? But sure enough, now he could detect footsteps on the wooden porch and the bam-bam-bam of a fist knocking.
“Insistent, aren’t they?” he asked, his voice hushed.
Her mouth moved, the words soundless, and he had to focus carefully to read her lips. “You’ve got that right.” When the rap on the door sounded again, her fingers curled tighter around his arm.
His gaze stayed glued to her face, taking in her glowing skin, small scoop of a nose, the slightly square chin. She didn’t have a loud kind of beauty, but the loveliness of her was arresting, anyway. He wanted to rub his thumb along her bottom lip; he could imagine her tongue darting out to taste his skin.
He could see himself bending his head and kissing the thin, tender flesh of her throat.
As if she could hear his thoughts, Poppy’s eyes flared wide and there was a new kind of alarm to her expression. But she still gripped his arm and now he shifted toward her, running his free hand from her wrist to her shoulder to calm her uneasiness.
But she quivered under his touch, and her big eyes went even more round. Her pupils dilated and he heard her breath catch as her cheeks turned pink.
To hell with hermit, Ryan thought. He was going to kiss her. And she had to know it was coming, because she had gone as still as a winter bunny with a hawk on the hunt. Yet she didn’t attempt escape.
As he bent closer, another annoying rat-a-tat-tat sounded. He flicked a glance toward the front door. “Maybe you should talk to them,” he whispered. “Make them go away.”
And leave the two of us alone.
A deeper flush broke across her creamy skin. Still reading his mind, Ryan decided.
Her tongue peeked out to moisten that adorable, kissable bottom lip. “They’ll insist on meeting you first,” she whispered.
“Sure,” he murmured, cupping her hot cheek in his palm. “Whatever—”
They’ll insist on meeting you.
The words sank in. Shit, he thought, dropping his hand and scooting out of Poppy’s range. Shit! He couldn’t meet them. What were the odds that all three Walker sisters would never have glanced at a gossip rag or never watched an entertainment show?
He’d have to make some sort of excuse. “Poppy...”
She was already rising to her feet, the flush now only two flags of bright red high on her cheekbones. “I’ll get out of your way.”