“I'm going insane. First I think Nadine's feeling me up, and then I see a parachute in a pear tree.” Destiny Driven straightened and shot the ceiling a furious glare. “It's the middle of September, there's a blizzard outside, and now I'm seeing things.”
“You actually see a parachute in a tree?” Jess Blaine, senior editor for St. Paul's Publishing, asked.
“You're not going to believe me, but there's a man with a parachute in a pear tree.” Destiny's breath fogged the windowpane; she used the sleeve of her cotton sweater to wipe the glass. “He's wearing army fatigues. I think something's wrong. He's not moving.” She groaned and thunked her head on the cold glass. “This is the last thing I need.”
“Hang up and call 911.”
A burst of static blasted Destiny's eardrums. “Damn. Jess, you there?”
She looked at her iPhone's screen. No bars.
Nothing had gone right from the moment she'd left St. Paul's New York headquarters that morning. A momentary lull in the offending white fluff spinning by the wall of windows allowed her a clear view of the man hanging from the branches of the tree. Large neon orange letters on the man's green and black fatigues spelled out the words 82nd Airborne Division.
I can't leave him out there.
Call 911.
No dial tone came from the old-fashioned rotary phone on the kitchen counter. She scowled at the black receiver and blew out a long sigh.
He could be injured.
“I might as well get this over and done with.” She shrugged on her denim jacket, zipped up the front, and pulled the hood around her face.
A shudder racked her body the second she opened the door. A blast of frigid air blew the hood off Destiny's head; then her hair took flight, whipping her cheeks and chin and scrambling her vision. At least two inches of snow carpeted the green turf. Sandals and a blizzard didn't mesh. Her toes curled as she sprinted across the narrow clearing, heading for the grove of fruit and pine trees lining the ridge of the mountain.
Destiny hopped from one foot to the other in an effort to stay warm as she surveyed the man stuck in the trees. He hung around seven feet off the ground. The parachute's white material lay in a pine tree, the ropes attached to his bulky form threaded through the thick silver-gray-green branches of a heavily laden pear tree. The impact of the man's landing had scattered brown fruit around the tree's trunk. A jagged cut ran from his temple to the edge of his ear and splotches of scarlet stained the green leaves nestling his cheek. Nothing looked broken. But my, he was a big man.
How to get him down from the trees and into the cabin?
She'd have to climb the tree and cut the parachute's ropes.
Fifteen minutes later, Destiny dragged the sheet she'd rolled the man onto through the cabin's entrance and closed the door. She slumped to the wooden floor, cupped her hands, and blew warm air over fingers so numb with cold they burned.
“You probably gave me frostbite,” she complained, glowering at the wounded man lying face up on the floor next to her. “Damn, it's cold out there.”
On one of her frequent trips back to the cabin, she'd located the thermostat and turned the heat to the highest temperature possible. The interior had warmed marginally, but what she wouldn't give for a roaring fire. Blowing out a sigh, she shot the fireplace a yearning look usually reserved for chocolate soufflés, pursed her lips, and then grumbled, “I bet you know how to start a fire,” before shooting the man a frown usually reserved for errant authors.
How long would they be stuck here? How long would the snow keep falling? The phone wasn't working, and her rented Ford Focus didn't seem any match for narrow mountain roads made treacherous by layers of white muck. Not to mention the fact she'd taken wrong turns at least five times getting here.
A moan drew her attention to the paratrooper.
Surely he could help. The man was a paratrooper after all. Weren't they all big, bad tough guys who could survive jungles and deserts? “I suppose I should clean you up first.”
When Park Ranger Tim Dalton had given her the keys to the cabin earlier, he'd also mentioned a full emergency kit in the room off the kitchen. Grumbling under her breath, Destiny levered to her feet; her legs felt like wet noodles and her arms like melting Jell-O. Paratroopers weighed a ton.
Shaky steps took her to the room Tim had mentioned.
A plastic neon lime carton labeled Medical Supplies lay on top of a chest freezer in the small square room. Baskets of apples and pears and root vegetables, along with a webby sack of potatoes, stood adjacent to the white appliance. A miniature desk, really a slab of wood bearing multiple communication appliances she had no clue how to work, punctuated the far end of the alcove.
Returning to the kitchen with the box in hand, she spotted a Pottery Barn-style bowl. After filling the slate container with warm water, she ambled over to her parachutist, squatted, and set the supplies on the floor.
A rat-a-tat-tat drew her glance from the cut on the man's cheek, and she looked outside. The snow fell so fast and furious now, Destiny could see nothing but a white sheet.
What if the snow doesn't stop until next spring?
Stop being dramatic, Destiny; at least we have heat.
Even though the cabin had warmed to tropical-beach temperature, an arctic shiver gamboled across her neck.
I'm a New Yorker. I can cope with anything.
Focus, focus. One line at a time, one task at a time. Clean his wound.
Sitting on her heels, she edged closer to him.
Getting the helmet off his head proved a harder task than she'd anticipated. Destiny worked up a good sweat and almost gave in to the temptation to turn the thermostat down a notch. Almost. One glance at the wet white snowflakes thud-thudding on the window nixed that notion.
He had to weigh well over two hundred pounds. His shoulders were rock hard, and both her hands couldn't span his corded neck. When she cut his helmet's chin strap, he groaned. She flinched at the low rumble and lost her balance. The hard hat jerked off his head, Destiny landed on her backside, and the helmet slid across the wooden floor.
Gasping for breath, she swiped a palm across her damp forehead and blew a lock of hair off her right cheek. “You owe me, Mister.”
Shifting, she braced her elbows on her bent knees and surveyed her booty.
He had the usual armed-forces buzz cut, a square face, and a nose that had met a few fists at some point in time. “I bet you have an ego the size of this state.”
She found gauze in the medical kit, dampened the cloth, and dabbed at the dried blood covering the thin diagonal slash running from one temple to his earlobe. His skin smelled of Irish Spring soap and leaves. The layer of stubble covering his chin felt soft and downy.
All angles and planes, his face held no hint of softness, his swarthy complexion spoke of mixed blood, and the last adjective she'd use for him would be handsome, because he wasn't. Testosterone and pheromones jumped out of every pore, he smelled the way a man's man should smell, hard and capable and in command of his own destiny. A jagged scar ran along the line of a jaw punctuated by hollow cheek dimples and ridged bones.
Definitely not urban-male-model handsome, yet being mere inches away from those craggy features made her lungs work harder and her toes curl and uncurl. Leaning across his visage to sponge away the blood streaked into the tanned crinkles bracketing his eye, she muttered to herself, “You are not attracted to him. He probably barely graduated high school. Ten to one he hasn't a clue what War and Peace is, far less who wrote it.”
“Tolstoy,” he said.
Destiny yelped and sat back on her haunches.
He couldn't have woken up twenty minutes earlier?
How long had he been conscious? A lick of flame scorched her throat and cheeks; she studied the camouflage pattern of his jacket.
Please don't have heard that. Please. I'll volunteer at the food bank four times this year if he didn't hear that. She bit her lip to fight the urge to look at the ceiling.
“Who are you?” He had a voice like the deep, belly-echoing roar of a Long Island ferry idling.
She tried to even out her ragged inhales, trailed her gaze inch by inch up a throat the delicious color of caramel toffee, and swallowed around the molten ball sucking the moisture out of her mouth.
Hazel eyes, clear and focused, met hers; then his glance swept the cabin. “Where am I?”
God, what a voice. His words rumbled and shuddered up her spine, and the barometric pressure in the cabin dipped and hip-hopped.
It'd been a long time since she'd been with a man.
And she'd never been with a man whose muscles looked hard enough to ricochet bullets.
Stop, Destiny. Stop. You will not think of a roaring fire and naked, entwined limbs.
“Ma'am. Where am I?”
Ma'am? How old does he think I am?
“Healy, Alaska. Or near it anyway.”
Wincing, he sat up. Thick fingers traced the line of the cut on his face. “I was supposed to touch down on the east side of Denali.”
“Denali?”
“Denali National Park. Two hundred acres are on fire.” He rose in one fluid, graceful move.
She stood right away. For such a big man, he moved lithely. Destiny felt like a dwarf and had to crane her neck to meet his gaze.
“I don't think you have to worry about fighting a fire,” she said. “It's blizzarding.”
His eyes flickered to the picture window and then back to her. “I can see that. Where did I touch down?”
“In the pear tree.” She squared her shoulders and wished she were wearing three-inch stilettos. “You were all tangled up in it. How're you feeling?”
“You cut me down?” One sandy brow lifted a fraction. He didn't sound the least bit grateful.
“Not an easy feat. It took me fifteen minutes.”
“I've been out for fifteen minutes? Shit. Do you have a phone?”
“No bars. I think the weather's interfering with reception.”
He rolled his eyes. “Is there a landline?”
“Yes. It's dead.”
“Do we have a radio connection?”
“Like a CB? Like what the truckers use?” Destiny rolled a shoulder. “Hell if I know.”
“You seem remarkably uninformed, ma'am. You don't know if you have a radio?” An edge of irritation slipped into his husky voice.
He showed no awareness of her as a woman. Her boobs always captured a man's attention; if she had a nickel for the number of times a guy spoke to her chest instead of her eyes, well, she'd be writing full-time instead of editing. Destiny fought a scowl.
“It's not my cabin. I'm only here for a couple of days.”
“Really?” But he wasn't looking at her, his narrowed eyes found the pile of DVDs she'd dumped onto the kitchen table.
Damn it.
There was no way he wouldn't notice the titles.
“I apologize for my manners, ma'am. I'm Sergeant Lincoln Chapman. And you are?”
“Sara Parker,” she replied. If he got wind of her real name after seeing the classic collection of seventies porn she'd purchased for research, he'd never believe she wasn't a stripper. She'd bought the porn to set the mood for the sex scenes best-selling author Angel Robinson had to rewrite during the next couple of days.
“Do you have a vehicle? I have to touch base with my troops.”
“I have a rental car.”
Two long strides took him to the picture window. Destiny couldn't tell because his back faced her, but Lincoln Chapman appeared to be studying the falling snow.
“How're you feeling?”
“What?” He glanced over one shoulder; the corners of his lips twitched.
“You were unconscious; you could have a concussion.”
“No concussion,” he quipped. “No wooziness, no dancing black spots. Where's the car?”
“In the driveway.” Destiny's shoulders slumped. He was going to leave and go to his troops. In her car. “Look. I understand you need to make contact with your men. But could you help me start a fire before you go?”
“You're a city girl.” He twisted to look at her. “I'm afraid I can't. If we don't leave now, we'll both be stuck. This weather isn't going to stop soon. Last report we had, this front's going to last a week. You'll have to come with me.”
And who died and made you king of the mountain?
The thought of being stuck alone in a blizzard didn't make her jump for joy. “Where are you going to go?”
“Healy.”
“There isn't a hotel in Healy. That's why I'm here.” No way in hell she'd stay by herself in this godforsaken cabin. “I'll grab my things.”
“We don't have time for that.” His gaze raking her head to toe, he added, “Just grab your coat and boots.” Lincoln's lips curled as he stared at her bare toes and sandaled feet.
Destiny stifled a sigh. “This is it.” She waved a hand down her front. “I looked up the temperature. It's supposed to be in the seventies.”
“You spent twenty minutes outside wearing that? Have you no sense at all?”
“What was I supposed to do? Leave you in the tree?” Destiny jammed her hands onto her hips. “You know, an ounce of gratefulness wouldn't go amiss.”
He shook his head. “Where are the keys?”
“I'm driving,” she stated. Seizing her Dooney & Bourke oversize tote from the coffee table, she slung the straps over one shoulder, fished the key hook out of the purse, and stalked to the door.
Suddenly she was swept off the floor and cradled in his arms. A waterfall of sensations strummed through every fiber, her blood heated and jumped Olympic hurdles, and she had a mad desire to lick the cleft in his chin. This near, a hint of his aftershave—sandalwood and patchouli—wafted to her nostrils. Choking back a groan, she bit her tongue hard enough to get her dizzy brain cells working again.
“What're you doing? Put me down.”
Think. Think, damn it.
“There's at least three inches of snow on the ground. You'll get frostbite if you walk outside in those shoes.” He shifted her closer, his large palm curving under her ass while the other hand opened the door. “And I'm driving.”
When Destiny opened her mouth to argue, a blast of wet snow hit her cheeks and filled her mouth, and she coughed. A fierce whoosh tunneled snow and dried leaves into a minitornado, blinding her sight.
“Where's the car?” He had to roar the words into her ear to be heard above the whistling gusts. A Sahara-desert wind couldn't match the heat of his breath tickling her ear. In the middle of a dangerous storm, a crazy situation, Destiny's hormones skyrocketed. She battled the insane urge to nip his earlobe.
He gave her a little shake and shouted, “Car?”
“Over there,” she yelled and snuggled into his chest, burying her nose into the crinkly fabric of his parka. The sun did a vanishing act. Dusk lasted seconds before night's shroud descended.
“Shit.” A thick white blanket covered the Ford Focus. “Pop the lock.”
She pressed the button on the car's key. Within seconds Lincoln had her bundled into the passenger seat, and then he dashed around to the driver's side. He slammed the door shut. “Key.”
Mood souring, she deposited the key into his open palm. He snapped his seat belt locked, then thrust the key into the ignition and turned it quarter way. The engine clanked and wheezed. He muttered an oath and twisted the key again. One single feeble whir.
Lincoln let out a string of foul words.
Ten minutes later they were back in the cabin. He strode through the main chamber, which housed the kitchen, a two-seater round table, one extra-large tweed couch, and a low hutch bearing dishes, glasses, and cutlery. Destiny didn't realize until he halted that Lincoln had carried her into the bedroom.
“I take it we're here for the duration,” she more stated than asked. “You can put me down.”
“Shit.”
“What?”
Forehead wrinkled, he rolled his eyes. “I think we lost the juice while we were in the car.”
Sergeant Lincoln Chapman belonged in an asylum. “Juice?”
“Listen. You don't hear the refrigerator humming anymore, do you?”
“We've no electricity?” She hadn't meant it to come out as a whine.
“Tell me you bought supplies.” His half-hooded eyes studied her face, and warmth crept across her cheeks. “You didn't, did you?”
He automatically assumed she had no brains whatsoever. Fine. A big-city girl wouldn't know anything about supplies, of course. Uneducated twit; Tolstoy had probably been a once-in-a-lifetime guess.
“I have a couple bottles of wine and some bread and cheese.”
Thunder rolled across his features; fine lines bracketed his narrowed eyes. “I counted three vibrators on that kitchen counter, one Deep Throat DVD, the whole Debbie Does Dallas collection, and Candy Stripers. Tell me, Ms. Parker, exactly what were your plans for this cabin?”
“It's not what you think,” she answered as a noonday-desert heat climbed from neck to forehead. “I'm an editor, and I'm here to help one of my writers fix her sex scenes.”
One brow lifted. “And I'm President Obama.”
“It's true.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “Put me down.”
“And vibrators and porn will help how?”
“I thought between the wine and the toys and the DVDs I could get my author to loosen up.” Destiny wriggled, but that only made his arms tighten. “For God's sake, why won't you put me down?”
“You feel good, and you weigh nothing,” he replied, hefting her in his arms as if to prove his words. “You do realize the only way we're going to stay warm is body heat.” His mouth quirked up, and the harsh expression he'd worn since opening his eyes vanished. A satanic gleam lit his hazel eyes more emerald than honey. “There's a shed adjacent to the car. I'm going to search it and see what I can find. You go through every cabinet in this cabin. Make a list of everything you find. Got that?”
Her mind hadn't gone further than the words body heat.
When he dumped Destiny on the mattress and left the cabin in a blur of long legs, wide shoulders, and taut ass cheeks, she let out a long, warbled moan and covered her face with damp palms.
No electricity meant no hot water, but that might turn out to be the least of her problems. Get off the bed. Make a list. Try not to think about if he had hair on his chest. Don't think about the size of his feet. Or his palms. Or his penis. He'd probably call it a cock. Didn't army guys do that all the time?
Destiny hopped off the bed. She stuck all the sex toys and DVDs into her carry-on and unpacked the rest of her stuff into a dresser drawer. A quick check of the bathroom revealed a footed bathtub, a pedestal sink, and a brass-framed mirror. She muttered a fast Hail Mary when she found the toilet tucked away in what looked to be a linen cupboard. It even flushed. And there was toilet paper, at least a dozen rolls.
She found several woolen blankets above the toilet paper, shook one out, and tied the fabric sarong-style over one shoulder and fastened the soft material around two jeans belt loops.
The first kitchen cabinet she opened yielded ten packs of candles. By the time Lincoln returned, Destiny had finished her list, and a dozen flickering candles imbued a soft golden glow to the main cabin.
Surveying the room, she sighed; wasn't this every woman's fantasy? Stuck in a warm cabin in the mountains with a hunk who looked like he knew more about sex than Antonio Banderas. So he thought she was easy. It wasn't as if they'd ever meet again in real life. And he didn't seem to have any problem with her being ten pounds overweight. Okay, okay, maybe fifteen. But who would know? In four months she turned twenty-eight, and she'd never had torrid sex, never had a hot affair.
The wind howled and lifted the top of a snowdrift into the air when Lincoln, carrying a bundle of logs, kicked the door open. An icy finger sailed on the gust, trailing a chill around Destiny's neck. She wished she'd packed a scarf, and tugged the blanket over one ear.
Lincoln used his boot to slam the door shut.
“Why didn't you start a fire?”
“With what?” She'd held a dozen lit matches to one log, and the wood didn't even catch a spark.
He rolled his eyes.
“The normal tools—paper, logs.”
“Bite me,” Destiny snapped. All dreams of a romantic snowed-in week went poof. What a bully.
He stacked the logs on the other side of the fireplace and, in less time than it took her to inhale, or so it seemed, had a blazing fire crackling and spewing sparks. The scent of pine infused the air.
“I will,” he said as he stood and unzipped his parka. “You like it rough, I take it?” Lincoln shrugged out of his jacket and stowed the garment on the three-hook wooden coat stand to the right of the door.
“What?” She shook her head.
“You like to be bitten?” A forefinger stroked the cleft of his chin.
“None of your business,” she retorted. “What are you? Into kink?”
“Depends on the kink,” he answered. “I'm not into pain, but I'm not averse to a love bite here and there. Or a few spanks.”
Spanks? She was in over her head. Cripes, she'd always wondered about that. Pervasive guilt from Sunday-school lessons and spending three hours in a porn superstore made her blurt, “Look, let's get a few points cleared up. Those toys and DVDs weren't for me. I don't do that kind of stuff.” She paused, trying to erase the image of her over his knees from her pupils.
“And here I was hoping that deep throat was your specialty.” He started unbuttoning his shirt. “Do we have food?”
“I made the list as you ordered,” she said and pointed to a sheet of paper on the kitchen counter. “We have a ton of dried beans, onions, potatoes, apples, garlic, pears, cereal. Not to mention a freezer full of meat—most of it venison. We won't starve. What are you doing?”
He'd shed his shirt to reveal a black T-shirt. The thin cotton material slipped and slid around the cut of his biceps. Destiny's mouth went dry, and all the moisture in her body zipped to her labia.
“Did you find towels? Soap?”
He pulled his undershirt over his head.
Those ripped pecs, that ridged stomach, sucked all the oxygen out of the air. A swirl of chest hair, a tad darker than the sand of his brows, kissed milk-chocolate areolae, drifted and thinned like an arrowhead directing Destiny's attention to the—gulp—taut, swollen sex organ straining and a-begging for a viewing.
“I'm flattered, baby, but you don't wear the jaw-dropped look well.” Amusement curved his lips, and flames licked his irises, making them the color of melting brown sugar.
An inferno galloped across her body, humiliation and chagrin battling a rising fury.
“Sara? Soap? Towels?”
“Bathroom,” she growled.
“I'm starved. Did you start dinner?” He draped the shirt over his shoulders and in three strides disappeared into the bedroom.
Destiny collapsed onto the sofa. “Irritating, egotistical, conceited, pompous ass. Am I his personal servant? Did I start dinner? I should stew him.”
Addicted to the Culinary Institute of America's cooking classes, she could've whipped up a three-course gourmet feast without a working up a bead of sweat in less time than it had taken Lincoln to crash into the pear tree. The gremlin responsible for too many just-missed promotions fueled her narrow-eyed squint at the open bedroom door and the temptation to play the big-city-woman, didn't-know-how-to-boil-water role he'd lumped her into soared and beckoned, and she almost submitted.
Then Lincoln broke into song, humming at first, then singing a carol-like version of “We Three Kings of Orient Are” in a voice so low, so full of depth and richness, all thought of petty revenge took flight. Arrested, she sat up and stared at the flickering candle flames licking supple shadows through the main cabin.
As his voice soared on the words, “field and fountain,” she succumbed to the beauty of his singing, closing her eyes and swaying in time to the rhythm. The moment hung and hung, then ebbed and rose on an incredible free fall, suspended, time seeming to stop as the strength and power of his song shattered all links to modern-day civilization, the image of the kings' pilgrimage on a van Gogh starry, starry night almost too beautiful to bear.
Silence broke through her enchantment. Blinking, mesmerized, and unable to remember her train of thought, she lurched to a standing position and drifted into the kitchen. On autopilot Destiny uncorked the wine, poured two glasses, arranged a platter of cheese, apples, and pears, and set everything on the coffee table.
The quiet grated on her nerves, but she forced herself to perform mundane tasks, cutting five fat carrots into logs and chopping potatoes in half, all the while listening, trying to figure out what Lincoln was doing in the bedroom. After taking two small portions of venison from the freezer, she threw everything into an enameled Dutch oven, covered the contents with some of the wine, and added thyme, parsley, rosemary, salt, and pepper to the pot. Earlier Destiny'd said another small Hail Mary when she'd discovered the stove was fueled by gas; she set the temperature to four hundred and fifty and meandered over to the couch.
A soft thud reached her ears, all her nerve endings sparked and pinched, and she scrambled onto the soft upholstery, curling her legs together on one side, and reached for one of the wineglasses. Pretending she didn't hear the dull slapping of his bare feet meeting the wooden floor, she sipped the fruity merlot and leaned forward to pinch a slice of bread in half.
“You lied to me, Destiny Driven.”
She shot to her feet, her fingers slipping and sliding around the balloon goblet, the soft bread falling to the floor.
He had her passport in his hand, the book folded to show her picture.
Naked save for a towel tied around his hips, he towered over her, and for the first time since stepping foot in the cabin, fear climbed and clogged her throat.
“Who is Sara Parker?”