The Millionaire's Snowbound Seduction Read online

  ‘So, Doctor,’ the interviewer chirruped, ‘how does one put these memories to rest?’

  Holly, with one hand deep in a bowl of leftover gourmet popcorn, paused and stared at the set.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘how?’

  ‘By facing them,’ the good doctor replied. He pointed his bearded jaw at the camera, so that his bespectacled eyes seemed to bore straight into Holly’s. ‘Seek out your ghosts. You know where they lurk. Confront them, and lay them to rest.’

  Pieces of nut-and-sugar-encrusted popcorn tumbled, unnoticed, into Holly’s lap as she zapped the TV into silence.

  ‘North Mountain,’ she’d whispered, and the very next morning she’d phoned her travel agent. Was the cabin on the mountain still available? The answer had taken a while but eventually it had come. The cabin was there, it was for rent, and now here she was, about to face her ghosts…or to turn into one herself, if she didn’t make it up this damned mountain.

  There! Off to the left, through the trees. Holly could make out the long, narrow gravel driveway. It was still passable, thanks to the sheltering overhang of branches.

  The car skidded delicately but the tires held as she made the turn.

  She pulled up to the garage, fumbled in the glove compartment for the automatic door opener the realtor had given her. The door slid open. Holly smiled grimly. So much for the old man’s predictions about a power outage, and thank goodness for that. Night had fallen over the mountain and for the first time it occurred to her that it wouldn’t be terribly pleasant to be marooned here without electricity.

  Carefully, she eased the car into the garage. Seconds later, with the door safely closed behind her, she groaned and let her head flop back against the seat rest.

  She was safe and sound—but what on earth had she thought she was doing, coming to this cabin? You didn’t bury your ghosts by resurrecting them.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ she said brusquely, as she pulled her suitcase from the car and made her way into the kitchen.

  She switched on the light. There was the stove, where she’d prepared the very first meal she and Nick had shared as husband and wife. There was the silver ice bucket, where he’d chilled the bottle of cheap champagne that was all they’d been able to afford after they’d blown everything on renting this place for their honeymoon. There was the table, where they’d had their first dinner…where they’d almost had it, because just as she’d turned to tell Nick the meal was ready, he’d snatched her up into his arms and they’d ended up making love right there, with her sitting on the edge of the counter and him standing between her thighs, while their burgers burned to a crisp.

  The lights flickered. Deep in the basement, the heating system hesitated, then started up again. Holly sighed in gratitude.

  What on earth was she doing here? She was an idiot, to have come back to this place.

  ‘Worse than an idiot,’ she said, in a voice blurred with tears—not that she was weeping with regret. Why would she? Marrying Nick had been a mistake. Divorcing him had been the right thing to do, and she didn’t regret it, she never had. She was crying with anger at herself, at the storm that was going to make it impossible for her to turn around and drive down the mountain…

  The lights blinked again. In a moment, the power would go out. She’d never be able to open the garage door without it; the door was old, and far too heavy. The power had gone out for a couple of hours when they’d stayed here years ago, and not even Nick—muscular, gorgeous, virile Nick—had been able to wrestle the door open.

  Holly swallowed dryly. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, be trapped here, with her memories. She had to get out before that happened, and never mind the raging storm and the treacherous road. She could manage the drive down. She’d be careful. Very careful. Nothing was impossible, when you put your mind to it. Hadn’t life taught her that?

  ‘I am out of here,’ she said, exactly at the moment the lights went out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BY THE time he reached the turn-off for North Mountain, Nick was almost driving blind.

  He had the windshield wipers turned up to high but the snow was falling so thick and fast that the wipers could barely keep up.

  At least the Explorer was holding the road. That was something to be grateful for. And so was the gas station, just ahead. The last few miles, the needle on the gauge had been hovering dangerously close to empty.

  Nick pulled beneath the canopy, stepped from the truck and unscrewed the cover to his gas tank.

  ‘Hey there, Mister, didn’t ya see the sign? Station’s closed.’

  A man had come out of the clapboard house beyond the pumps and jerked his thumb at a hand-lettered sign tacked to the wall. He had the raw-boned look of an old-time New Englander and the accent to match.

  ‘No,’ Nick said, ‘sorry, I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, ya do now.’

  ‘Look, I need some gas. And you’re probably the only station open for miles.’

  ‘Ain’t open. Told ya, I’m closed.’

  Nick flashed his most ingratiating smile.

  ‘My truck’s just about running on fumes,’ he said. ‘I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me fill up.’

  ‘Ain’t no need for gas,’ the old man said, ‘seein’ as there’s no place to go in a blizzard.’

  Oh, hell. Nick took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Yeah, well, the weatherman says it’s not a blizzard. And by the time it is, I’ll be where I’m going, if you’ll let me have some gas.’

  The old fellow looked him up, then looked him down. Nick found himself wishing he’d taken the time to exchange his black trench coat, charcoal suit and shiny black wingtips for the jeans, scuffed boots and old leather jacket he’d jammed into his suitcase. He’d almost given up hope when the guy shrugged and stomped down the steps to the pump.

  ‘It’s your funeral.’

  Nick grinned. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Where you headed?’

  ‘Just a few miles north.’ Nick peered towards the office. ‘You got a couple of five-gallon gasoline cans you could fill for me?’

  ‘Aye-yup.’

  ‘And maybe a couple of bags of sand?’

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘Great.’ Nick pulled out his wallet as the old guy screwed the cover back on the gas tank. ‘If you have some candles you’d be interested in selling, I’d be obliged.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re not a fool, young man, wantin’ to buy ice in Decembah.’

  Nick laughed. ‘No, sir. No ice. Just the gas, the sand, the candles… Better safe than sorry, isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘The smart ones do, anyways. North, ya say. That’s where you’re goin’?’

  ‘Yes. To North Mountain.’

  The old man turned around, a red gasoline can in each hand, and looked at Nick as if he were demented.

  ‘Ain’t been a soul come through here in months, headin’ for that mountain, and now there’s two of you, in one day.’

  Nick frowned. ‘Somebody went up to the cabin?’

  ‘I suppose. Couldn’t tell ’em naught, either. Had the wrong car, wrong tires, wrong everythin’. Didn’t have no business on that mountain, I tell you that.’

  That was for sure, Nick thought grimly. Vagrants, even damn-fool kids with nothing better to do than go joy-riding, could get into trouble in country this isolated.

  On the other hand, vagrants didn’t drive cars, and kids around here had more sense than to be out in this kind of weather.

  ‘Hunters, maybe?’ he asked.

  The old man guffawed. ‘Hunters? Naw. I don’t think so.’

  Nick slid behind the steering wheel of the Explorer. ‘How many guys were there?’

  ‘Jest one, but—’

  ‘Thanks,’ Nick said. He waved, checked for the non-existent traffic, and pulled out onto the road.

  ‘But it weren’t guys a-tall, Mister. It were just this one pretty little woman…’

  Too late. The truck had disa
ppeared into the whirling snow.

  The old man sighed. Crazy people, these city folk, he thought, and clomped back inside his house.

  * * *

  It took twice as long as it normally would have to make it up the mountain.

  The drifting snow had buried the road in many places and at times the visibility was just about nonexistent. Nick kept an eye out for another car but there were no signs any had come this way. Of course, with the snow falling so heavily, there wouldn’t have been much chance of seeing tire tracks.

  Still, when he finally reached the turn-off that led to the cabin, he scanned it carefully for signs of a trespasser, but there was nothing to see.

  He pulled up outside the garage and got out to open the door. The snow, and the wind, hit him with enough force to take his breath away but he bent his head against it and grasped the handle of the garage door.

  ‘Damn!’

  How could he have forgotten? The door was electric. It wouldn’t move an inch no matter how much muscle you applied and, of course, he’d forgotten to have somebody send him the automatic opener.

  Well, that was life. He’d have his work cut out for him, digging the truck out from under umpteen inches of snow tomorrow morning. He trudged back to the Explorer, opened the door and stuffed his cellphone and his wireless fax into his pockets, hung his carryon and his computer case from his shoulders, and hefted a box of supplies into his arms. Steak, potatoes, a couple of onions and a bottle of single-malt Scotch. The basic food groups, enough to hold him through the weekend. He slammed the door shut with his hip, dug the key to the cabin from his pocket, and made his way to the front porch.

  Damn, Nick thought as he climbed the wooden steps. He’d forgotten to bring coffee. Well, he’d have to make do with a shot of the Scotch to warm his bones, and then he’d fall straight into bed. It sounded like a mighty fine plan.

  He wedged the box against the door, fumbled for the lock and turned the key. The door wouldn’t open. He scowled. Was there an unwritten law that said doors had to stick when a man was freezing his ass off on the wrong side of them? Nick grunted, shoved hard, and almost fell into the cabin as the door groaned noisily and swung open on a yawning blackness.

  ‘Idiot,’ he muttered.

  He had a flashlight, but it was inside the box. And to put the box down without walking into something, he needed to be able to see.

  There had to be a light switch on the wall. He seemed to remember one, to the left…

  ‘Come on,’ he said impatiently, as he felt for the switch. ‘Where are you hiding? I know you’re there.’

  Something swished past his face. He sensed it coming just quickly enough to duck before it connected with his skull.

  ‘Hey! What the…?’

  A creature flew at him from out of the darkness, shrieking like a banshee. Nick yelled, threw up his arms to ward the thing off, and went down in a heap, box, carry-on, computer and all.

  The creature was right on top of him.

  Talons dug into his shoulder, went for his eyes. Warm breath hissed onto his face. Was it a bobcat? A lynx? A mountain lion? No, not that. There were no big cats here, weren’t supposed to be, anyway. A wolf? Gone for at least a hundred years, but people said…

  ‘Perfume?’ Nick whispered.

  What kind of cat wore perfume?

  The thing began trying to scramble away from him. Nick grunted. His hand closed on something fragile and bony. An ankle? A wrist? Did cats have ankles and wrists?

  Perfume. Delicate bones…

  Nick’s eyes widened against the darkness.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘You’re a woman!’

  And then something hit him hard, in the back of the head, and he slipped down and down into deepest, darkest night.

  * * *

  Holly stood over the unconscious intruder and trembled with fear.

  Was he dead? Had she killed him?

  At first, she’d thought she was dreaming. She’d been lying in bed, still shaking with cold despite wearing her long johns, wool socks, a hat and her New England Patriots sweatshirt, buried to the tip of her nose beneath half a dozen quilts, busily telling herself there was nothing the least bit spooky about being alone on the top of a mountain with no lights and a blizzard raging outside, when she’d heard something.

  A sound. An engine.

  Good, she’d thought. The snowplows were out.

  Snowplows? Back home, in Boston, yes. But here? On the top of this mountain?

  Holly’d shot up in bed, her heart pounding. The night was so still. Every sound seemed magnified a hundred times, and each had sent a wave of terror straight through her.

  The thud of a car door. The scrunch of footsteps in the snow. The thump of booted feet mounting the steps, crossing the porch. The sound of the front door being battered open.

  That was when she’d moved, jerking out a hand for the portable phone on the night table, remembering even as she put it to her ear that the damned thing wouldn’t work with the power out. Petrified, almost breathless with fear, she’d looked around desperately for a weapon. Something. Anything.

  The phone. It was a weapon. It didn’t have as much heft as she’d have liked but she was in no position to be choosy.

  Now what? Should she hide and hope the intruder wouldn’t find her, or should she tiptoe down the steps, see what he was doing, slip up behind him when he wasn’t watching and knock him over the head?

  Whatever she did, she’d be quiet. Oh, so quiet. Super quiet, like a little mouse, so that he wouldn’t so much as suspect there was a woman in the house. A lone woman…

  And right then, just as she was tiptoeing to the top of the stairs, trying to hear herself think over the thud of her heart, the intruder had spoken in a low, angry voice.

  ‘Come on,’ he growled. ‘Where are you hiding? I know you’re here.’

  Terror had impelled her, then, terror and the realization that he knew she was here. She’d raced downstairs, tried her damnedest to bash his brains out right away and, when that hadn’t worked, she’d screamed the way Belinda had once said she’d been taught to scream in a martial arts class and hurled herself straight at the intruder.

  He was huge. Seven feet, for sure. Eight, maybe. Three hundred pounds, no, four hundred, and all of it muscle. And he was strong as an ox. He’d struggled mightily, grunting and shoving and trying to dislodge her, but she hadn’t given an inch. Then his hand—a hand the size of a house, and as powerful as a steel trap—had closed around her wrist.

  ‘Perform,’ he’d said, in a voice as deep as a bass drum, and just as a hundred terrible explanations for that command swept into Holly’s mind his grasp on her wrist had tightened. ‘Blood,’ he’d snarled, ‘you’re a human!’

  Perform? Blood? Human?

  Holly hadn’t hesitated. She’d swung the phone again and that time she’d hit him on the top of his miserable head.

  Now he lay sprawled at her feet, face-down and motionless.

  She poked him with her toe. He didn’t move. She poked again. Nothing happened.

  Holly’s heart was in her throat.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered.

  Had she killed him? Had she killed this—this escapee from a funny farm? Her teeth banged together, chattering like castanets. What about all that stuff she’d always laughed at? The tabloid headlines that screamed about visitors from outer space? Did an alien lie at her feet, looking to perform some bloody human sacrifice?

  Holly forced out a laugh. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she said shakily, ‘get a grip!’

  This was no alien. It was a man, and even if he was a certifiable loony who thought he’d been hatched on Mars, the last thing she wanted was to have his blood on her hands.

  She had to turn him over, see if he was alive or dead. And to manage that, she needed light.

  There were candles in the kitchen; she’d used one to see her way upstairs an hour or two ago. Was it safe to turn her back, leave the room, leave this—this crea
ture lying here? Suppose he awoke? Suppose he stood up? Suppose…

  ‘Ooooh.’

  Holly leaped back. He was moaning. And moving. Very, very slightly, but at least he was alive. She hadn’t killed him.

  The man groaned again. It was a pitiful sound. Her heart thumped. How badly had she injured him? She couldn’t see. Couldn’t tell. For all she knew, he might be lying there, bleeding to death.

  ‘Mister?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Hey, Mister!’

  Holly took a tentative step forward. She poked him with her toe, then poked him again. Carefully, she squatted down beside the still form and jabbed him with a finger.

  Nothing happened.

  Holly heaved a sigh of relief. Good. He was still unconscious. As for his wounds—that could wait. Right now, she needed to find something to tie him with.

  The man groaned and rolled onto his back, one arm thrown over his face. Holly leapt to her feet and scrambled into the shadows.

  ‘Don’t move!’ she said. Oh, that sounded pathetic! She cleared her throat, dropped her voice to what she hoped was something raspy and threatening. ‘Don’t move another inch, or so help me I’ll…I’ll shoot.’ And she brandished the portable phone before her.

  Move? Move?

  Nick would have laughed at the idea, if he hadn’t been afraid that laughing would make his skull crack open. The last time his head had felt like this was in fourth grade when Eddie Schneider, excited at the prospect of striking out the last guy up, had managed to bean him with a fastball.

  ‘You hear me, Mister? Don’t even think about moving.’

  It was a boy’s voice, young and unsteady. Well, hell. Nick felt pretty unsteady himself. On the other hand, the last thing he wanted to do was lie here, at the mercy of a dangerous kid armed with a gun and some kind of animal that attacked people.

  He had to sit up, if he was going to get out of this in one piece.

  Nick forced another groan, which wasn’t very difficult, all things considered.