locked, though she wished fervently for the dead bolt she had in New
York.
"Open up! It's wet out here!" The voice was deep, gruff, and angry.
"Open the damn door!"
Anne didn't budge. This was her cottage for the week, and she had the
papers to prove it. She didn't have to open the door.
But the banging went on, hard knuckles on wood. "Come on, whoever you
are, open the door! I'm getting soaked and I can't reach my key."
His key? Was this a common visiting place? Had the realtor forgotten to
tell her something?
Feeling vaguely guilty at being warm and dry while someone was out there
wet and cold, she approached the door. "Who is it?" she yelled, resting
her forehead against the smooth oak.
"It's Mitch, dammit. Open up!" An impatient hand jiggled the doorknob
from the outside.
"I don't know any Mitch," she shouted over the storm. "What do you
want?"
What came back was a menacing growl. "I want to get dry. For God's sake,
open up. I do have a key, but if I have to put these bags down to get
it, I'll be madder'n hell when I get in there!"
Assuming she could believe him, he had a point. If he did have a key and
would eventually open the door whether she liked it or not, she could
save him the effort and spare herself his anger. Cautious, she reached
for the knob. She opened the door a few inches, leaving her weight
against the wood in case she didn't like what she saw.
Without warning, a heavier weight thrust it full open, throwing her back
into the room. Startled by the unexpected force and cursing herself for
her nerves, Anne lost her balance and tripped, falling backward onto her
bottom with a thud. From that vantage point she watched, wide-eyed, as a
huge man entered, savagely dripping water. He tossed in several large
bags before slamming the door shut and leaning against it.
The fire had begun to die, leaving only the faintest glow to light his
face, but it was enough to show a tight jaw, sneering lips, and eyes
that impaled her.
"You bitch! What took you so long? Why didn't you open the door?
Can't you see what the weather is like? And who sent you anyway? Was it
Joe?" Narrowed eyes gave her an insolent once-over. "No, it must have
been Lennie. He goes in for the plain, scrawny type."
Anne was dumbstruck by the sudden turn of events.
"What?" he went on. "No denials? No coy protestations?" He unbuttoned
his heavy wool jacket, shrugged it off, and tossed it onto an empty
chair. Even without its bulk, with only snug denims and a dark
turtleneck, he was imposing.
To her horror, he advanced until he towered directly over her. "Well?
Don't you have anything to say? Or are you just going to lie there, all
helpless and inviting?"
Anne found her tongue. "You shouldn't be here. Get out!"
A coarse laugh filtered through the sounds of the storm. "Ah, having
second thoughts, are you? Reneging on your little deal so fast?"
Anne slid backward on the floor. "I think there's been a
misunderstanding."
"Right in one! I don't know who you are, but I don't want you or any
other woman up here. So"-he lowered his voice but failed to relax his
jaw-"I'd suggest you pick up your little carcass and get out."
Anne was incredulous. "I will not." Her eyes didn't leave his for a
second, though she inched farther away.
Suddenly he was crouched before her, steel-muscled shins imprisoning
hers and making movement impossible. "What did you say?"
Willing a strength she didn't feel, Anne held his gaze. "I said that I
wouldn't leave. I'm here for the week. If anyone is leaving, it's you.
Now!"
She practically shrieked the last. Between frustration and fear, she was
losing composure.
But her order had the opposite effect. The man moved forward, resting
his weight on his right hand, on the hard floor inches from her hip. "So
this is a new kind of game," he taunted.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, but her voice fell
to a whisper when his face came closer. "This is no game."
Lit by the pale orange cast of the fire, his lips were firm and grinning
wryly. His eyes narrowed again, homing in now on her mouth, which
quivered. She couldn't move. Terror rose up from the pit of her stomach.
"No game?" he echoed as she struggled to pull herself free of his
leghold. With the grace of an athlete and the power of a lion, he
stretched fully over her, flattening her onto the cold floor.
Panic hit then. "Let go! Get off me!" Futilely she pushed against him,
but his body weight was awesome, stealing her breath. Gasping for air,
she continued to push as his mouth lowered. "No!" she cried and wrenched
her head to the side.
He brought it back with a firm hand. "No game, you say? We'll see about
that." His lips seized hers with a steadiness that held her head flush
against the oak planks. Startling in intensity, relentless in duration,
his kiss had an animalism that was primitive and raw.
She fought desperately, writhing beneath him until one large hand seized
both of hers and pinned them to the floor above her head. Only then did
his lips finally release hers.
Fighting tears, she gasped for breath, and all the while he studied her.
When he finally spoke, he was calm and cynical. "Tears? That's not part
of the game plan." In an effort to raise himself, his hand tightened on
hers, forcing them to bear the brunt of his weight. She cried out in
pain when her wedding band dug in.
He freed her quickly then, and sat back on his haunches. She recoiled,
crawling backward until she hit a wall, then jumping to her feet and
racing to the hearth. She grabbed the only weapon in sight, a heavy iron
poker. "Don't come near me," she warned in a high-pitched whine.
Her threat reached its mark. He didn't move a muscle.
Silence hung heavy in the air. Even the rain had eased to a gentle
patter on the roof. The storm was ending. But what was she to do now? As
the gravity of her predicament settled in, a fit of trembling shook her
with such force that the poker waved precariously.
Appearing to sense her terror, the man rose slowly, palms open and out
from his sides. "Take it easy. I won't hurt you."
"You already have." She raised the poker higher.
"Put that thing down," he ordered, but gently, all anger gone now.
"You're apt to hurt yourself"
She shook her head and held the poker at the ready.
"Look." He sighed, running his fingers through the damp hair that had
fallen across his forehead. "Let me turn on a light. At least then I can
see what manner of woman has the upper hand on me."
She eased up on her stance. Light would help her, too.
He crossed to the nearest lamp and turned it on. It bathed the room a
warm yellow. "That's better," he said and turned to face her.
Anne took a good look at her would-be assailant. He was tall and rugged,
thinner than she had first suspected, though the breadth of his chest
and shoulders spoke of strength. His sweater was black, his jeans faded,
though darkened by rain at the hem, where they fell over sodden brown
leather boots.
She had expected a dark and glowering face. What she saw were features
that were strong but kind, skin that was clear and only faintly tanned,
hair that was thick and blond, turning silver, in damp waves.
There was an underlying gentleness. But his lips were stern, his cheeks
lean, his jaw set. And eyes that were silvery hazel stare ' (I at her
without a blink.
"If you've finished," he said with a mocking twitch of his lips, "would
you please put down that poker? You can see I'm not a thug," She lifted
the weapon higher. "How about a rapist?" She wasn't being deceived by a
sweet-talking, good-looking man.
A muscle flexed in his jaw. "I'm no rapist. I wouldn't have forced you
into anything. Especially once I saw that wedding band. I don't fool
around with married women."
Tears threatened again. How bittersweet that the symbol of a marriage
that had ended should save her from the unspeakable. So she had Jeff to
thank still.
"Who are you?" she asked in a quavering voice.
"You really don't know? Come on, you're holding all the cards. You can
confess."
Her voice came stronger. "Who are you?"
Still he persisted. "It was Lennie, wasn't it? He's been trying to set
me up with a woman for weeks now!" His frustration sounded sincere.
"Who are you?"
With a sigh of defeat, he thrust a hand in his pocket. "Mitch."
But she knew that already. "Where are you from?"
"New York."
"You just drove up from there?"
"Yes. I, "Why?
He shot her a surprised look. "Why what? Why did I just drive up, or why
am I here?"
"Both." As Anne's pulse steadied, she lowered the poker.
"I just got here because I had a late meeting this afternoon and
couldn't leave the city until it was done. I'm here because I need a
week's rest, free of all human contact. All human contact."
"Why are you here?"
"I just told you."
"But, why here, in this house?" She was beginning to think straight. He
didn't look like a thug. And he could have taken advantage of her when
he was on top, but he hadn't.
He rubbed the back of his neck, much as she had when she'd first
arrived. "I come here often. And I'm sure I booked the weekend with
Miles."
So he did know the realtor. He deserved credit for that.
She relaxed her grip on the poker. "It looks like good old Miles made
mistake." Thinking about it, she frowned. Her eyes fell. Absently she
ran faintly shaky finger over the lip he had bruised.
In a single deft move, he had the poker out of her hands before she knew
he was there. In that instant, terror returned. She had been duped.
"All right, ma'am. Now you answer my questions," he ordered.
When she tried to step back, he grabbed her shoulders and held her in
place. The discrepancy of their heights appalled her. Even accounting
for the fact that she had no shoes on, Mitch was nearly a foot taller.
"Who are you?" he asked with an air of command, even subtle threat.
She began to tremble again. "Anne."
"From ... ?$)
"New York."
"So"-a smile touched his mouth but went no further-"we're of the same
stock."
"Hardly."
Her sharp gaze and clipped response erased his smile. "When did you
arrive?"
She resented his questions. She had a rental agreement. This was her
place. "I don't see that this-"
Hard fingers dug into her upper arms, stopping short of a shake. "When
did you get here?"
"Early this evening."
"Why are you here? Both versions."
He had relaxed his grip on her shoulders, but she wanted out all the
way. "Can I sit down? My legs are wobbly."
He held his hands out to the sides for an instant, then dropped them.
The right went to his waist, the left to his pocket. "Be my guest. Sit."
She retreated to the wing-back chair and watched him add logs to the
fire. He used his right hand. His left remained in his pocket. It struck
her that he avoided using it.
He approached her again, tall and imposing. "Why did you come?"
She tipped her chin in defiance of his stance. "I'm here on vacation. I
arranged it with Mr. Cooper and prepaid for the week."
"You have proof?"
"Of course."
"Let me see."
She scowled. "Why should I show you anything? You're the one who barged
in here uninvited."
He leaned forward, resting his hand on the arm of her chair, bringing
his lips infuriatingly close to her ear. "Get it," he demanded under his
breath, then slowly straightened to let her pass.
Moments later she reappeared to find him studying the fire. He took the
paper she offered and skimmed it.
"Looks authentic enough," he conceded. With a muttered, "That fool," he
turned back to the fire.
"Where's your proof?" she challenged.
He -clenched his jaw. "You'll have to take my word for it."
"No, thanks. I want proof. Or you can just take your things and leave. I
didn't drive all the way up here to share a cabin with a man I don't
know."
His mouth thinned to a grimace. "Looks like you're stuck with me, lady."
She was suddenly angry. "No way! I came up here to be alone, and that's
what I plan to be. If there was a telephone, I'd call the local police
to get you out, but there isn't one, and I don't relish the thought of
driving out in this weather. So I'm asking you to leave like a
gentleman." He stared at the fire. "Who said that I was a gentleman?"
"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Now, do you leave, or do I..
Her voice trailed off. There was no alternative.
And, damn it, he knew it. Slowly, he turned toward her. "Or do you
what?"
Frustrated by the situation, infuriated by his calm, she gave in to the
need to shout. Loudly. "Look ... Mitch ... I don't know who's to blame
for this fiasco, but I'd like you to leave. It's been a long day and I'm
tired. There's obviously been a misunderstanding, but I have every
intention of spending the week here, and I'm paying for that time right
now. So, do you go?"
His expression was unchanged. "Tonight? No."
"What do you mean, no? You have no right to be here."
