Baby, It's Cold Outside (3 page)

“Brad? Your partner?”

“Yeah.” He finished the second sandwich, dusted off his hands. “So that’s the deal. I started out hurt. Destroyed-hurt. Then I got mad, as well. I’m still mad. I intend to stay mad until kingdom come. Got a job mapping minerals and water, employed by the kindly state of Alaska, do the hermit thing in the hardcore winter months, trek to some really outback places in the summer. They pay me a fortune.”

“That’s the whole story?”

“Basically. Family, friends, kept telling me I had to get over her. Over them. If one more person told me to ‘move on,’ I figured I was going to lose it in a real serious way.
I needed and wanted to be alone.” His eyes met hers. “I’m not looking for trouble. From anyone. And for damn sure, I don’t want sympathy or advice or a listening ear. I’ve had enough of that kind of hounding to last me a lifetime.”

“Gotcha.” She was still on her first triangle wedge. If she took any smaller bites, she’d still be eating that tiny sandwich at midnight. “Well, my story’s a lot more dramatic. I killed someone.”

He dropped his water bottle. “Say what?”

“I come from a family of doctors. A dad, a brother, two uncles, my grandfather. Lost my mom when I was little—car crash. Anyway. The deal in my family was that you knew, from grade school on, that you were going into medicine. Oh. And rule number two was that you’d spend at least two weeks every year at the lodge in Alaska. When I was a kid, I came with all my guys. They hunted and fished, and I holed up upstairs with my dolls.” She pointed at him. “But…I was doing surgery on my dolls even then. So don’t be thinking I was a girlie girl.”

His mouth twitched. “Don’t shoot me, but maybe I did have a passing thought that you weren’t a natural tomboy.”

“All right, all right. So maybe I was a
little
on the girlie side. Maybe I still am. Anyway, I didn’t go the surgeon route like my dad and gramps. I went to school, Chicago, became an anesthesiologist. Graduated top of my class, as was expected. Got a job at a terrific hospital—Boston—as was expected. I just turned twenty-nine. Been at the job less than two years.”

“And…”

“And there was a little boy. Nine. Big trauma, fell off a trampoline. Going to be a long surgery. Neurosurgeon asked for me specifically, because I’m good. Seriously good. It was going to take a miracle, everyone knew it. It was going to take all of us to bring him through.”

Something in him stilled. It was unfortunately easy to guess where this was going, no matter how tough she was trying to look. “But the kid didn’t make it?”

“Yeah. He died.” She put down the second wedge. When it was obvious she wasn’t going to eat it, he reached for it.

“And this was your fault somehow?”

“That’s not really a yes or no answer. It wasn’t about
fault
. He was too little, too damaged to fix. Putting him through seven hours of surgery—there was no way to keep him under that long. He had other health issues. So it was this balance, of keeping him under enough that he didn’t feel anything, but not depress his system so far that he’d quit breathing.” She said quietly, easily, “I did my job. Everything I could. Everything I knew how to do. But he died.”

“But you were blamed?” He got the haunted eyes now. Got the wounded fragility. But still couldn’t quite put it all together.

“No. No one blamed me. I’m not a hundred percent positive that anyone could have saved the child. The best surgeon, the best anesthesiologist, though, were the critical parts of the equation. My family, they’ve all had deaths. It’s just the way it is. You can’t save every patient. They were all on me to buck up, put it behind me, get over it, move on.”

“Okay.”

“That was…like two and a half weeks ago. The problem…isn’t about blaming myself. It’s about being in the position of God. I don’t know that I want that power, of life and death. I hated it.
Hated
losing that boy. It’s as if he were mine. As if I were the one grieving as much as his mother.”

He said nothing, because he was afraid to. Her heart was in her eyes.

“I never wanted that power. I went into medicine because I was raised to be an obedient daughter who fulfills expectations. I never…made a choice. I just took the ride I was supposed to take. Maybe…I’d rather be a clerk in a clothing store. Or drive a truck. Or sell cosmetics or jewelry or something.”

Again, he said nothing, but had to bite his tongue. She shut up when he was talking, so now, even if it was killing him, he had to stay shut up for her.

“The point is…I’m not sure I’m going back to doctoring. And facing the family and friends over the holidays, I just couldn’t do it.” She shook her head. “I’m not depressed. I’m not crazy. I just need some time to think. I want to be left
alone
. No hounding. No advice. No sympathy. I’m not looking for anything from anyone.”

“Neither am I.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being alone.”

“I totally agree.”

“I’m tired of people interfering. Telling me what’s right for me. I love my family and friends. But I have to live my own life.”

“You’re singing my song.”

“I don’t need anyone. Much less anyone telling me what I should do.”

“Damn right.”

She hesitated with a sudden frown. “What’s going on here?”

He hesitated, too. “We’re getting along?”

She let out a short laugh. “Who’d have thought it?”

If she was confounded, Rick figured she didn’t know the half of it. He ran from women faster than skunks. No offense to skunks—or women. He just wasn’t going to volunteer to be stabbed in the gut again. Realizing that he felt drawn to Emilie, not just interested but darn well
pulled
…was enough to make him want to run for the hills.

As far as Rick could tell, she had the same reaction to their storytelling. Just too much personal sharing, too quickly. Both of them ran around for a while, not specifically avoiding each other, so much as easily finding things to do that required no contact or conversation. She brought clothes and books and personal things down from the upstairs, so they could completely close up the loft rooms and conserve heat. He scouted around for the location of batteries, emergency supplies, food stock, then did chore stuff like closing doors, blocking air leaks in windows and door edges.

Eventually, though, he found her standing at a north window at the same time he was standing at a west one. There was nothing outside to see but snow and more snow. Truth to tell, it was downright breathtaking. Treacherous, but breathtaking. The view was an ever-changing dance of swirls and heaps and spangles of snow
shapes…but the relentlessly screaming wind could drive anyone crazy.

“You got a deck of cards around here?” he asked.

She came through. He volunteered to play Crazy Eights, but she was the one who suggested poker, so he figured hey, whatever happened after that wasn’t his fault. She’d chosen the game.

First hand, he drew a pair of aces. Still, he kept the betting down to five toothpicks, because he didn’t want to discourage her right off the bat—it was going to be a long afternoon.

She showed him three tens, scooped up the toothpicks.

He searched her face, looking for signs of guile or cunning. Found nothing but delighted surprise at winning in her expression.

He hunkered down and dealt the cards. Because he was good at the game—downright great, if he said so himself—he had ample time to reflect on all the stuff she’d told him.

Man, she was so wrong.

So much about her made sense, now that he knew she was a doctor. The sharp intelligence in her eyes, yet the survival naïveté. Her believing herself to be so prepared, because she was, in her life; she just didn’t have skills that were relevant in this environment. Still, the truth of her situation was obvious, would have been obvious to a stone.

She needed to be what she was. A healer. A doctor. He was sorry about the kid that died, but Emilie wasn’t dumb. She should get it. The death wasn’t on her. Bad stuff happened, to everyone and everything.

His sympathy for her slowly, methodically decreased—exponentially the longer they played cards.

“What,” he said, “do you always have luck like this?”

“Luck?” she hooted. “Luck! This is skill, boy. Either put your bet in the pot or fold, youngster.”

“This time,” he said patiently, “you have to be bluffing.”

“You’ll have to pay to find out.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ll pay. But since I’m running out of toothpicks, I think we should make the stakes just a little more interesting.”

“S
TRIP
,” E
MILIE ORDERED HIM
, and had to chuckle when his jaw dropped in shock. Who’d have thought she’d have the feminine power to make him feel off balance? Or that her big-guy pirate could suddenly clear his throat because of nerves.

“Now just hold your horses. I’m not out of toothpicks yet. Close, yeah. But this time I’ve got a good hand.”

“I’m not talking about the poker game. I’m talking about the way you wince every time you twist your left arm and shoulder a certain way.”

There. His nerve level immediately simmered down. His expression changed from sudden sexual awareness—to plain old annoyance. “It’s nothing. Play your cards.”

“Fine. But that’s my bet. If I win, you take off your shirt.”

“Don’t hold your breath, counting on winning,” he grumped, and held his cards closer than diamonds.

Emilie wanted to chuckle again…yet felt her smile softening. The whole time they’d been playing poker, she kept recalling the story he’d told her. What a stupid wife he’d had. The woman had thrown out a man who loved her—loved, trusted, bared his soul with, appreciated, the
whole serious ball of wax. Good men, men who really knew how to love, were darned hard to find. And yeah, he was scruffy-looking. But now it made more sense, why he chose to go around looking like a disreputable, dangerous pirate.

He’d felt betrayed.

He’d
been
betrayed.

He wasn’t encouraging anyone—man, woman or child—to get too close again.

Calmly she laid down her hand. Three sixes. Two twos.

He stared at it in disbelief. But he didn’t move.

“Now come on,” she said teasingly. “This is no big deal. I just want to see the burn on your shoulder, that’s all. I told you I’m a doctor. You don’t need to be modest around me—”

“Modest?
Of course I’m not
modest!”

You’d think she’d accused him of kicking a puppy; he sounded that outraged. “I’m just asking you to take off the top layers around your left shoulder for a couple minutes. Even if you were modest, it’s no big thing, you know? I promise I won’t look at anything embarrassing—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” With a disgusted look, he started peeling.

Which, of course, was precisely what she wanted him to do. Before he could balk again, she hustled into the kitchen to wash her hands and fetch the first aid supplies.

Even with the tall, bright fire, there wasn’t enough light, so she added a lantern on the mantel.

“It’s not worth all this fuss,” he said. “It’s a burn. Burns hurt. That’s life. It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t “nothing.” He’d told her what happened, but now she could see it. Something burning had fallen on his shoulder—a branch, part of the roof or ceiling, whatever. The spot was a couple inches wide and several inches long. A spattering of burn “freckles” sprayed along his arm, as well, but the only sore likely to cause him trouble was the one burn. “You took good care of it,” she said seriously. “It’s clean. Not infected.”

“What? Did you think I was an idiot?”

“Rick.”

“What?”

“Shut up. I’m looking right at it. I know it hurts like hell. And it’s in a spot that has to be almost impossible for you to reach. So quit being a jerk. You’re right, it’s fine, likely to heal with no sweat as long as you keep taking care of it. But I can put something on it, to both protect it and make it hurt less. And it’s easier for me to reach it than it is for you, so it’s pretty darn ridiculous for you to keep arguing.”

He shut up, just like that.

She finished the job, in less than five minutes. Switched off the lantern, carted the first aid kit back to the kitchen, washed her hands again. By the time she ambled back into the living area, he’d pulled on both his tech layer and flannel shirt.

It struck her as funny…how right then, out of the complete blue, she felt a sexual pull with the power of a bullet. It didn’t make sense. Moments before, she’d had her hands on his bare skin. Seen the golden orbs of his shoulders by firelight. Felt the warmth of his flesh, felt the sinew and muscle in his back and arms, felt him tense under her gentlest touch.

But she’d been a doctor, looking at the wound. And now she wasn’t a doctor.

She was just walking into a firelit room with a stranger whose eyes met hers. This time, though, their connection packed a wallop. His gaze distinctly conveyed a man’s experience, a man’s sexual awareness, a man’s blunt way of communicating that touching between them could have repercussions. Interesting repercussions. Frightening repercussions. Explosive repercussions.

“So,” she said, and then completely forgot what she’d been about to say. There seemed to be nothing in her mind but froth.

“I forgot to say thanks,” he said. “You really did something. I can’t even feel the burn on my back now.”

“Good.”

“You still want to play poker?”

“Maybe after a while. For right now…to be honest, I just feel beat. I’m inclined to read, just crash early.”

Her voice was casual, she was sure, the way friendly strangers would naturally talk together. That was the thing. All she had to do was ignore this unexpected awareness of him, treat him just as she would an acquaintance or neighbor.

That was the plan—and it worked that way. Eventually they tested her oven stew, which wasn’t going to win any culinary contests, but at least it didn’t poison them. He didn’t know about her lack of skills in a kitchen. She did. They shared the cleanup, paid attention to the generator, the fire, discussed how they were going to set up sleeping, took turns in the bathroom.

She didn’t know how much time passed after that. Minutes. Hours.

He’d taken the cushions off one couch, plopped them on the carpet on one side of the hearth, apparently felt more comfortable sleeping on ground level. She’d layered blankets on the far couch. Although he couldn’t be farther than seven feet away, she could barely see him. The firelight was bright enough, but both of them were so completely heaped in covers that their best friends likely couldn’t identify them, she thought humorously.

But her humor was fake.

He was sleeping, she believed, but somehow she just couldn’t seem to drop off. The hiss and spit of fire created warm, friendly sounds…but without him talking, without their moving around, all she really heard was the blizzard.

The wind was relentless. It howled and howled and kept on howling. An animal in pain couldn’t sound that mournful. That menacing. That lonely.

Troubles magnified in the darkness. The little boy’s face kept flashing in her mind…and then the faces of her family, her dad and brothers and uncles. Her putty and white apartment, that had seemed so contemporary and clean to her when she’d signed the lease, now struck her as sterile. There was no personality in the place. She wasn’t sure she even
had
a personality, beyond the roles she regularly played—the dutiful daughter and the excellent student and the anesthesiologist who, right from the start, got a reputation for being unshakable.

Every label she could apply to herself was relatively nice. There was nothing bad, nothing terrible. For ages she’d told herself to be proud of what she’d accom
plished, for being well liked and respected and exactly the daughter her dad wanted.

It was just…that howling wind.

It made her feel…alone. As if she’d disappeared somewhere in all those obedient roles. As if she had no life, no meaning outside what other people wanted her to be.

The only thing that seemed to define her was the loss of that little boy. She knew perfectly well that she wasn’t legally at fault. Or morally. Or ethically. It wasn’t about that kind of fault. It was about her choice—that she’d chosen a career where she had life-and-death power over others.

She wasn’t good enough.

She wasn’t a good enough human being to just…take…that power.

A scream of wind, angry, shrieking, seemed to circle the house in a fresh fury. She didn’t think she’d moved or made any sound, but out of nowhere the baritone on the floor said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. C’mere.”

She blinked. He sounded wide-awake. And annoyed—the way he was so excellent at sounding annoyed. Even when he wasn’t.

“I’m a big girl,” she said. “It’s stupid, letting myself react to that wind. It’s just…it’s the eeriest, scariest sound. I’ve never heard anything like it before. And it just never seems to
stop
.”

“C’mere,” he repeated impatiently.

Well, obviously, she wasn’t getting out of her nice, warm couch-nest and going any nearer to a stranger.

It was another woman, whose feet gingerly hit the floor. Who tugged the top blanket around her and silently trod over to the big lunk’s body on the carpet.

He lifted his blanket, said brusquely, “Don’t let the cold air in, goose.”

And she crouched down.

Smooth as a lion, his big paw came out, scooped her inside the warmth of blankets and against his long, lean body. He was covered. Just as she was. But, as if they’d slept together forever, he spooned her against him, just so, tucking the blanket protectively around her neck.

He eased back with a sigh, the weight of his arm against her waist.

The feeling of his erection sent trumpet warnings to her nerves. And of course she felt it. Even with double layers of clothes, he’d responded to her closeness the way…well, the way men did.

“Just so you know,” he said sleepily, “I don’t sleep with women.”

“Hell’s bells, neither do I.”

After a moment’s silence, he erupted in an earthy chuckle. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant. Just sleeping together doesn’t mean anything…personal.” She added, “Thanks. I was scared. It was stupid. But I was. So thanks.”

“On that safe business…”

She tensed faster than lightning.

“You’re not,” he said.

She twisted her head. “And that means…?”

“That means, don’t make me out to be a saint. I can’t think of a reason in hell why we shouldn’t share the warmth. No one will ever know. There’s no possible harm. But the thing is, we’re trapped in this house together.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t jump you. It’d be taking advantage—you know it and so do I. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to. Or that I’m not thinking about it. Or that I haven’t noticed you’ve got a really great butt.”

“You think I haven’t noticed that you have a really great butt, too?”

Another short silence. Then a dry, “Are you trying to suggest that I’m not safe with you, either?”

“I’m just saying…I’ve been a saint, most of my life, and I’m awfully sick of the halo. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Emilie.”

“What?”

“Go to sleep. I know we’re in trouble if you’re starting to make sense to me.” Then, “Maybe the storm’ll be over by tomorrow. How long can that damn wind blow?”

She closed her eyes, feeling oddly reassured. The wind was getting to him, too. She wasn’t the only one freaked out by it.

Still, she suspected she wouldn’t sleep. It was too unnerving, this whole body contact. His long thighs were more unyielding than rope. The man was made of taut muscle, no give to him. The heat of his chest against her back kindled an unexpected furnace in her mind, her heart, her hormones.

It had been so long since she’d slept next to a man. There’d been a boy in college. Thom. She’d been crazy about him. He’d been crazy about her. The relationship had been hot and fast and wonderful…but then she’d gone off to med school and he’d gone off to his life. Both were on the same good-person track. They had goals.
They had ambitions and responsibilities and family expectations to fulfill.

She’d called that relationship
love
, still thought it was. But it wasn’t the kind of love that actually eased loneliness. She’d never expected him to give up anything for her.

She’d never expected
anyone
to give up anything for her.

Neither did the man curled around her, she mused. Rick expected nothing from anyone but himself.

Yet he molded around her, as if valuing her warmth. His lungs released a long, slow sigh. His erection didn’t fade, which should have worked like a three-alarm fire between them. But it was so odd…Emilie had the strangest feeling that Rick needed this closeness even more than she did.

She didn’t know how tightly he’d been holding himself…until his whole body suddenly relaxed. As if for the first time in a long time, he felt safe.

With her.

That crazy thought was the last one she remembered.

R
ICK WOKE FROM A DEEP SLEEP
with a sharp sense of alarm.

The soft body of sleeping beauty draped around him should have aroused that sense of alarm—for damn sure—but it wasn’t that.

It was the silence.

In the dim light, the fire had burned low—too damned low; he should have wakened long before this. But the intense silence emanated from beyond. Outside.

He didn’t want to ease away from Ms. Sleepy Glue. Given any encouragement at all, he’d touch what he
shouldn’t touch, slip inside her, let the natural heat take them both. His hormones were whining big-time over the deprivation. In fact, his hormones were downright nuts about that lean, compact body, the smell of her, the sleepy lure of her, the texture of her silky hair under his chin.

But a man didn’t take advantage of a vulnerable woman.

It was one of those stupid cardinal rules he’d never shaken.

So he slipped out of the covers, and immediately felt the burst of cold startle his skin. He fed the fire first, then hit the bathroom, and after a quick cleanup, unshuttered a window to get a good look outside.

It was a uniquely Alaskan morning. Didn’t look much like Christmas Eve. There was no tinsel, no red ribbons, no fancy lights. There was just an ocean of white snow, still as stone.

The sky, to the north, was a fistfight of clouds, knuckling together, circling in dark shadows, portending the next wave of storm. This blizzard wasn’t even close to over yet.

But there was a chance, for a few minutes, to get out. As he geared up, he checked on Emilie—but she slept and kept on sleeping. He suspected she hadn’t rested well in a blue moon.