Snow Bound (2 page)

A heavy weight slammed into his back, carrying him forward to stumble agai
nst the edge of the porch. “Holy shit.” Damon’s body dived
straight into combat mode, falling into the patterns from his military days. The we
ight on his back lifted
and he recognized the movements as
a large man.

Unwilling to remain trapped between his attacker and the porch, he kic
ked out with his steel-toed
boots, catching the man along the front of his shin. A low cry echoed in the stillness around them, punctuating the heaving of breath from their lungs. The other man’s pain gave
Damon
a moment’s grace
,
and he twisted, nailing the bastard in the shoulder with his elbow.

During
active d
uty
Damon’s buddies had
learned not to spar
with him throughout trainin
g. He might look like a good ole
boy in his jeans and
cowboy boots, and talk with a s
outhern drawl as slow as syrup, but he was a mean SOB in hand-to-hand and quick
, no doubt about it
.

He struck fast now, pushing his attacker back with a series of rapid blows to his head and chest. Force
and momentum propelled them
out
into the swirling snow. The other man recovered from his surprise, returning Damon’
s punches with some of his own—
hard,
quick jabs that spoke of street-
fighting expe
rience. Despite Damon’s slight
height advantage, they proved an even match on the sloping ground. Soon Damon’s arms ached from deflecting blows and he was wishing to hell he’d grabbed his gun on the way out of the house.

H
is wish
came true when
t
he loud report of a shotgun
shattered the desperate struggle. Damon got one quick look at the avenging angel in satin on the back porch before a hard blow to his temple turned out the lights.

Damon’s awareness returned in a rush, br
inging the sting of snow on
the skin of his cheek where it lay again
st the ground. He
roll
ed so
he faced
the sky
, even though the move caused his aching head to twist and twirl like the white flakes that had eased up a little.

“Are you al
l
right?”

His brain soaked up the soft, feminine murmur, so different from the violent attack he’d been expectin
g. At once his muscles surrendere
d, the ten
sion melting like the snowflakes
beneath him. Pale, blurry feature
s and an abundance of bright
blond
e
hair leaned over him
,
and his mind flashed back to the last thing he’d seen before the bastard had landed his sucker punch.

Miss Pr
iss, the woman whose only wardrobe seemed to consist of
ladylike sweater sets and
skirts
with the occasional
dress pants
thrown in,
stood on her back porch. A robe
draped her
delicate
shoulders like a s
hin
y jacket, but the front had been
whipped open by the wind to reveal the valley between her breasts, the creamy skin of her stomach, and a tiny pair of panties whose color he couldn’t determine in the darkness. But
all that surprising sexiness contrasted with the double-
barrel shotgun resting so comfortably in
her delicate
fingers
.

Holy shit! Miss Priss
was packin’ with nothing lackin’
. On both fronts.

“Where’d he go?”

“I’m not sure,”
Tori
said, her voice solid though he couldn’t make out her lips clearly. “When he started toward me, I cocked old Betsy again and he took off for the woods. Guess he didn’t think he could stand up against a shotgun.”

“Old Betsy?”

Her laugh danced like the snow on the wind. “Yep. That’s what my daddy always called her.”

He could lay there all night listening to her talk in her languid southern accent, but his ass was going numb. Concentrating on his arms instead of his pounding head, he pushed up from the ground and managed to get his feet underneath him. On the periphery of his awareness were gentle hands that offered more moral than physical support. Turning to get a good look at her, he was appalled to find
her dressed just like he remembered—
bare feet digging into the crunchy grass
while
the si
lvery material of her robe soaked
up moisture in a spreading dark stain.

He pushed the weakness aside, gaining his feet and gathering strength by the mi
nute. At least
he liked t
o think so until a few steps made the world tilt
like a carnival ride. Her warm body snuggled against his right side, her hand drawing his arm around her shoulders. “Let me help you,” she said.

“Darlin’, you aren’t big enough to play crutch to a fella like me.”

To his surprise
she
didn’t fall into the helpless
“little ole
me
”
routine he expected. “Just hush and let’s get into the house.” If he hadn’t been working to stay upright, he’d have been struggling not to get hard. Between th
e gun and the sex-
kitten look, she was blowing all his expectations tonight.

They managed al
l
right crossing a few feet of yard
, though he did his best not to lean on her more than it took to keep his balance oriented. That lasted until they reached the steps leading to the porch. The first was manageable, but the minute her foot hit the second
,
it slipped out from under her. His reactions were too slow to keep her from going down
,
and she
twisted before slamming into the
edge of the porch with a sharp cry. A wince slipped out in sympathy, but the echo of noise reminded him that they might not be alone.
Inside the house was the safest place for them
.

Suck it up.
The grating vo
ice of Damon’s long hated drill-
sergeant rang in his mind, the one that often returned when he least wanted to hear it. He steeled himself for pain and swung
her body
into his arms,
his work boots transport
ing
them
safely up the icy steps and in
the back door. The heat of the enclosed space thawed his cheeks first, then his ears. He’d lost his hat somewhere. Shivers worked their way down his spine as cold water from his hair dripped beneath the collar of his coat.

Without thought to the polished wood floors, he trompe
d through the dark of the spacious
kitchen to
the living room beyond,
groaning in appreciation of the rolling flames in the fireplace. He
lay
his burden on the
overstuffed burgundy sofa, then stepped back to look down at her small body against the surrounding darkness.

A
mental flash of his mother, curled on the sofa after his father had hit her, flic
kered in his mind’s eye. But he reached for
reality,
letting the heat, the faint scent of cinnamon, and the vibrant c
olors pull him back from the
nightmares. T
he shotgun
still clasped in Tori’s hand contrast
ed
harshly with
all her delicate beau
ty. Re
aching out, he wrapped his hand
around the grip and used gentle pressure to ease it from her. She didn’t protest.

Warmth penetrated his muscles, which were rapidly loosening now that
he’d secured the weapon
. He found himself looking down at the woman laid out before h
im, and his body jolted. Somehow
hi
s male brain had equated those
sophisticated-
lady
clothes she wore with shapeless and saggy, like she had something to hide. Yeah, right. Only if she was hiding the most valuable treasure God ever gave Cadence, Tennessee.

The damp silk robe hid no part of her body from him. At
less than five-and-a-half feet
, she was perfection in miniatur
e. Her skin was pale and creamy
but with an undertone that hinted at an ability to tan. The part of material down the front, aided by her
position
on her side, allowed him to glimpse the inner curve of one nicely rounded breast,
her
softly round
ed stomach, and muscled inner thigh. But the thin covering skimmed over a tiny waist and the voluptuous hips beneath it
and—lordy, lordy
, one more inch and he’d get a full view of Miss Priss’s surprisingly delectable ass
. This little lady was far from bland; her curves, without the covering of civility,
urged him to taste, then taste again
.

A
sudden movement of her hands
pulled
the robe together, jerky and swift as if she’d just realized how much skin was
on display, snapping
his attention back to w
here it should be. T
he wide, startled look in her bright blue eyes
and the darkening flush spread
ing
down
her cheeks
to
her neck told him she wasn’t used to being ogled. Jus
t as he wasn’t used to ogling—
her, at leas
t. Miss
Tori Anderson.

As tremors raced down her limbs
, he wrenched his mind out of his pants and back to the situation at hand.
But she beat him to it, trying to rise from the couch.
“Where are you going?” he asked, reaching out to resettle her, his hands chilled by the wet satin.

Thick lashes swept down over her blue irises. “I need to get dressed.”

“Dressed
. Right.” This time he
moved to help her up until he noted the sharp inhale of her breath and the quick shift of her body to the right. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

Her breath had changed, panting now, light and quiet like a dog at rest. “Just a little sore where I fell, that’s all.” She pulled at the damp material, attempting to cover her newly uncovered possibilities.

Damon drew in a deep breath, gather
ing
his professionalism instead of working off the lust sizzling beneath his skin. “We need to get you out of that wet robe. Where’s your bedroom?”

Her head
jerked up
so quickly he was surprised she didn’t get whiplash. “My bedroom? Why?”

“You need
some clothes.”

“I can do it,” she said, pushing up from her seat in an attempt to gain her feet. But he wasn’t letting her get that far.

“No stairs until I’ve checked you out, okay?” He urged her back down with light pressure on her shoulders. One touch
divulged just how bad her
trembling
was
. “Just let me do it.”

He followed her directions up the stairs and to the left through the open door of a large bedroom, his recovered flashlight leading the way. More candles dotted the surfaces
in the room
,
and the
king-size sleigh
bed angled from the corner had several layers of covers whipped back, as i
f she’d raced from the bed after hearing the
noise outside. Which she probably had, considering her attire.

He bypassed the larger dresser closest to him for the chest of drawers on the opposite side of the room where she’d said her sleep shirts were located. As he neared, he caught a glimpse of a dress hanging on the inside of the closet door. His booted feet stopped of their o
wn accord, staring at the puffy
pink dress with a generous dusting of silver sparkles. The fitted top exploded into layers of filmy material to make up the skirt that
would fall
right below her calves.

He knew. He’d seen her in this particular concoction one day when he’d dropped by the bookstore for coffee. She’d been hostessing one of the tea parties she offered for the little girls in the area. With the pink dress and her
hair swept up under
the cro
wn on her head, she’d been the princess in charge
and Da
mon had immediately dubbed her
Miss Priss
. He’d thou
ght of her that way ever since.
He wasn’t into princesses; he’d rather screw the downstairs maid.