Snowbound

Carnal Publishers and Kristianna Sawyer
reserve all rights to Snowbound. Any resemblance to people or
places is a coincidence. Please respect the copyright by not
sharing this work. Permission of the author or publisher is
required to copy any part of this work. All sexually active
characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or
older.

© Kristianna Sawyer, 2014

Smashwords Edition

Cover images courtesy of
Depositphotos.com

Planning to surprise her father, Beth Wyndam
arrives at Reed Nixon’s Alaskan guide facility a day earlier than
the rest of her party. Terrible weather snows her in with the surly
older man, but she finds herself drawn to him despite his
grumpiness. Reed wants her too, but the fifteen years separating
them, along with the differences in their backgrounds, are
obstacles he can’t bring himself to ignore. With a little luck, a
lot of snow, and a power outage, Beth gets Reed in her bed. It’s
everything she had hoped, but the real challenge is not falling in
love with a man who warned from the start there was no future for
them—especially when she realizes there will be a permanent
reminder of their affair.

Chapter One

Reed Nixon was in a foul mood, and he had no
trouble admitting it. His coffeepot had broken that morning, and it
was a damned pain in the ass to replace, living way up north. He’d
have to special order it, have it shipped to Fairbanks, and then
delivered via a charter company to Endline. After that, he’d have
to drive two hundred miles down Dalton Highway in his rugged SUV,
and that was a trip he hadn’t planned on for at least another three
months, until after the last of the worst weather passed for the
season.

On top of that, he’d discovered a hole in his
favorite snow boots, and one of the strings on his crossbow—that
had cost almost as much as the SUV—was fraying, necessitating
changing, which could be a time-consuming process, even for someone
who knew a crossbow inside and out.

So, the last thing he felt like was greeting
his arriving clients early. The Wyndam party wasn’t scheduled to
arrive until tomorrow. He’d been toying with the idea of contacting
the charter service to see if his pal Mike was flying in the
guests. If so, he’d planned to ask Mike to bring him any kind of
coffee machine, as long as it dispensed the thick, dark, and hot
drink he needed to feel semi-human of a morning.

Knowing that wasn’t happening was part of the
reason he was so surly as he shrugged on his coat and boots,
stomping through the snow to the airfield he’d had put in a few
years ago, when he’d launched his guide business. He’d be the first
to acknowledge that he was generally surly anyway, as a rule.

When the small plane landed, he threw up his
hands, waiting until the door opened, and the stairs descended. “I
wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow, Wyndam,” he started to snarl.
His mouth snapped shut for just a minute as a petite figure in a
bulky white parka and cumbersome white snow boots stepped down the
stairs carefully.

As she drew nearer, he demanded, “Who the
hell are you? Wyndam told me it’d be just him and his camera crew.
He didn’t say nothin’ about his girlfriend comin’ along.” She
flinched at the rough tone, and he felt a spark of regret when he
noticed how young she was. That fled when she opened her mouth.

“I’m his daughter, not his girlfriend, and
who the hell are you?” She asked the question in exactly the same
tone he had. “Daddy said the tour guide would meet me, but that
can’t be you.”

Her dismissive look rose his hackles—and
brought back some of his old insecurities from growing up dirt-poor
and the son of the town drunk. “Why can’t that be me, sweetheart?”
He practically snarled the question at her.

If she was at all intimidated, it didn’t
show. “Someone getting paid to take care of a group wouldn’t be so
unprofessional.”

He opened his mouth, but then shut it for a
moment, deciding she had a point. “I’m sorry,” he said, still
gruffly. “I wasn’t expecting nobody ‘til tomorrow.”

She nodded. “I guess you needed that extra
twenty-four hours to find your manners, huh?”

Just like that, the little hellion set his
teeth back on-edge. In an attempt to control his irritation, he
walked to the pilot, who wasn’t Mike. He thought this one was Vic,
who mainly flew charters out of Fairbanks. “Vic?” At the man’s nod,
he held out his hand, more to show the irritating kitten beside him
that he had some manners than because he actually felt compelled to
make a friendly greeting. “How’re you doin’?” After a quick
exchange of pleasantries, he asked, “Where’s the rest of ‘em?”

Vic shrugged. “Don’t know. Got a call asking
us to fly in Ms. Wyndam today, and still plan on bringing the rest
tomorrow.”

With a small sigh, he turned back to face the
young woman. “Ms. Wyndam, where is the rest of your party?”

She gave him a sweet smile, but her green
eyes still crackled with banked anger. “They’re still in Endline
and planning to come tomorrow, as scheduled. I happened to arrive
early, so Daddy arranged for the charter company to pick me up in
Fairbanks and deliver me here.”

He nodded just once. “Well, where’s your
gear?” He expected to be hauling suitcases into the guest quarters
for the next hour, so it was a bit of a surprise to have Vic hand
him just one large suitcase. “You just staying overnight?” he
joked, as he lifted the suitcase, bade Vic goodbye, and led the
girl—young woman—toward the guest quarters.

She frowned. “No, I’m here for a couple of
weeks. Why?”

He lifted the bag a bit higher. “Most women
I’ve seen come here,” and he could count the number on one hand,
“Bring a mountain of luggage.”

“Oh. Daddy mentioned he was packing light,
but bringing lots of warm things.” Her smile seemed genuine. “I
have to warn you that my dad’s idea of light packing is a lot
different than mine.”

He waved a hand. “A girl who listens to her
father. That’s unusual in your generation.”

She rolled her eyes. “My generation? What are
you, ten minutes older than me?”

A genuine laugh burst from him. “Sweetheart,
I’m thirty-three.”

As he opened the door that allowed the guests
their own private entrance and exit, he moved aside to let her
pass. She paused right in front of him, leaning against the doorway
for a moment in her puffy white parka. “Well, sweetheart, I’m
eighteen. That’s hardly another generation.”

She slipped on past him, turning back to look
over her shoulder as she added, “And I only listen to my father
when I feel like it.”

Feeling slightly bemused, he followed her
into his house, quickly overtaking her shorter stride, to give her
the brief tour. “This is the guests’ quarters. There are two rooms.
A small private room, and a larger room with six bunks.” He
gestured to a door nearby. “You go through there for the commode.”
Farther down the wood-paneled hall, he pointed to another door.
“That leads to the kitchen. It’s shared space with my residence,
but you’re welcome to help yourself to anything. I hope your daddy
told you to bring any special thing you wanted along. I keep the
basics, and then some, but I don’t offer no fancy stuff.”

“Darn,” she said with a small hint of
mocking. “I guess I should have packed champagne and caviar instead
of my pants.”

The idea of this young woman running around
in no pants caused a sudden hitch in his breathing. He didn’t reply
to the sarcasm as he led her to the small private room with its
double bed. “You’ll have to make do with this. I laid out
toiletries for a man, expecting Mr. Wyndam to stay in this room. He
didn’t say nothin’ about a girl,” he reminded.

“Yeah, I know. Daddy isn’t one for bragging
about his children.” She said it offhandedly, as though it was no
big deal, but he thought there was a hint of hurt underneath. Or
maybe he was just projecting his own rotten childhood onto her.

He set her bag down on the trunk at the foot
of the bed, near the rustic log footboard he’d made himself. “I’ll
leave you to unpack, Ms. Wyndam. I fix dinner around six, unless
you prefer to look after yourself.” He wanted to scoff at the
thought. It seemed clear to him that the little princess in front
of him wasn’t used to doing much for herself. Apparently, making
documentaries was a lot more lucrative than he’d ever imagined,
judging from her appearance and demeanor. He knew for a fact the
coat she wore cost several thousand dollars. He had one from the
same designer, but it was their Outlet line, and he’d had to save
three years to afford it. Of course, he’d never need another one.
Point was, quality costs, and she’d clearly paid a lot. Well, her
Daddy’s Amex had, he thought, with a grimace of distaste.

She smiled. “Thank you, Mr.…?”

“Reed.”

“Mr. Reed.”

He shook his head, sending shaggy brown
strands falling into his eyes. “Nah, just Reed. Reed Nixon.”

She chose that moment to push back the hood
of her parka and take off the soft-looking light-pink hat
underneath. A mass of silvery-blonde hair fell free, and even the
confining ponytail couldn’t keep all the determined strands tamed.
He had the insane urge to bury his hand in the tresses and tug her
closer. Thankfully, it was a notion that passed quickly, and he
took a step back to make sure he didn’t do anything asinine.

“Well, thanks, just Reed. I’m Beth.” She
stripped off her gloves before tackling the zipper. “Goodness, my
fingers are frozen,” she said. Struggling with the coat, she looked
disconcertingly like a little girl for a moment.

Reed stepped quickly to the door. “I’ll get a
fire started in the common area. Just through that door, same as
the kitchen.” Without awaiting a response, he ducked out of the
room and back into his own quarters. It took every ounce of
self-control not to bolt the door that separated his house from the
guestrooms, as though he could lock out his unexpected reaction by
keeping the door between them barred.

“You’re losin’ it, man,” he said softly to
himself, as he went to build up the fire that was little more than
a smoldering crackle at the moment.

Beth didn’t believe in love at first sight.
That was nonsense you read about in romance books, or saw in
movies. She certainly hadn’t fallen for Reed Nixon on sight. He’d
been surly and short-tempered, and not at all charming or warm.
Nope, definitely not on sight. As she brushed out her hair and
smoothed down her sweater, nerves made her stomach jump, and she
tried to decide at what point she’d fallen in lust—not love—with
the grouchy guide.

Her lips twitched as she remembered the
pointed way he’d shaken the pilot’s hand. The only thing missing
had been him sticking his tongue out at her and saying, “Neener,
neener, neener.” Yeah, that was about the time she’d realized there
was more to him than just a grump.

His voice was deep and rough, with a rich
southern twang that seemed a little out of place in the Far North
region. She liked it though, and it didn’t take too much
imagination to have him whispering all sorts of naughty things in
her head as she got ready to join him for dinner.

Leaning forward to touch up her lip-gloss,
she met her own eyes in the mirror and grinned. He’d be the type to
speak plainly, and probably earthily, rather than vaguely or
whimsically. She had a feeling Reed was the kind of man who would
tell a woman he wanted to fuck her, instead of asking to make love
to her.

Considering the boys she knew—and none of
them could be counted as men when compared to Reed—were all the
romance and flowers type, she thought it would be refreshing to
have a real man telling her bluntly what he wanted her to do. Or do
to her, she imagined with a small shiver.

Of course, she had to get him to notice her
as more than a paying client’s daughter first. It was obvious he
considered her a little girl, and a real man had no interest in
little girls.