Stevie Lee (2 page)

That was a pretty big leap of logic, even for Nola, Stevie thought as she walked back to the beer cooler and rested against the door. The phone line hummed and buzzed through the silence in typical backwoods style, even though the call originated less than two blocks away.

“Okay,” her sister finally conceded. “I’m sorry, honey. We all know how much you were counting on . . . well, on Halsey Morgan being dead or something.”

Unvarnished with particulars, the truth sounded awful, and Stevie felt an immediate pang of guilt. That it was her first pang all day only increased her unease. Ridiculous, she chided herself, trying to brush the emotion aside. Most people wouldn’t last a week doing the things Halsey Morgan did year in and year out, but then Halsey Morgan wasn’t most people.

From the Himalayas to the Amazon Basin, he’d blazed a trail of danger and adventure. When he had first disappeared in the South Pacific, some folks had believed he’d be found, hale and hearty, soaking up French Polynesian sunshine on one of the outer islands. They had discounted his disappearance as a mere breakdown in communications. “Halsey Morgan,” they said, “followed his own star.” Skeptics, like Stevie, usually added, “—right off the edge of the earth.”

When a piece of his boat had washed up on Pukapuka, or Bora Bora, or wherever, the skeptics had congratulated Stevie on her foresight in attempting to buy up his tax-delinquent property. But foresight was hardly the word Stevie would have used. Desperation had been her motivation, one last desperate chance to get out of debt, and out of town. This backwater wilderness had held her captive for a lifetime, which was long enough in her book.

“Hey! Stevie! We need another beer here!” Kong bellowed.

We?
Stevie glanced over her shoulder. The last time she’d checked, Kong had been alone. From the hallway she caught a glimpse of another man’s back. Maybe if she ignored him, he’d go away. She’d planned on kicking Kong out as soon as she hung up. Staying open for two late-night loners was a waste of electricity—and she already had two pink slips from the power company. One more and she’d be pouring beer in the dark. “I better get going, Nola. Kong’s shouting down the rafters.”

“Well, you just tell him to hold his horses. That boy probably has enough beer stored up in that gut of his to float a battleship.”

“Yeah, and most of it’s mine.” Stevie opened the beer refrigerator with her free hand. She wanted to finish up and go home. She mentally tallied up the stock. A case of Bud, half a case of Molson’s, a couple of Hussong’s . . .

“Are you coming to Sunday supper?” Nola asked.

“Stevie Lee!” Kong bellowed.

Stevie quietly sighed. “Not this Sunday, Nola, and you won’t be there either. It’s Memorial Day, remember? There’ll be tons of people in town buying groceries and booze. Be sure to remind Mom.”

“Oh, gosh! I forgot. Oh, honey, I’ve got to go. I need to double my order. Bye.” The phone clicked in her ear.

Yep, a real helluva night, Stevie thought, giving the receiver a wry look. Then she hung up and walked back to the storeroom. With luck, both of her customers would be gone by the time she refilled the cooler.

Hal watched the hairy giant of a man ease himself off the bar stool, squeeze himself behind the bar, and lumber into the dark hallway. Hopefully he’d come back with the unknown Stevie in tow. And hopefully the bartender would give him a ride home. One look at the big guy weaving on his bar stool had convinced Hal not to approach him for the needed favor—that and the suspicion that the wreck parked out front belonged to him. The car had seen its share of the bottoms of ditches.

On the other hand, the Mustang out front was a dream on wheels. Even half-frozen, he’d taken a moment to run his hand over the cherry-red paint job with white flames scorching the sides and the word “Dynamite” swirled across the back panel. She was somebody’s baby all right. With a little luck, she’d also be his ride home.

Hal stepped closer to the stone fireplace to warm his backside and looked around the Trail’s End. Small and shabby, it reminded him of a hundred others he’d seen all over the world, a locals’ bar. A dart board hung next to the fireplace, but only someone standing behind the bar could have gotten enough distance on a dart to hit it. Sure enough, he thought as his gaze roamed the shelves of liquor on the far wall and found the darts in a box between the bottles. The board was there for the bartenders, not the customers. It was strange but not surprising, considering the lack of business. Maybe if they fixed the place up, they’d do better. In return for a ride, he’d offer his handyman services for a day.

A thudding sound drew his attention to the dark hallway. He listened for a second and, when no other noise was forthcoming, went back to looking around. He could fix the broken table stashed in the corner, the busted shelf behind the bar, the ripped vinyl on the booths flanking both sides of the front door.

The sound of glass breaking snapped his head back toward the hall. Curiosity almost propelled him forward, but the fire was warm, and once again no other sound followed the second. He brushed off the crash by deciding the unknown Stevie had stupidly entrusted the big drunk with something breakable. He returned his attention to the bar. Maybe he’d offer to clean the smoke and soot off the fireplace. Then again, he thought, his cabin was only five miles out of town, a distance which shouldn’t demand too many hours of repayment.

A muffled sound came next, hitting a wrong chord in his mind, and Hal moved forward a couple of steps. Then a woman screamed.

Two

Stevie strangled out her next cry. Two hundred and thirty pounds of amorous ape pressed her backward over the desk, sending papers and ledgers flying in all directions.

“Come on, Stevie”—his breath was enough to make her faint—“lay those lips on me, honey.”

“Ah . . . ah,” she couldn’t breathe. Her right hand slapped the desk behind her in a frantic search for something to hit him with. The adding machine fell under her grasp.
Not the adding machine, Stevie!
She kept searching, and gasping.

“Sweet, sweet, Stevie Lee,” he crooned, his hand groping up her leg.

That did it. She went back for the piece of office equipment, wrapping her fingers around the side and swinging it up in a desperate arc. But before she could connect it with his head, he released her. Stevie slid to the floor with a thump. Kong was less than a second behind her.

Pulse racing, lungs burning, she stared at the mountain of man sprawled on the floor in front of her. What in the world had gotten into him? And what in the world had happened to him? she wondered. Had he had a heart attack? A stroke? Passed out?

“Are you okay?”

Stevie’s head jerked up at the sound of a rough, masculine voice—and her heart stopped for an eternally long instant. Never, ever, not even in her wildest dreams had she seen anyone like the man towering over her.

Standing in the rubble strewn across the floor, he blocked the light with his broad shoulders and powerfully built body, an ancient warrior come to life. Shaggy, golden hair swept away from his shadowed face like a lion’s mane, layering over the quilted fabric of a white parka. One of his hands was still clenched into a fist, the imprint of which she was sure she’d find on Kong’s jaw.

Speechlessly, Stevie followed the dark line of his T-shirt down to a bright silver buckle and a pair of ragged jeans hanging low on his hips. A thigh-length tear in the denim revealed thickly corded muscles beneath the dark, bare skin of his left leg. Melting ice dampened the lower half of his pants and pooled around his scuffed, heavy boots.

“Are you okay?” he repeated, hunkering down on one knee and filling her world with the barest of smiles and strangely compelling dark blue eyes.

Okay?
she wondered, her own eyes widening in disbelief; she couldn’t even breathe.
Halsey Morgan was alive.
The mountains outside were beautiful and strong, and this man had the same natural beauty—clean and pure, and as wild as the places he’d seen, as untamed as the mountains he’d climbed. Pale lines, no doubt caused by days of squinting into the sun over an endless sea, feathered the corners of his eyes. The broad, masculine features of his face were burnt brown by the same tropical sun, a rich dark color shining with vitality.

“. . . and I thought you were dead,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off him.

“Yeah, well, a lot of people probably wrote me off. It’s not the first time.” His easy grin broadened into a dazzling smile. The heat of it warmed the faraway depths of his eyes, and melted Stevie’s socks.

Whoa
. . . The thought slipped through the back alleys of her mind, catching at her heart and slowing her pulse to a long cadence. His was a midnight smile, the kind you wanted to find on the pillow next to yours when the world was dark and quiet. The kind you wanted to feel against your throat while he whispered something, anything, against your skin.

Hal read the emotions as they crossed her face, and what they told him triggered every sensual avenue in his body. There were a lot of things he wasn’t ready to face yet: Freeway traffic, junk food, and anything resembling a shopping mall. But in the space of a breath, he realized how ready he was for a woman, this woman.

Silky waves of hair tumbled over her shoulders, half in and half out of the braid hanging to her waist. The honey-brown ribbon draped across her full breasts and bisected the word “Dynamite” embroidered on the clingy, red cotton of her shirt. Silently he agreed. She was pure dynamite.

She’d spoken as if she knew him, but one look at her face—creamy skin blushed by the sun, a full wide mouth, and clear gray eyes shadowed by nothing more than her thick, dark lashes—and he knew he never would have forgotten her. All those hours on the beach, dreaming of the pleasure of a woman in his arms, were coming back to him with an intensity he was finding hard to resist.

Stevie felt the slow, heated track of his gaze lingering on her breasts. She felt his eyes on her like a touch as they drifted to her face, and she knew the time had long since passed when she should have gotten a grip, any kind of a grip on herself. But it was too late.

Gently, he reached out and cupped her chin in his palm. The warmth of his hand, the brush of his thumb below her mouth, caused her lips to part, and her heart to stop.

The slight gesture was all the encouragement he needed. He leaned forward, pulling her closer, the golden length of his hair slipping over his shoulder and melding with hers. For a moment, his lips grazed her cheek, warming her skin; then his mouth claimed hers, lightly, sweetly.

Her soft intake of breath told him of her surprise, and her hesitation—and the even softer feel of her mouth told him of her willingness. Hal knew what he was doing was wrong, but it didn’t stop him from running his hand along the curve of her jaw, tunneling his fingers through the silkiness of her hair, and losing himself in the tender delight of her kiss.

From the outside in, all of Stevie’s awareness pooled into the lazy, sensual track of his mouth over hers, leaving no place for her shock to take hold. She raised her hand to his shoulder, meaning to push him away. But the moment she touched him, his tongue slid into her mouth. A hundred emotions instantly collided in her chest and fragmented into a thousand demanding desires. They made her curl her fingers around the downy material of his parka. They forced her mouth open and beckoned to long-forgotten sensations.

Hal felt the emotions coursing through her body, and he wanted nothing more, and nothing less, than to lower her to the floor and ease his months of loneliness away, to rediscover the special joy of a woman, to discover the mysteries of this special woman. But however compliant she seemed in his arms, he knew he’d taken advantage of her in a weak moment and that all too soon, she’d realize it. To save himself from certain condemnation—and maybe a slap in the face, or worse—he slowly pulled himself from her.

When he lifted his head, his eyes were dark, his face flushed beneath his tan. “Sorry about that,” he said softly, not sounding the least bit repentant.

Stevie had no such apology to offer. Halsey Morgan was definitely, incredibly alive. Her lips tingled with the knowledge. His body, so hard beneath her hands, so close to hers, tempted her to pull him back down for another kiss.

Get that grip, Stevie, or you’re going to make a fool out of yourself.
The voice of reason stayed her hand in the nick of time.

“I need a drink.” She choked the words out around the huge lump of embarrassment forming in her throat. What was going on in this town tonight? she wondered. Had the storm unleashed everybody’s primal urges? First Kong, then Halsey Morgan. She hadn’t seen this much action since . . . since she didn’t know when. Her knees trembled as she struggled to her feet. Nobody hit on Stevie Lee Brown; that was rule number one—and it had just been busted up and tossed around like so much confetti. “I really need a drink,” she repeated more forcefully.

“Sounds good.” He smiled and rose with her, helping her with a hand around her arm. “What about him?” He nodded at the sprawling giant.

Stevie followed his gesture, took one look, and said, “I think he’s had enough.” Then she stepped over the size-fourteen logging boots and made a beeline for the bar,

Hal’s grin broadened from ear to ear as he followed her through the narrow hall. The lady had remarkable recuperative powers. She also had a remarkable body. Somehow, he’d forgotten how a pair of stone-washed jeans looked on a pair of long legs belonging to someone of the feminine gender. This lady had just reminded him in no uncertain terms—they looked great. His appreciative gaze told him the term “Dynamite” had more to do with the way she put one foot in front of the other than with anything under the hood of the Mustang. And her kiss? Well, her kiss defied any comparison on either side of any ocean. His grin broadened. The end of the trail had never looked, or felt, so good.

How did she get into these messes? Stevie wondered, holding her head with one hand and groping in the well for the whiskey bottle with the other. Finding it, she poured herself a healthy shot and finished it in one long swallow. Her nose wrinkled as she set the glass back on the bar. She preferred gin, but gin made her crazy. Years ago she’d figured out it must be all those juniper berries used to flavor the gin. Once, in a fancy restaurant down in Denver, she’d seen a high-priced item on the menu that was made with juniper berries. She’d steered clear of it too.