“You’re invited for dinner. Minni’ll—”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Fine.”
His indifference infuriated … then she glanced down at the bedding in her hands. Odd, she hadn’t had them when she first lay down by the fireside.
She frowned, and an image pushed its way to the forefront of her mind. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, she’d felt a gentle hand lift her head and slip the pillow beneath…cover her with the blanket. She thought she’d been dreaming but—
“Did … uh … you bring the blanket?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t want you catching cold.”
“Thank—”
“A sick Karate coach wouldn’t do me any good,” he said, cutting off her polite remark with his callous words.
Jerk. She threw the blanket at him.
He caught it. “Your hand must be okay.”
The pillow followed. He ducked and it sailed over his head, landing on the sofa behind him.
“Mad about something, Ryan?” He rubbed his earring with his thumb, his face the picture of innocence. “I was only thinking of your well-being.”
“Don’t do me any favors, Rogers,” she snapped. “And to think that I’d begun—” She skidded to a halt.
“You were saying,” he prompted, amusement twitching the corner of his mouth.
“None of your business.” She turned her back to him and stared at the fire in the grate.
A few flickers struggled to survive. Overly confined, flames couldn’t breathe, fizzled out. She was starting to feel like that and she resented it.
Controlled wildfire could sweep across … clear … a new beginning. He’d done that for her four years ago, when he financed her dojo; she would not let him take that away from her.
Pressure seemed to be building around him, and she pitied the person who got caught in its explosive wake. A showing was sure to be in the cards … and she’d bet, soon. She’d skip out long before then and not get trapped in the crossfire.
Her temples throbbed. She’d almost believed the story about his son. Wha-a-at? She hadn’t seen a child around. And the burning question—where was the wife?
“If you change your mind, dinner is at eight. Be prompt.” The deep timbre of his voice skewered her thoughts aside, and she glanced over her shoulder to see the door closing behind him. Immediately, his arm shot around the jamb. He flicked on the light switch, withdrew and was gone.
Stella blinked from the sudden glare and sank on the couch. Hugging the pillow, she laid her head upon it—too bad she’d missed her target … him. He rattled her, stirring feelings inside her that were yet unclear. She wanted to dismiss the emotion together with the man who lit the fuse. She laughed, a humorless sound. That would be impossible. One couldn’t disregard a man like Stan Rogers, not with his magnetism, his potent sexuality. Hate him, yes, ignore him, never.
***
Stella declined dinner and paced the floor of her room, plotting her course of action. In a few hours, everyone would be asleep. Except her.
In the meantime, she had to contend with hunger pangs pummeling her stomach. Eight hours had passed since lunch, and the mouth-watering aromas drifting upstairs from the kitchen didn’t help matters. She leafed through a magazine, realized it was upside down and slapped it back on the stack. She sighed, and flicked on the TV, changed her mind and flicked it off. She had to concentrate … focus. Her mind veered to the bearded man and a million questions flittered through her mind.
A sudden knock on the door made her jump and she turned, alert.
Minni opened the door and stepped inside, balancing a tray in her hands.
“Oh, Minni, you’re a lifesaver.” Stella seized the tray laden with food before it toppled to the floor.
“’Twas Mr. Rogers’ idea.” She winked and smoothed her hands over her apron. “He thought ye might be hungry by now. Said ye could pout all ye want, but eat something ye must.”
Stella snatched a cheese sandwich and bit into it with gusto, barely hearing her gentle reprimand. Almost choking on the piece, she forced it down and grabbed the glass of milk.
“Mmm, this is absolutely delicious,” she mumbled between mouthfuls, rolling her eyes. “Thanks, Min.”
“Not at all, Miss,” Minni replied. “’Tis a pleasure to have a fresh young face around here for a change. We don’t get many visitors up here.”
“I’m not surprised.” What with the ogre ordering everyone around. “It’s so far away,” she added, dabbing her mouth with a napkin.
“Not at all,” Minni said. “This being one of the lower peaks of the Coast Range” –she paused and calculated— “wedged between Grouse and Whistler, it’s about an hour from the main road to Vancouver.”
Bingo.
Stella drained the glass and set it back on the tray. The hike to the road would take about half an hour. If she managed to make it that far and was lucky to catch a bus on its last run, she’d be snoozing in her own bed by midnight. It was risky, but she was determined to try.
“Minni, do you mind if I ask you something?” Stella reached for an apple and buffed it to a shine across her sleeve. “Where’s the boy and his mom?”
“Mrs. Rogers doesn’t live here.” Minni straightened her apron and fidgeted with the ruffled edges. “As for the boy, he’s—”
At that moment, Stan bellowed from below and the woman started, breaking off mid-sentence. Stella could have screamed.
“Goodnight, lass.” Minni hurried out, mumbling about grocery lists to discuss before retiring for the night.
Drat the man! Stella bit into the apple, imagining it was a part of his anatomy she dug her teeth into. Juice dribbled down her chin. She flicked it off with her fingers, licked them clean and tasted sweet tartness.
Moments later, Stella set the tray in the hallway and listened.
Whispers of voices filtered up the stairs, and she closed the door. Stepping across to the bed, she bounced on the edge a couple of times and lay down.
Her eyelids felt heavy. She stretched her arms above her head, contemplated the wooden beams of the ceiling and counted backwards from one hundred. By the time she got to one, she closed her eyes. Bliss. The bed was so comfortable and she was so very tired … she mustn’t fall asleep, mustn’t …
The sound of a door slamming echoed through the walls and startled her from her semi-doze. She pushed hair off her face, rubbed her eyes and yawned. A pause, and she slid off the bed. It creaked. She froze. When she didn’t hear anything, she tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack.
The tray was gone and tranquility filled the lodge. She closed the door, leaned her head on the jamb and counted to ten. Twisting around, she hurried to the window and raised the already half open shutter. Pungent forest scents sailed to her. The night was dark as a witch’s cauldron and still as a cat about to pounce. A nervous giggle bounced its way up her throat, and she slammed her hand over her mouth. A moonbeam flitted from behind a cloud, and trees swayed in the breeze, creating ghostly images.
Stella took a deep breath, exhaled, and climbed over the ledge onto the roof. Crouching like a cat burglar, she was ready to jump but changed her mind and crawled forward, peeking over the edge. A drainage pipe swiveled down the side of the building. She grabbed onto it, the metal felt cold and hard beneath her fingers as she inched her way to the ground. Almost there, she missed her footing, swallowed her scream and careened