A Christmas Cowboy. Suzannah Davis

too big.”

      “It’s just right.”

      “My nose is too small.”

      “Your nose is perfect.”

      “And my eyes...”

      He’d growled, “What about your gorgeous eyes?”

      “They’re just plain old blue!”

      “And you’re plainly fishing for a compliment! So why don’t you try catching this instead?”

      He’d tossed the box into her lap and flopped down on the towel beside her, an arm thrown over his face to show how unconcerned he was. But it was a sham, for he’d been tense with expectancy and doing his damnedest not to show it.

      “What is it?” she asked, dusting sand from her legs.

      “Open it and see.”

      He heard her peeling away the brown paper wrapping and her swift indrawn breath. “Oh, Mac, they’re lovely.”

      Taking a chance, he glanced at the dainty set of earrings made from a pair of Bolivian pesos left over from his last foreign assignment, and then up into her face. The pleasure he saw reflected there made him relax again. “Yeah, well, I owed you, right? For making you lose that earring the other night.”

      She blushed at the reminder of the passionate encounter that had left them both breathless and her minus a lot more than mere jewelry. And they never found the missing earring, even though he searched the interior of his old Buick for a long time. But she was fair. “That wasn’t all your fault. Besides, I lose them all the time!”

      He rose up on an elbow, squinting up at her, his belly tightening at the sight of her slenderness in her minuscule bikini. “Well, they’re nothing much—”

      Marisa touched his mouth with her index finger to silence his excuses. He was sensitive about her affluent background and the fact that his mother had raised him alone on just a waitress’s earnings. And a struggling reporter’s salary—even if he’d landed a teaching position for a semester—didn’t run to expensive gifts. He was casually offhand because down deep he feared she’d find him somehow lacking, that a girl who’d had all of wealth’s advantages would realize she had made a terrible mistake falling for a guy from his street-tough background. But he underestimated her intuitive understanding of him.

      “I love them. Especially since they come from you.” She bent and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth. “Thank you.”

      “You don’t have to wear them in public or anything—”

      “Will you stop? They’re perfect!” Laughter bubbled from her throat. “And only an uncouth lout would criticize his own gift!”

      Faster than a thought, Mac caught her wrists and rolled her onto her back, their legs tangling. “A lout, am I? Those are fighting words where I come from, lady!”

      Lowering her lashes, she gave him a sultry smile. “You’re not so tough.”

      “No?” Desire blazed at her challenge.

      Marisa reached up to pull his head down. “No.”

      And then Mac was kissing her, kisses salty sweet and wonderful, teaching her about herself and him, about what loving a man truly meant. They’d had so many dreams then. Damp and replete from their loving, they’d talked about them, whispering secrets in the warm California nights, then turning to each other again, so hungry, so eager to fill each other, even though in the end their dreams hadn’t been the same at all....

      “I’ll take him now, Mac. Mac?”

      He jumped at the sound of Marisa’s soft voice, and looked up into the azure depths of her eyes to find past and present mingling in an instant of confused arousal. Then reality returned, and she was there, reaching not for her lover, but for her son, who’d fallen sound asleep against Mac’s flannel-covered chest. “Leave him,” Mac said, his tone gruff. “He’s not hurting anything.”

      “I can take him.” Though still soft, her voice took on a defensive edge. “Besides, I’m sure you aren’t comfortable.”

      Bending, she scooped Nicky into her arms. Her hair brushed Mac’s cheek, and her scent, flowery and female, enveloped him. His body leapt in response, but she was already turning away to settle Nicky into a nest of blankets near the hearth to finish his nap.

      Mac rose and made a job of poking at the fire, piling in new logs—anything to spare himself the embarrassment of her noticing how easily she could stir him. His involuntary response angered him. Remembered kisses were eternally golden because they were the ideal, he told himself, explaining away the moment of weakness, ignoring the fact that the kiss they’d shared that morning outshone even that unforgettable ideal like a star gone nova beside a sputtering candle.

      Putting down the poker, Mac frowned into the flames, his mouth set. Marisa was dangerous, all right, and he’d better not forget it. He had learned the hard way once before, and Mac Mahoney had no intention of getting burned again, especially at the expense of the story of his career. He hadn’t missed the frightened light in Marisa’s eyes when she found him holding her son. No matter what they had shared in the past, she still saw Mac as a threat. And that told him she was hiding something.

      Truce or not, sooner or later he’d find out what.

      * * *

      It wasn’t until the next afternoon that the storm died down enough for a Christmas tree-hunting expedition, but by that time Marisa’s nerves were so overstretched she was ready to scream. Cabin fever took on a whole new meaning when she was forced to spend it in close company with a man who despised her.

      Marisa paused on the trail Mac’s boots had cut through the snow and raised hands high over her head to take a deep cleansing breath of the icy air. Leaden clouds lay low over the distant peaks, and the wind was already picking up again with the promise of more dangerous weather within the hour. In his hooded parka and with an ax slung over his broad shoulder, Mac plowed a path through the drifts toward a thicket of young firs, followed by Nicky, who looked round as a barrel in his bright red ski jacket and knit cap.