“What happened when?”
“What happened, that you got a divorce. You talk up the guy like he was the cat’s meow, a woman’s romantic dream. And you were living the high life in fantastic places. Yet something obviously had to go wrong, or you’d still be with him.”
“Oh, no. I’ve spilled all I’m going to spill for one night. Your turn next. And if this storm is going to be anywhere near as bad as I’m afraid of, we’ll be marooned here for another day or two—so we’ll have more time to talk than either of us probably wants. For the immediate future—do you need a trip to the library but are too embarrassed to tell me?”
“I’ll deal with a trek to the library after you go to sleep.”
“Well, that’s the problem, Mr. Teague Larson,” she said patiently. “I’m completely dead on my feet. Which means I’m going to conk out in this chair any second now. I’m supposed to call the sheriff every few hours, report how you are. And I’m supposed to wake you up every two hours and look in your eyes, check the size of your pupils. Only, I’m afraid that I’m not going to get either of those things done. I’m losing it, I can tell. So if you need some help getting into the bathroom, you need to tell me now.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Yeah, you do. But I’m not up for bullying you. I’m warning you, this is your last call for free help.” She yawned, as if to punctuate how tired she was. And that was the last thing she remembered.
Three
Teague had to grin. When that woman slept, she slept. She’d been right in the middle of talking when her eyelids suddenly closed and she snugged her cheek in the side of the chair. Two blinks later she was snoring. Not big, noisy, guy snores, but whispery little snores. The kind a woman makes when she was end-of-her-rope tired.
Teague figured it was the perfect time to hightail it into the bathroom—finally. Contrary to what Daisy thought, he wasn’t embarrassed. He was a grown man, for heaven’s sake. But the truth was, the only way he could make it into the bathroom was by crawling on all fours. The bump on his head ached and stung, but that wasn’t the worst problem. As long as he only moved slowly—and didn’t laugh—the head wound wasn’t bugging him too much. His swollen right ankle was giving him fits, though. At least for tonight there was no chance of his walking on it.
Teague had asked for help in his life. He was almost sure of it, even if he couldn’t remember a single occasion specifically. For damn sure, though, he wasn’t asking a woman, as if he were some kind of needy, sickly, dependent type.
So he crawled into the bathroom, at an extremely annoying snail’s pace. Then he had to sit on the blue-tiled floor until his head stopped spinning and he stopped sweating from the exertion. Eventually, though, he took care of nature, brushed his teeth, managed a reasonably efficient sponge bath, and then crawled back into the living room.
The wind howled louder than ever, or maybe the intense darkness made it seem that way. Eerie shrieky sounds seemed to seep through the walls and whistle through the cracks. Teague hesitated at the couch, but rather than climb back up there, he carted the pillow and blanket closer to the fire. The yellow blaze was dancing-hot, but wouldn’t last all night. He figured he could feed it easier through the wee hours if he was already located on the carpet, closer to the hearth.
He used a log from the stack of cut wood to elevate his right leg, and then sank back against the blanket. Just when he thought the setup was perfect and he could doze off, he realized that he couldn’t see Daisy’s face from that angle—her whole body was in shadow. That wouldn’t do, so he had to refix the log and blankets and pillow all over again.
By then he was wasted-tired and getting cranky from the day’s various aches and injuries. But he could see her. If a guy had to be miserable, she was the best diversion he could conceivably imagine.
There were dark shadows under those gorgeous eyes. Didn’t matter. She’d be striking if she were dead-sick with the flu. She had the bones, the style, the attitude. No one was going to miss noticing Daisy Campbell—at least no guy was, not in this life.
She wasn’t, though, even remotely the way she billed herself.
For a woman who complained about being stuck with him—and yelled loudly to the sheriff how desperate she was to get him off her hands—she didn’t act remotely thrown about taking responsibility for an injured stranger. In fact, she was taking no-fanfare, no-fuss, damn good care of him. She also acted sassy and snappy, but those hands of hers were gentle and so was the concern in her eyes.
Every contradiction seemed more interesting than the last. For a woman who looked as if French couture was her raison d’être, she sure made a feast out of an ordinary cup of potato soup. And although she carried herself as if a ton of servants usually trailed after her, she’d shown a ton of practical common sense about storm survival.
He didn’t get it.
He didn’t get her.
Something strange was happening here. Really strange. Teague didn’t like surprises. He didn’t mind being attracted to her—hell, no man had control over that. His you-know-what couldn’t tell whether a woman was potentially catastrophic or not. But his brain did.
She’d given him the message loud and clear that she was a rolling stone.
He’d fallen in love with one of those once before. Had no reason to volunteer to be kicked in the head a second time.
Still. There was no harm in just looking at that spectacularly interesting face. It was one of those favorite guy fantasies, being marooned with a beautiful woman with no one else around. It’s not as if there were any chance of their getting close. Hell, he couldn’t imagine laying a finger on her.
Teague couldn’t have closed his eyes, because that howling wind was itching on his nerves, and he hurt in too many places to really rest.
But suddenly his eyes opened. Any man’s would. Because out of nowhere there seemed to be an extremely warm, mobile, voluptuous woman plastered against him.
More than his eyes popped up, in fact. It occurred to him that the same woman pressing warm, firm, full breasts against his chest and winding a leg around his hip, was precisely the same one he’d just sworn—seconds before—that he’d never lay a finger on.
“You’re awake, Teague? Don’t get shook. It’s just me.”
Maybe it was pitch-black in the room, give or take the yellow firelight behind the screen, but he fully, fully realized who was wrapped around him.
“We lost power. Since it was already down across the road, it’s really amazing we had it this long—especially in this kind of snowstorm. When it’s morning and there’s more light, I’ll go down to the basement, see if I can get the Cunninghams’ generator fired up. For right now, though, we’re sealed up in this room as tightly as we can be. I know it’s cold and getting colder. The fire alone can’t keep up with subzero temperatures like this. But if we stay close, combine blankets and body heat, we’ll be fine.”
“Okay.”
“We could be snowed in for a couple more days, but there’s no way it’ll be longer than that before someone comes to rescue you. We’ve got food and water and firewood. We may be cold, but we’ll be able to manage.”
“Okay.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you. I know you’re hurt. Being stranded has to feel a lot more unnerving if you’re hurt. But I lived in Vermont my whole life. I can do whatever we both need doing. Don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“I realize this has to be uncomfortable for you—”
In spite of his pounding head and throbbing ankle, he reached over