Snowbound Cinderella. Ruth Ryan Langan

time to escape, so I had to figure out which wire to cut or we’d both have ended up like that rabbit with the hawk.”

      Ciara shivered. It occurred to her that the danger she’d sensed about Jace Lockhart was very real.

      “Weren’t you scared to death?”

      “There wasn’t time to think about being scared. I did what I had to.”

      I did what I had to. Those words triggered a memory of her childhood. She’d once asked her mother how she had kept going, when she’d found herself alone with six children depending on her. And her mother had said, I didn’t have time to feel sorry for myself, honey. I just did what I had to.

      Ciara shook aside the eerie feeling, to concentrate on Jace. “After you’d freed Henri, and had escaped the booby-trapped house, what did you do?”

      “We ran as far and as fast as we could, and hid in the forest until we could make our way back to safety.”

      “Did you ever go back to that town? Myelinore?”

      “There was nothing to go back to. When the terrorists were done, they’d blown it clean away. The few buildings that remained were empty. All the residents had fled.”

      Ciara’s voice lowered. “And Henri?”

      Jace smiled then, and she could see in his eyes a sense of satisfaction. “He went back home. To Monique and his kids. The last I heard, he was serving as an advisor to the U.N. team in Paris. And living quietly in a cozy cottage in the country.” He bit into the toast and shot her a look. “Hey, this is good.”

      “Of course it is.” She sipped her chocolate, still reeling from all the things he’d told her. His life was so different from anyone else’s she’d ever known. And so far removed from her life in Hollywood that she couldn’t even begin to imagine it. “Why does it surprise you that I can cook?”

      “I didn’t expect you to be handy in the kitchen.”

      “I’m not really. But I do know how to make a few things. Breakfast, mostly. I make a really mean omelette.”

      “Good. You can show off your skill tomorrow morning.”

      “What makes you think I intend to cook tomorrow?”

      “Because, if I’m making dinner tonight, it’s the least you can do to show your appreciation.”

      “I think I’ll wait until I’ve tasted your cooking. I may not be so grateful.”

      “Coward. You’re going to eat those words.”

      “Thanks. But I’d rather eat steak. I’d like mine medium, with a few mushrooms and onions on the side.”

      “What you’d like and what you’ll get may be two different things.” He stopped tinkering with the generator long enough to devour the rest of his toast. Then he downed his hot chocolate in several long gulps. “Thanks. I guess this will hold me until dinnertime.”

      “I should hope so.” Ciara picked up the tray and headed for the sink. “Because that’s all you’re getting, unless you make it yourself.”

      Minutes later, Jace looked up to see her heading toward the bedroom. When the door closed he turned his attention to the generator. He really needed to get this thing in good working order as quickly as possible. He was desperate to restore enough power to use his laptop computer. He’d promised to check in with his wire service as soon as he arrived in the United States. By now they’d be wondering where he was, and why he wasn’t bothering to contact them. He didn’t want his crew thinking he’d completely deserted them.

      But the truth was, he suddenly couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for world news. It never seemed to change. When peace came to one area of the world, war inevitably broke out in another. He supposed the world would always be divided between men of goodwill, and men of ill will with a lust for power and domination.

      He sat back to study the rusted wires in his hands. But his thoughts kept drifting to the woman in the other room. He’d told her more about himself than he’d intended. Maybe it was because she was so easy to talk to. She had a way of listening. Really listening—not just faking it. And she had a way of asking questions without being intrusive.

      He grinned as he started scraping away rust before splicing several frayed wires. Next he’d be trying to convince himself that Ciara Wilde was just like any girl next door. Still, despite the movie star face and fabulous body, there was a freshness about her that was disarming.

      Usually he could tell, after just a few minutes with someone, whether or not he wanted to know them better. In Ciara’s case, he sensed there was a whole lot more inside than the woman she showed to her public. Maybe, just maybe, he’d reserve judgment. It could be that his first impression had been colored by fatigue.

      Or it might turn out that she was “Hollywood,” after all. In which case, he’d be only too happy to send her packing as soon as the weather allowed.