Kit's Ultimate Deal

Chapter 1-2

“Wake up. We’re here.”

She jumped, shook her head, and muttered something. Yep, she was overcome with the typical grogginess brought on by drastically lowered body temperature.

“Le’ me ‘lone. Wanna sleep.”

“No way. Come on.” He reached over and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward him. She moved, floppy as an old rag doll. Scooping her up, he backed out of the truck, heading for the cabin door. Hope the old key still works. Hope Bill Kent hasn’t sold the place or changed the lock. Ms. Boston needs to get warmed up fast, and I’m feeling a bit chilled myself. Good thing I brought the old sleeping bag along.

* * * *

Kit came awake slowly, loathe to leave the warmth of sleep, the comfort of a pleasant dream in which she snuggled in the arms of a man, the perfect man she’d never had time to look for. His masculine strength and heat surrounded her, protective yet not restricting…She jerked upright, shoving aside the restraining flap of a down-filled sleeping bag in the process.

“What the hell’s wrong? You’re letting the warmth out. Get back here before we both freeze.”

The surly words were not part of her dream. This voice didn’t murmur sweet assurances or tender phrases of tribute, but it was a masculine voice with a pleasant western drawl. Panic briefly arrested, Kit turned, peering down at her companion by the uncertain light of smoldering logs, flickering dimly in the massive fireplace to her right.

“Where am I and why am I in my underwear? What are you doing in my bed with me?”

“This is my bedding, Boston. My grandpa gave me this sleeping bag in 1998 when I joined the Boy Scouts.”

Kit refused to be mollified. She wanted to hit something, to jump up and get the blazes out of here, to scream for help—none of which were feasible. From the looks of things, she was totally alone with this stranger in a place she’d never seen before. She wanted answers and she wanted them five minutes ago. “Who are you and how did I get here?”

“My name is Bret, and I carried you in here. Now lie down and pull up the damned bag, okay? You aren’t in any danger except from the cold.”

Kit still couldn’t make out the man’s face, but his voice sounded gruff, unfriendly.

He probably isn’t bent on rape or he’d already have done it. Anyway, I’m getting cold again—fast. She scooted into the warm cocoon of the bag, drawing the edge up over her bare shoulders. She didn’t want to touch him, but she had to until she turned on her side and scrunched away as far as she could. Then she touched the zipper, which felt like a long narrow ice cube.

“So you say you rescued me?”

“You got stuck in the snow yesterday evening, remember? I came along and brought you here to this cabin. You were getting hypothermic, so I did the best I could—rolled out this sleeping bag and got in with you. Works best if everyone’s nude, but I figured I could leave our skivvies on.”

“Oh God.” Kit remembered, all right. She almost wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want to think about how he’d undressed her while she was unconscious. All she needed to do was figure out how to extract herself from the current situation and get to the lodge. “Has the snow stopped yet?”

“I doubt it. Storms like this usually lasts at least twenty-four hours. I don’t intend to look either because that would mean opening the door and letting more cold in. But I’d better put some more wood on the fire.” As he spoke, he began to move, wiggling backward until he could sit up without dislodging the bag from around Kit’s shoulders.

Even in the dim firelight, she saw his chest was bare. He scooted a little farther. She knew she should look away, but she couldn’t. He wore briefs, and that’s what they were, brief. A very minimal patch of navy blue in the strategic area, nothing more.

Oh for goodness sake! Cowboys and outdoorsmen are supposed to wear woolly red union suits that cover them from neck to ankles, not some thong, like a dancer in a male strip club! Still, he does look delicious. With that thought, Kit no longer felt cold.

He stood in a single, smooth motion and stepped out of sight behind her head. A moment later, he reappeared, crouching inches from her, and began to stack an armload of logs in the fireplace. Bending forward, his elegant nearly-bare tush almost in her face, he blew into the coals until the flames jumped to begin their greedy work on the new fuel. He sat back on his haunches for a moment, then gave a self-satisfied grunt. Crawling around behind Kit’s head, he wormed into the sleeping bag.

Kit stiffened and held still. It was difficult, but she tried to banish the image of his beautiful, tanned body, to ignore the touches of his warm flesh against hers.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” She ground out the question through gritted teeth.

“Prob’ly about three or four in the morning. Go back to sleep. We can’t do a thing until daybreak, anyway.” Moments later, he began to snore.

Every nerve hummed and tingled. She stared into the flickering flames, but that only made her feel hotter, itchier, and more out-of-sorts. She had never been more aware of anyone than she was of the sleeping man behind her. All the while, he slept on, snoring in contented peace. There was no justice in the world, none at all! She should be tucked into a comfy bed at Sunrise Lodge, anticipating a gorgeous day on the slopes. Instead, she lay on a hard floor, with only the inadequate padding of half a sleeping bag between her and what felt like stone. She couldn’t turn over because that would leave her face to face with…a gorgeous man who snored.

He shifted, edging closer, until his hairy, muscular legs pressed against hers. She couldn’t move away. There was nowhere to go. Now, she felt his chest against her back. Its furring of coppery hair, just on the soft side of prickly, brushed her. Her sensitized skin tried to ripple like a horse’s hide shaking off flies, with even less effect.

“Damn it, I’m not cold anymore. Give me some room!” Though her sharp whisper sounded thunderously loud in the silence, he didn’t stir. The snores changed rhythm, but there was no movement to prove he’d heard her. Kit didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What a dilemma. Any one of her friends, finding themselves in bed with such a hunk, would make the most of the opportunity. Trouble was, she didn’t know how to proceed. Especially since the man seemed completely unaffected by her proximity. Even if she wanted to make the first move, to let him know she was definitely interested, what should that first move be?

Starting college at sixteen, she’d been too busy racking up courses that guaranteed success to spend much time socializing. Dating was for girls who sought a MRS rather than an MBA. What did one do with a man who climbed into bed with you only to fall asleep?

“Try an elbow in the ribs,” an imp whispered in her ear. No, that could hardly excite anything but his wrath.

A Poindexter has certain standards. We make the best of every situation and capitalize on the appearance of misfortune. Her father’s oft-repeated admonishment echoed through her mind. What would you do, Daddy, if you were in my…er…my place? If her father’s ghost heard her plaintive query, he chose not to reply. She was on her own.

Nothing learned at Harvard had prepared her for such an occasion. She could visualize no way to turn a profit from this chance encounter. Probably the best she could hope for was that the storm would end the coming day, they’d get her car out and turned around, and she’d get back to Tucson before Monday morning—with nothing at all to report to Les Bernard. Sheesh! She’d figure out something plausible to tell Joy and Madge, who she was supposed to meet at Sunrise.

Her companion shifted again, slinging one arm across her. His broad, warm hand splayed out, seeming to cover all the exposed flesh between her bra and panties, and there was plenty of that. She bit back a groan. I can’t believe this is happening.

As exhaustion took hold, she felt her limbs growing heavy and limp. She couldn’t grasp a thought long enough to remember why she was upset. There was nothing she could do now anyway, so fighting the inevitable was pointless. She stared into the flickering coals until they dimmed and faded as her lids drifted shut.

* * * *

Bret awoke, fighting an unusual sense of claustrophobia. His sleeping bag had never felt so confining, so crowded. In spite of the story he’d concocted on the spur of the moment to hush Boston up, the bag was new. As an asthmatic kid, he’d awakened too many times unable to breathe to ever sleep well in a confining space. He’d bought the largest bag he could get to avoid that problem. Eyes still shut, he moved experimentally.

Nope, it’s not my imagination. Warm, firm flesh that felt very much like a feminine rear pressed against—whoa, no use thinking about that. His body was already well aware of the situation.

Stifling a groan, he levered up on one elbow. Dim light streamed in through the two high windows on either side of the fireplace. It was either still early, still snowing, or both. All he could see outside was pale gray. He glanced down at his companion, as memories of the previous evening’s events began to intrude.

Boston. He felt a smile tug at his mouth. Asleep, at ease, and silent, she looked both young and pretty. Her pink lips were parted, soft in appearance, devoid of makeup. Twin fans of brown lashes rested across the faint freckles dusting her cheeks. Honey-colored hair, though tousled, looked silkily tempting to touch. His fingers twitched, starting to move. He jerked his hand back, putting it behind him.

Come on. You don’t take advantage of sleeping ladies. Get your butt out of this bag before you get carried away.

Although he moved more rapidly than he might have under normal circumstances, she didn’t stir or waken. Consider that a blessing. He struggled into his cold, stiff shirt and jeans. Drying over a chair by the fire hadn’t softened them any. The boots were worse, but he got them on with only minor grunting and swearing.

Bret turned to the lady’s things—brand new jeans and a soft pink turtleneck with a matching pink and blue plaid shirt. They were dry, but stiff, too. He shook them a little before folding them into a pile on the floor near her head. Wouldn’t help much, but they’d be handy for her there when she awoke.

He saw the wood box was almost empty. He needed to step outside anyway, so he pulled on his parka. Easing the door open, he pushed out into the snowy morning. At least the wind had died, but snow still fell, thickly as ever. Drifting flakes veiled all but the closest pines circling the small park in which the cabin had been built. A good eight inches of fluffy white covered the pickup, practically burying it.

Dragging the door shut behind him, Bret shook his head. They weren’t going to be leaving soon. That information probably wouldn’t make Boston’s day, but there wasn’t much he could do to change the weather. He found a large pile of wood at the rear of the cabin, protected by the overhang of the roof. He carried several armfuls around to the porch. Rummaging in the truck, after brushing away enough snow to open the door, he dragged a box of MREs out from behind the seat.

Not the most appetizing stuff in the world, but a damned sight better than going hungry. Be willing to bet a month’s pay Boston never ate MREs before, though. Well, gotta be a first time for everything. Sometimes initiating a virgin is fun. He grinned as he shouldered the door open to step into the cabin.

She still slept, burrowed into the bag until only her face showed, half-shadowed within the down-plumped nylon folds. He had let in some chilly air, and the fire had again burned low. Wondering if the smell of coffee would get her going, Bret squatted to rebuild the fire. When the new logs kindled to a bright blaze, he stood to glance around the room. Yep, just as he recalled. Across the room, a set of rough shelves held rudimentary cooking supplies and utensils. He crossed the flagged floor and then took down the old enameled coffeepot and a battered steel kettle with a twisted wire bail.

The hand-worked pump that drew water up from the cistern beneath the cabin squealed like a scared piglet. He had begun to doubt it would work when a gush of rusty water squirted out. After a few more pumps, it ran clear and he filled the coffeepot. He turned just in time to see his guest bolt upright, eyes wide. Her face reflected pure terror.

“Oh my God, what’s that awful noise?”

“Not to worry, Boston. The wolves can’t break down the door.”

After he made the flippant reply, Bret felt a twinge of regret. She probably had no idea what roughing it was like. How could she? She was clearly a blue-blooded princess, one whose idea of camping was a nice room with hot and cold running water.

Thought skidded to an abrupt halt. The bag had fallen to her waist, revealing a lot of creamy skin and a lacy pink bra. Whew. His temperature soared ten degrees in as many seconds. He ought to look away, but he couldn’t.

That’s some bra, one of those lift-and-push-out jobs, and boy, does it.

A flush began at her cheekbones and spread up and down until every inch of visible skin blushed. Strawberries and cream, with maybe a bit of peach thrown in. He could savor every luscious bit.