Take My Breath Away

Her mouth fell open again. Narrowing her eyes, she recognized one of the half sheets of paper she’d pinned around town in hopes of enticing summer visitors. Summer being the operative word, she realized now...and the exact one she’d neglected to include on the advertising. Knucklehead!

“Sorry,” Poppy said, commanding herself to stand her ground as the stranger moved from his vehicle and across the snow-covered clearing. “We’re not accepting guests right now.”

“Is that right?” He glanced around. “The coven using all the cabins?”

“The cov—” She broke off as he nodded toward the small altar and the smudge stick at her feet. Though it had extinguished upon landing in the snow, the pungent scent still lingered in the air. She inhaled a deep breath of it, trying to regain her earlier peaceful feeling.

For whatever reason, this man rattled her.

Deciding to ignore the coven remark, she took her hands from her pockets and crossed her arms over her chest as she tried pasting on a pleasant expression. “As I said, I’m sorry. We’re simply not ready.”

He glanced around again. Smoke rose from her cabin’s chimney, but three of the others ringing the clearing were obviously vacant, not to mention inhospitable-looking with their peeling doors and dirty windows. The one nearest hers she’d decided to work on first, and it looked much better with its new paint and sparkling glass. From here, the iffy state of the roof was not readily apparent, though she’d have to come up with the money to replace it sooner than later.

“I’ll pay you twice the going rate,” the man said, as if he’d read her mind. His gaze shifted to the flyer grasped in his left hand. “I’ll take the two-bedroom ‘nestled in the woods.’”

“Sorry again, not available.” Squirrels had made a home in the chimney and it smelled like something had died in the second bedroom. It was the farthest from the clearing and the last on her list to refurbish, though she’d foolishly—she realized now—advertised it, anyway. As her father’s daughter, she should have realized that unchecked optimism could come back to bite her on the butt.

Speaking of bites, she glanced down at Grimm, who stood relaxed at her side. Usually he took cues about strangers from her reaction and body language. Odd that he wasn’t picking up on that now...in which case he would be showing a lot of teeth and emitting one of his best back-off growls.

The long-legged man followed her gaze. “Nice dog.”

“If you like death-by-canine,” she said. “We call him Grimm, as in the Grim Reaper.” A little white lie. Her brother had chosen the name after some famous NFL player he admired.

The stranger patted his thigh. “Hey, Grimm.”

Her dog raced forward, his jaw stretched in a toothy smile.

The man ran his hand over her pet’s head. “Like I said, nice dog. And I’ll pay you triple for whatever place you have available.”

Triple? Triple? Poppy thought of her recent layoff, the cost of Mason’s plane tickets to Florida and back, the extra dollars she’d given James to dole out on her son’s behalf.

“Quadruple, then.”

A fool and his money...Poppy mused, tempted despite her jittery nerves and knotted stomach. Mountain people were wary of everything about the rich flatlanders who came up the hill for alpine delights—everything except the money they flung about so freely. It was hard for average Joes and Joannas to make do in a place where real estate and gasoline and foodstuffs were sold at luxury resort prices. But people like the Walkers and the other descendants of early settlers were stubborn about staying among their beloved peaks and pines. Maybe Poppy had once dreamed of oceans and palms and big city streets, but then Mason had come along and sticking to what was familiar had made more sense.

The stranger crossed his arms over the chest of his posh squall jacket, mimicking Poppy’s own pose. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his glasses, but she felt them narrow. “Quintuple,” he said. “Final offer.”

And greed overrode caution. “Done,” she answered.

Second thoughts popped up the instant the word left her mouth. “Wait—you realize we’re pretty far from civilization. The entrance to the highway is four miles from here.”

“I realize. I got lost looking for the turnoff.”

Poppy had the sense he was pleased by the fact.

Taking a step back, he tilted his head toward the steep slopes to the north of the cabins and woods. Snow covered the surface that was dotted with few of the pines that grew densely on the other surrounding hillsides. “What is this place? Can you ski up there?”

“If you want to hike up carrying your equipment. The elevation of the nearest town—Blue Arrow Lake—is a little over five thousand feet but here we’re at seventy-two hundred, which means plenty of snow in a good winter. My family had a nice ski business on the mountain, but a wildfire took down the lodge, the rope tow and the chair lifts thirteen years ago.”

“You didn’t rebuild?”

Poppy shrugged. “Not enough insurance money. And a bad financial deal with a certain arch-villain.”

He looked back at her then. “Arch-villain? Like Lex Luthor or Two-Face?”

“Like Victor Fremont.” Without thinking, she spat in the snow, ground the spot with the toe of her boot then crossed her heart with the tip of her forefinger.

Only when she felt his stare did she realize what she’d done. “Uh, sorry. Walker family habit.” The physical manifestation of their vow to never forget or forgive how the old man had ruined their father’s livelihood and health was something Brett had come up with long ago. “But, uh, let me show you the cabin.”

Maybe he wouldn’t like it, she thought, almost hoping that would be true, despite quintuple the going rate. Something was off about him. Or her. Or her around him.

As she dug the keys from her coat pocket, she walked toward the one-bedroom. There were three wooden steps leading to the narrow porch. Inside, it was cold, but warmer than the outside temperature. He walked past her through the small living area to peer into the room that held a queen-size bed and a Shaker-style dresser.

“The bathroom only has a shower,” she warned, “and the kitchen...”

With his back to her, he scraped off his hat. His hair was glossy, nearly black, and when he rubbed his palm over it, the strands settled into lines that screamed “This cut cost a mint!” She saw him finger off the sunglasses. As he stuck them into his coat pocket, she wondered if she’d imagined the surreal shade of his irises back at the grocery store. Perhaps they’d be ordinary on second take. Duller, like the color of a faded cotton patio umbrella. Or with gray overtones, like shadows cast on snow.

He turned.

Poppy nearly staggered back. Her mind hadn’t oversold them. His eyes were a hot, electric-blue that seemed lit from within. They were compelling. Mesmerizing. The eyes of a magician or a mystic or some supernatural being. Again, an acute wariness shot through her.

Grimm whined and she quickly shifted her attention to the dog, needing to look away before she confessed her sins or offered up her life savings. God. Her pulse was racing and there was a queasy feeling in her stomach.

“And the kitchen...?” he prompted, in that deep voice that carried to the corners of the cabin and maybe to the corners of her heart.

God.

“The kitchen.” She focused on the velvety golden hair between Grimm’s floppy ears and made a vague gesture. “It’s over there.”

His footsteps sounded against the hardwood floor before finding the living room’s braided area rug. From the corner of her eye, she saw his big hand and those lean fingers curled around the scarf he’d had at his neck. If you look now, you’ll see his whole face, Poppy thought. Then she heard a rustle of sound that indicated he was removing his coat. If you look now, you’ll see his whole body, too.

It shocked her how much she wanted to check out both, despite how anxious the man made her.

She was a mother, for God’s sake! A Walker, focused on creating something of the family legacy.

A woman who had proven herself an idiot when it came to romance, so had sworn off it altogether.

None of which meant it would hurt to take a peek.

That was the inner optimist in her, always trying to find sunshine on a cloudy day.

It might even be good for you!

Ignoring her little voice, she worked the cabin’s key off the ring. “If you’re still interested—”

“I want the cabin. Until the end of the month.”

Quintuple the rate until the end of the month! Poppy focused on that, and only that, as she slid the key onto the small table next to the sofa. “You’ll need to plug in the fridge. The heater should keep you warm enough, but there’s wood for the fireplace. I’ll make sure to keep some piled on the porch. Oh—and I should warn you. There’s no internet and there’s no TV.”

“No TV?” he asked.

“Don’t plan to put ’em in the cabins. We Walkers grew up without television—our mom’s idea—and I’ve never picked up the habit.”

“So what do you do for entertainment?”

“I read, and I—” She almost said she played with her little boy, but for some reason she didn’t want Mason’s name in this room, where she was responding so strongly and strangely to this man’s masculine charisma. Those blue eyes had done something to her internal wiring, heating her blood and making it buzz as it raced through her system. “I have a good imagination.”

Oh, jeez. Why had she said that? Yet another time, embarrassed heat crawled up her neck.

“We have something in common, then. I have an active fantasy life, too.” The sudden note of humor in his voice made her chin jerk up.

Their gazes met.

But there wasn’t a sign of laughter on his face. There were just planes and angles—strong cheekbones, a clean jawline—that made her instantly think of elegant European men stepping into lowslung sports coupes and spectacular parties where people in evening clothes ended up jumping into swimming pools while a band dressed in white dinner jackets plays Cole Porter tunes. He was classically, memorably handsome and his features, coupled with those spectacular eyes, put him at the absolute top of her list of the most beautiful—yet still so male—men she’d ever seen.

Her skin was tingling, her stomach was pitching and her palms were probably sweating, but she couldn’t tell because her fingers were curled into tight fists. Everything inside her was reacting to him, but in confusing ways. While some of her was going soft and languid, a sense of melting low in her belly, at the same time her defenses were rushing into place and she felt hyperalert and poised to fight her way out of...out of...

Danger.

Silly, she told herself. Stop being so silly.

Still, she backed up, keeping her gaze on him as she retreated toward the door. He remained where he was, though she thought she detected tension in the lean muscles revealed by the thermal Henley clinging to his powerful torso.

Those magnetic eyes swept over her. “I don’t know your name,” he said, his voice soft now, the near-whisper of that seductive snake in the Garden of Eden.

She shook her head to dispel the image. “Poppy,” she replied, trying to sound businesslike and brisk. “Poppy Walker.”

He was strolling toward her now and she retreated farther, until her shoulder blades met the wood of the door. Before she could find her way through it, the man had her hand in his. Heat ran like fire ants up her arm. “Ryan Harris,” he said, his gaze fixed on her face.

The words barely registered as the burning touch overwhelmed all her other senses. His palm was warm and strong, its size enveloping hers—making her feel small and feminine. That’s when she understood. That’s when she could finally put a name to what he’d been able to do to her from that first glimpse.

After more than five years, Ryan Harris reminded her of what it was to be a woman.

“I have to go,” she said, ordering herself to step away.

“You do,” he agreed, nodding. Then he replaced the warmth of his skin with a bundle of bills. “Rent.”

Squeezing her fingers around it, she hustled out the door and into the cold sunlight.

The scent of sage lingered in the air. She thought perhaps her ritual had worked. Maybe the negative energy was gone. That would be good.

And bad. Because it had apparently left a vacuum in its place, allowing in an entirely different sort of energy—one that Poppy was much too uneasy to name.

CHAPTER TWO

RYAN HAMILTON WONDERED if he’d make it to the end of March, as surviving the month had been iffy the past three years. Each turn of those particular thirty-one days had exacted a price: he’d wrapped his Maserati around an elm tree the first year; blown up a meat smoker and almost himself while passed out on a lounge chair ten feet from it two years ago; and last year he’d lost most of his good reputation. Now, if it hadn’t been for the stunt-driving course he’d taken before shooting his final movie a decade ago, he might not have managed the escape from his own lakefront villa.

But he’d successfully evaded the celebrity photographer who’d been camped outside the gated drive. Had he even known it was Ryan he followed in that roller skate of a car? Ryan had been forced to take a few hairpin turns at speeds that had set his heart slamming in his chest.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about the reminder that blood still pumped through his veins and that he retained enough emotional IQ to experience even a small drop of fear. Most of the time he didn’t feel much of anything—except, of course, this was March. Fucking March.

He found his way back to the road that led him through Blue Arrow Lake. While the body of water it was named after was private, and the boat docks only available to those with a deed to one of the pricey surrounding estates, the village itself welcomed tourists as well as the owners of the lakefront properties. Both were out in force, Ryan noted, as the traffic slowed passing the vaguely Swiss-styled buildings that held small specialty stores offering items like fancy cheeses, fancier chocolates and beers from around the world. Despite the snow left in piles here and there by the plows, warmly dressed people were seated under the clear blue skies amid patio heaters at small bistro tables, enjoying their designer coffees and flaky pastries.

The cars in front of him continued at a crawl, but Ryan didn’t worry he might be spied by the photographer again. The road was a sea of SUVs in both directions, so his didn’t stand out.

A ring sounded through the car speakers, and the touch screen in the dash signaled a familiar number. Ryan considered rejecting the call, but the person on the other end didn’t take hints well.

He gave the voice command to answer and at the click of connection said, “What do you want, Linus?”

His younger brother got right to the point. “I want to know where you are.”

“How much is People willing to pay for that tidbit?”

“Ha ha. Spill.”

“It’s none—”

“I worry, damn it.” Though Ryan couldn’t see the other man, he could imagine him forking a hand through his mop of dirty blond hair in a familiar gesture of frustration. Linus was a lankier version of himself, but with their mother’s light hair and their father’s brown eyes. “Ry, just tell me where you’ve gone to ground. Your assistant says you’re not planning on being back in the Studio City offices until April.”

“I decided, spur-of-the-moment, to take a break.” Might as well try a new coping mechanism since he’d failed so miserably the past few years.

“Okay. That’s good,” Linus said. “But where?”

“I don’t want company.” A car pulled in front of Ryan’s, causing him to brake sharply. The vehicle at his rear honked in bad-tempered complaint. “Not my fault,” he muttered.

“You’re in So-Cal,” Linus said, relief in his voice. “I would recognize the sounds of our happy traffic anywhere.”

Ryan debated a moment, then decided giving Linus a little more info would do no harm. “I was actually at the lake house.”

“Yeah? You think you can stay out of trouble there?”

No, he thought, thinking of that photographer. “I handed over the keys to Anabelle and Grant for the weekend.” He didn’t need to add last names. They were one of Hollywood royalty’s brightest and most watched romances—“Granabelle.” Grant had been Ryan’s stalwart friend for the past four years, sticking by him when his mood was low, being the designated driver when he was looking for refuge in an alcoholic high. “Can you keep a secret?”

“I’ve never told anyone you grew up afraid of the purple-haired troll under the bed that only you could see, have I?”

“Its hair was green and you were too much of a pussy to lift the bedspread and take a look.”

Linus snorted. “I can keep a secret.”

“They’re getting married at the house over the weekend. Spur-of-the-moment and strictly family. To keep things as quiet as possible, I’m not even attending.”

“Good for them,” Linus said, then paused a moment. “How long do you suppose before one of their publicists spills the beans? Doesn’t Anabelle have a new movie coming out soon?”

Having reached the end of town, Ryan took the turn that would bring him to the highway and ultimately his rental. “There was already a paparazzo hanging out at the gates.”

“Shit,” Linus said. “Not that I’m surprised. But you’re going to stay clear of it now, right?”

“Right. But once I offered the house to Grant, I found the idea of the mountains appealed. So I’ve found another place to stay.”

“Yeah? Where—”

“I’m using the name Ryan Harris.” It was his go-to alias when he was attempting to stay under the radar.

“That’s all fine and good, but your face is as recognizable as your name.”

“She never watched TV growing up. Her favorite form of entertainment is reading.”

The silence on the other end went heavy, then ominous. “She?”

Ryan gave a little shrug. “I’m telling you, the woman doesn’t recognize me—has no idea I’m somebody anyone would recognize. She’s got a handful of cabins for rent and I’m the first and only guest.”

“She?”

“In her sixties, with a little pot belly and her hair in some sort of turban thing,” Ryan said smoothly. “She’s a chain-smoker.”

“For a famous actor, you lie for shit.”

“I haven’t been a famous actor for a decade.”

“You’re right. Now you’re just the famous part.”

Or, after what went down last year, infamous, Ryan thought, which was degrees more uncomfortable. “Anyway, I should probably go—”

“Like I’d let you get away with that. What’s she really like?”

Her face is as fresh as the mountain air. At the grocer’s he’d thought her no older than the teen clerk, and when he’d caught her staring thought he’d been made. But at the cabins he’d immediately deduced she was well past jailbait. Yet still so...natural. Her cheeks and the tip of her cute nose had been pink with cold, and hanging over the shoulder of her oversize and clearly secondhand army jacket had been a messy braid of hair the mixed colors of honey, sunlight and brandy. Wide gray eyes and a soft pink mouth made him think young again. Her wary expression suggested life had disappointed her once or twice.

“She’s not interested in me, if that’s your concern,” Ryan said to Linus. “I’ve barely glimpsed the woman in the three days since I had to bribe her with five times the going rental rate to take me in. Oh, and she has a dog she hints might kill me on demand. I’m pretty sure if the dog balks, she’ll be willing to do the job herself.”

“I think I’m in love.”

“Why am I not surprised.” At twenty-nine, Linus was always ready to play with the opposite sex...though when Ryan thought of it, he’d been remarkably woman-free for months.

“Maybe I should come see her—develop my own impression.”

“No.” His brother was fishing for a reason to check on Ryan. “I told you, I don’t want visitors.”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Read books, hike around.” And if the past couple of days were anything to go by, stare out the window in case the wood nymph that lived next door made a rare appearance. “Nothing crazy this year.”

Linus sighed. “That’s great, Ry. Really great.”

But his brother didn’t sound convinced as he signed off, and Ryan had to admit he, too, had doubts about keeping the crazy at bay. Fucking March.

Back at the cabins there was something to distract him from his morose thoughts, he discovered. His landlady was outside, dressed in a pair of skintight jeans, sheepskin boots and a nubby sweater that rode up and down her hips as she gathered lengths of wood from a pile then tossed them into a wheelbarrow. As distractions went, it was pretty effective.

Nothing wrong with admiring a pretty sight, he told himself. Shutting off the SUV’s engine, he relaxed against the leather seat, taking in the whole scene: the backdrop of mountain, woods, snow. The foreground of the lovely lady. When her dog raced up to drop a clearly well-drooled-upon tennis ball at her feet, her obvious response—yuck—made him nearly smile. He couldn’t help but like that she scooped up the slimy ball and threw it, anyway.

When she began trundling the wheelbarrow toward his cabin, Ryan jumped from the SUV and hurried toward her. “Let me do that.”

She ignored him, continuing to push the contraption until it was right beside his porch. Then she set to stacking the wood against the cabin’s siding. As he bent to assist her, she slanted him a look. “I’ve got this.”

“I can help—”

“Part of the service.” The smallest of smiles poked a dimple in her left cheek. “You’re paying enough for it.”

Though he supposed he should go into the house and leave her to it, he stood another moment, watching her efficient movements. When Grimm came bounding up—no ball this time, but a stick—he rubbed the dog’s sides then threw the piece of wood into the trees. “Go get it, boy. Go get it.”

Still transferring logs, Poppy spared him another glance. “So...what is it you do?”

Oh, hell. He should have concocted a cover story. Writer of the Great American Novel? No way could he pull that off. A trial period as a Trappist monk? Not that, either, because he thought that would mean a vow of silence, which he’d obviously already broken. “Uh...”

“Forget I asked,” she said, her focus returned to the wheelbarrow. “None of my business, anyway.”

See, it was that indifference that made her the perfect landlady. As he’d told Linus, she wasn’t the least bit interested in him.

And it was stupid, how that rankled.

Just another reason he should go inside to his books and his resolution not to let his emotions rule him this month. Still, he hesitated. Inside, alone, the tearing pain might find him as it had last night, when it dug its talons in him during a dark and flame-filled dream, leaving him to wake in a cold sweat and overcome by grinding grief.

Poppy tossed another piece of wood on the stack. “Are you settling in okay? Our amenities are pretty stripped-down, I admit. Is there something else you need?”

He didn’t know what made him say it, and say it in such a low, seductive voice. “Are you offering turn-down service?”

A clear pink color rushed over her face and Ryan realized that was the response he’d wanted. Bastard that he was, this studied indifference of hers was annoying. When he’d arrived at the cabins, and especially when she’d shown him into his rental, he’d felt the thrum of awareness that had pulsed like electrified wire between them. She’d practically run from the place, run from him, and...

And he didn’t know why that continued to bother him so and what he thought he was doing, teasing her like this.

Remember? No crazy this year.

It’s why he’d decided to go hermit.

Ryan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sorry. It was a stupid thing to say.”

“I won’t sic Grimm on you this time.” Clearly avoiding his gaze, she grabbed the last of the logs and placed them at the top of the stack. Then she seized the wheelbarrow handles and walked away without a backward glance, her color still high.