Near Sunrise Ski Resort
Apache Reservation, Arizona
Fresh powder-ought to make for great skiing tomorrow. Kit
Poindexter slowed the BMW, feeling the car slip as she took a
sharp curve. She flipped on the lights and followed their wavering
beams into the swirling white-pocked twilight.
Since arriving in Arizona in January to start her new post
with Bernard Brothers Investments, she hadn't had one chance to
go skiing, which had been one of her favorite leisure-time activities
back home. When she mentioned her planned weekend at Sunrise to
Les Bernard, her employer, he had beamed.
"Great timing, Kathy," he said. "I've got a
new client coming in, an Aye-rab I think, looking for some good
property to be developed into an upscale resort. Understand there's
some choice acreage around the edges of the Reservation, so take
a look and see if you see anything that looks promising, maybe
ask around a little if you can. You locate something, I guarantee
there'll be a nice bonus for you."
She hated it when he called her Kathy, but she knew from experience
she couldn't make him stop. Being a petite female in the business
world brought disadvantages. How did you get the men to take you
seriously? But the bonus sweetened his comment. With a few extras
like that, she'd have her million and be able to go back to Boston,
maybe before Sam sent Dad's legacy into oblivion. Why hadn't he
seen she had twice the business acumen of her half-brother?
Another skid jerked her attention back to driving. She was
definitely on the highway, but which lane? I hope nobody's coming
down the road. Edging the car to the right, she glimpsed the hillside,
rising from the roadbed. At least her lane was on the inside.
After what seemed a long, steep climb, the highway leveled
off. Her visibility had become so limited she almost missed the
turn-off. She managed to get onto the narrow road leading to the
ski area. Only one set of tire tracks marred the pristine white
blanket of snow that thickened with every passing moment.
She nibbled her lip, striving to stay calm. Only twenty miles
now. Surely the storm can't get worse. Her new Arizona friends
would laugh if they knew she'd let a little southwestern snow
scare her. After all, as she'd told them, she'd lived with real
winters most of her life. But that had been in a city where the
roads were paved and plowed.
Abruptly the ride went bumpy, as if she'd gone from pavement
to a chuckhole pocked dirt road with no notice at all. This road
was even less defined than the highway, rambling up and down,
from ridge to ridge, snaking across deep ravines. Trees edged
both sides, the only clues that that indicated the direction of
the road.
Her car slithered, slipped sideways, tilted, and came to a
jolting stop. A BMW was not supposed to do this. Those glossy
TV ads never showed a Beemer doing anything as un-elegant as getting
stuck in a ditch. She ground her teeth in frustration, stomping
on the gas once more. The wheels spun, throwing mud and snow.
The Beemer wouldn't budge.
"Damn it! Why does this have to happen now?" With
a resigned sigh, she shut off the motor. As Aunt Catherine had
always said, "No use beating a dead horse." Or in this
case, a dead Beemer.
Kit turned around and leaned over the back of the seat, rummaging
for her boots. If she had to get out, she wasn't going do it in
her cross-trainers. The snow must be at least six inches deep,
maybe more. She decided to put on her parka, too, glad she brought
the thick coat. She hadn't expected to need it. Wasn't this Arizona?
Sunny Arizona?
How far had she come from the main highway? She hadn't thought
to check the mileage, but she felt like she'd traveled a long
way. She could probably hike to the lodge and find someone with
a four-wheel drive vehicle to come tow her car. Gathering her
resolve, she shoved open the door and stepped into the storm.
The cold hit her like a fist in the stomach. She gasped, then
slammed her mouth shut as the icy air burned her throat. Grains
of snow stung like needles as they hit her face. She pulled the
hood of her parka as far forward as possible before she turned
to begin slogging down the road. Just her luck-that direction
led her right into the wind.
In mere minutes, she was out of breath. Kit paused, turned
her back to the wind, and looked behind her. She couldn't see
her car, though she knew she hadn't come very far. The depressions
of her footprints were nearly buried by fresh snow. The snow wasn't
falling, but swirling and surging, flying as if each flake had
internal power, borne by the wind.
Maybe I ought to stay at the car. Someone should be along
shortly. Kit hesitated. Go back or continue? She couldn't stay
here. On this exposed ridge top, the wind howled past like a freezing
jet-wash. If only she knew how far the lodge was. She went on
a few steps, then turned back. She'd be better off waiting in
the car. At least she wouldn't be quite so cold inside, out of
the wind. She could start it again and run the heater, although
she'd heard it was dangerous to sit too long in a storm with your
motor running. Carbon monoxide gas could build up and poison you
before you knew what was wrong. Long before she reached the car's
meager shelter, her teeth began to chatter and violent shivers
racked her. Wind chill. Hypothermia. In Arizona. I don't believe
this!
* * *
Bret McClintock peered through the windshield of his Dodge
Ram, straining to find traces of the road. Even though he knew
it almost as well as his own drive-make that the drive at Aunt
Melba-Jean's, where he'd lived the past eight years- nothing looked
normal. The snow covered everything and visibility was down to
a nose and a half. .
He should have stayed home, but when Jason called last night
to tell him old Tracks Three was willing to talk, he'd jumped
at the chance. The oldest man in the White River Apache tribe,
Tracks Three had first-hand knowledge of events long forgotten
by most people. He'd heard tales of the legendary Apache leaders
from people who had actually fought and fled with them. The old
man's tales might confirm some of Bret's personal theories. Though
not yet accepted by anyone else, they were ideas that, once published,
could change the academic view of Native American tribes of the
Southwest and their history. Storm or no storm, he couldn't miss
this opportunity.
The clouds brought an early twilight. Even with the truck's
lights on, Bret couldn't see much besides snow. Suddenly, Then
he saw a dark shape, only half-covered with white, loomed ahead.
The sight sent jumbled thoughts racing through his mind. A car?
What's someone doing out here on a night like this? I bet whoever
it was missed the turn-off to Sunrise. Hope he had sense enough
to stay in the car's shelter. The wind chill must be twenty below.
Bret braked gently so he wouldn't skid. The truck crunched
to a stop behind the stalled vehicle. Leaving the engine running,
he got out to investigate. As he approached the driver's side,
the window rolled down to reveal a woman's pale face, surrounded
by a damp fur-edged hood.
"Oh, thank God! I was beginning to think nobody would
evah come by. Surely theah ought to be moah people going to Sunrise.
The skiing will be great once this storm cleahs."
The voice sounded feminine, a hint of Boston in the dropped
r's. In the dim light, Bret couldn't clearly see her face.
"You aren't on the road to Sunrise, Miss. You passed
that turn-off three miles back. This road leads to an Apache settlement
down in White River Canyon." Darn newcomers, why can't they
stay out of harm's way?
"Oh, no! How am I going to get to Sunrise? Would it be
asking to much for you to pull me out and help me get turned around?"
Bret shook his head; snow fell off his battered Stetson. "Wouldn't
do much good. Your little car'll never get there in this weather.
There's one more steep grade before you reach the lodge. I'm starting
to have trouble on the level here, even with high clearance and
four-wheel drive."
The woman sat silent for a moment, apparently contemplating
his statements.
"What am I going to do?" Her voice held both a plaintive
note and a touch of frustrated arrogance-almost as if the storm
was a personal affront, interfering with her plans.
"Come with me. We'll get your car tomorrow or the next
day, whenever it clears. I'm going to try to make it to a cabin,
about a mile farther on. It'd be suicide to go down into White
River or attempt to get to the lodge tonight."
He heard her ragged sigh.
"Oh-kay. My car won't start again, and without the heater,
I'm chilled to the bone. I guess I can't stay here, can I?"
"Not unless you want to freeze."
She clambered out, sinking into the snow. "I've got to
get some things in the trunk and my briefcase." She waded
toward the rear of the car, weaving as if the whirling whiteness
made her dizzy. Once there, she fumbled, scraping snow away to
find the lock while she struggled not to drop her keys.
"Here." Bret took the key from her stiff fingers
and jabbed it into the icy lock. After twisting the piece of metal
hard, the trunk swung open and snow slid in soft chunks to the
ground. He reached in, grabbed the case, and slammed the lid shut.
"You'll have to get into the truck on my side. Try to step
in my tracks-that way you'll get less snow in your boots."
When she followed him without protest, instinct told him she
was being uncharacteristically mild and obedient. Bret snorted.
She sounds like a real New England Princess, so it's probably
a safe bet she's never suffered much discomfort. Like Barb-she
thought roughing it was a regular motel instead of the five star
hotels she was accustomed to Might do her good to learn how being
scared and miserable feels. Why do I always have to get mixed
up with these damned society women?
After Bret boosted the woman into the cab, she slid across
the wide bench seat to let him in. He shoved her bag onto the
floor at her feet before he settled behind the wheel. Gingerly,
he backed up enough to clear her car, then started on once more.
He stared into the gray infinity ahead, mesmerized with the
slow sweep of the wipers. They shoved sluggishly at the accumulating
snow, barely clearing the glass. The headlights faded into the
grayness; he couldn't see more than one truck-length ahead. Bret
swore under his breath. Another mile was going to be tricky. He
didn't attempt to make conversation. Distraction from the difficult
task of driving was the last thing he needed. Tracks Three and
his stories would have to wait. Right now Bret's primary goal
was survival.
This must be the longest mile I ever traveled. Even worse
than the last mile of the Mule Mountain Double Marathon last May.
Probably slower, too. Bret wiggled his shoulders, fighting off
the ache of tension tightened his back and arms. He relaxed one
hand at a time, wiggling fingers going numb and stiff.
Finally he recognized the lightning-blasted old Ponderosa
pine that marked the turn-off to the cabin. A solid, ageless structure,
the stone and log building belonged to an old family friend. Over
the years, he'd spent a lot of time there. He eased the truck
off the road, rolling to a stop with the bumper almost touching
the porch rails.
Turning to his passenger, he saw she'd slumped, leaning against
the door. He flicked on the cab lights so he could look at her.
Somehow, she'd gotten wet before he picked her up. Even the blast
of the truck's heater hadn't counteracted the resulting chill.
He realized she was slipping into hypothermia. Bet she started
to walk and changed her mind. Lucky for her, or she'd be as good
as dead now.
"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 towards 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 little 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 1978 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 would already have done
it, and I'm getting cold again- fast. She scooted into the warm
cocoon of the bad, 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 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 backwards 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 sakes! 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! But 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, elegant 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 any one than she
was of the sleeping man behind her. All the while, he slept on,
snoring contentedly. 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 no where
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!
Then, she'd figure out something plausible to tell Joy and Madge,
whom 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. He'd awakened too many times as a
kid unable to breathe to ever sleep well in a confining space.
He'd deliberately 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
suspiciously 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 slightly, 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 near 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. 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 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. Crossing the flagged floor, he 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, 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 New England 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.
Chronic overachiever Kit Poindexter arrives in Arizona with a firm goal: as quickly as possible, she'll amass the million dollars she needs to save her late father's foundering firm from her half-brother's mismanagement. Then she'll head back to Boston to take over Poindexter Enterprises. A chance meeting with gorgeous Bret McClintock dumps an unexpected distraction into her power-suited lap.