Maggie Undercover (17 page)

Her car slid around a corner forcing her
concentration back to her driving. The windshield wipers worked
overtime against the wet, heavy snow. The wind rattled the car's
canvas top admitting drafts of cold, damp air and flakes of snow
inside. While the heater struggled to keep her warm, she leaned
forward and wiped at the fog on the inside of the windshield.

This job was killing her sweet, little sports
car. Like her owner she was a California girl, not suited for
mid-west winters. The sooner this job was over and she was back in
L.A., the better.

In the darkness streetlights cast islands of
light over the swirling snow as she inched down the slippery,
snow-covered roads. On the near empty streets, the ten-minute drive
across town took over thirty before she reached Jared's house. As
she braked for the turn into his drive, her car slid sideways.

She fought to maintain control. The rear
wheels went off the pavement into the gully bordering the street.
Adrenaline kicked in as the undercarriage ground along the edge of
the drive. Nose tilted up, front wheels almost off the ground, her
car straddled the drive and died. Limp with relief that she was
unhurt she leaned her head against the steering wheel.

Without the heater blasting, cold air filled
the car. Though she wanted to cry, if she didn't move soon she'd
freeze to death. She pushed open the door. The car rocked. She
jumped out just before with an ominous crunch it slipped backward
into the ditch.

"Damn, damn, damn!" She stared in disbelief
at the red slash of color sticking up at a 45-degree angle in the
swirl of white that the world had become.

Soft white flakes melted on her cheeks and
covered her hair. Calf-deep snow swallowed her feet. Though the
temperature was still mild she shivered inside her jacket. Moisture
seeped in to her ankle boots. Unless Jared could move her car, she
wasn't going anywhere for a while. At the rate the snow was
falling, she might not get out until spring.

She should have turned around when she'd had
the chance. Now she was stuck. The hundred feet to the front door
stretched a mile away. She peered through the snow at the drive.
Drifts of snow rose and fell like a shadowy white mountain range.
Her car would have never made it through. The question was, would
she? What choice did she have? The Widow Larkins' house was dark.
She'd gone out of town for the week. Jared's front door was the
closest haven. The warm yellow of the porch light beckoned her
closer.

She started forward. The long chocolate brown
skirt she'd chosen to wear billowed around her legs exposing them
to the touch of the icy snow. Gritting her teeth against the cold
she slogged onward.

She made her way up the drive through an
alien landscape. The wind whipped around her turning the soft, fat
flakes into tiny stinging missiles that scoured her cheeks. She
stumbled and plopped backside in to a drift. Tears stung her
eyes.

This was not how she'd planned to spend her
birthday. Self-pity threatened to overwhelm her. Cold and alone on
her birthday, she wanted to sit in the snow and ball. For one brief
second she wished she were whom she pretended to be, the carefree,
eighteen-year-old daughter of two loving parents, with her life
stretching out in front of her, instead of a jaded woman with a
damaged past and an uncertain future.

Then her innate optimism resurfaced. She
wouldn't trade who she was for a better past. In spite of her
disgust with her current actions, in general she liked herself.
She'd survived a difficult childhood and emerged a strong,
resourceful woman. Though her past was unfortunate, it wasn't her
fault and had helped form her into the person she was today.

Filled with renewed strength she climbed to
her feet and moved on. And then she was there, in the shelter of
the porch. Stamping the snow from her numb legs and shaking off her
wet skirt she rang the bell and waited.

And waited. She shivered and glanced at her
watch. 10:15. Had he given up on her and gone out? Considering the
weather that didn't seem likely, but nothing was making sense in
her life anymore. She reached forward to ring again. The door
opened.

Dressed in a rich blue-black velvet robe,
Jared stood in the doorway. His hair was tousled as if she'd roused
him from bed. A scowl etched his face.

"Maggie? What are you doing here? You're
soaking wet. Come in." He snagged her arm and pulled her
inside.

Warmth wrapped around her. Her teeth began to
chatter.

"Sit." He pushed her into an overstuffed
chair next to the fireplace then bent down and set a match to the
kindling. Flames flickered up and caught. Heat flared.

"Didn't you get my message? I told you not to
come. What were you thinking going out in this weather?" As he
spoke he pulled off her wet jacket and boots and draped a quilted
afghan around her. She huddled into its warmth. She jumped as he
began rubbing the circulation back into her feet and calves.
Crouched at her side, his robe gaped open over his bare knees and
thighs.

A sudden shaft of longing left her weak. She
sagged back, unable and unwilling to make him stop.

"I didn't get any message. Must have left
before you called. I'm a California girl remember. What do I know
about snowstorms?"

"Why didn't your parents keep you home? They
should know better."

Alarms went off inside at the sarcasm in his
voice, but she was too cold, wet and tired to care why. "They're
not home." Was that sad, little voice hers?

"How long have you been outside?" His tone
softened. "I didn't hear your car."

"It's stuck in the ditch at the end of your
drive." Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away and shrugged.
The snow covering on her head slid off and plopped on to her
chest.

Jared stood and looked out the window at the
long expanse of the driveway and shuddered. No sign of Maggie's
footsteps marred the snowy white drifts. A faint shadow of red
marked the position of her car blocking the end of the drive. Even
if he got his SUV out they weren't going anywhere until her car was
towed out of the ditch. Unless he was lucky and the snow buried her
car, by morning when the roads were cleared everyone would know
she'd spent the night with him. Strange, the thought no longer
generated fear in him.

Was it because he knew the truth about who
she was? Or because he'd decided he would no longer live his life
based on other people's misconceptions and expectations?

He looked at her lightweight jacket lying in
a wet heap near the fireplace then turned to rant at her for being
so foolish, for risking her life.

Melting snow darkened her hair to the color
of honey around her colorless face. Moisture dampened her thin
buttercup yellow cotton top to near transparency revealing the lacy
bra beneath. She'd curled her pale legs under the damp material of
her skirt and clutched the afghan around her shoulders. Her teeth
chattered in the quiet and he could see her shivering. Her blue
eyes stared sightlessly into the fire. A lost and alone little
girl. Vulnerable.

The words died in his throat. It would be
back, but for now anger drained out of him.

Without considering the wisdom of his actions
he strode over and scooped her into his arms. His robe fell open
over his chest. The cold and damp of her clothes against his bare
skin made him shudder.

She started from her stupor. "What are you
doing?"

"I'm taking you upstairs. You need a shower
and warm, dry clothes."

She wiggled in his arms. "Put me down. I can
walk."

"Stop squirming or you'll knock us down the
stairs. You're heavier than I thought."

He smiled at her gasp of outrage, but she
went still. Outside the bathroom door he let her slide down to her
feet. His muscles tightened as her breasts rubbed against his
chest. She jerked out of his arms and stepped back. Her grimace of
pain told him the numbness of cold was wearing off.

"Start out with the water tepid, otherwise
you could burn yourself without realizing it. There are towels in
the linen closet and when you're through you can borrow something
from my sister's old room. It's the first door at the top of the
stairs. I'll be in the kitchen making some tea."

"Coffee," she corrected. "Hot, black and
strong." She disappeared into the bathroom. "A splash of Scotch
would be nice, too."

He grinned at the muttered words he knew she
hadn't meant him to hear. How hard must it be for her to pretend?
To hide the vibrant, sensual woman inside a teenage façade?

The pipes clanked as the shower started.

Images of the two of them twined together
beneath streams of steaming water, her skin slick under his hands,
her hands closing around him, chased the chill off his skin. Before
he gave in to the need clawing at his gut to follow and join her in
the shower he fled down the stairs.

In the kitchen he tried to banish those
thoughts. But the sound of running water and the groaning pipes
made the images linger. He busied himself starting the coffee
pot.

Ever since his first rush of rage on Monday
he'd been struggling to contain his anger, but the heat of his
desire for Maggie fed the flames. He told himself he'd commanded
she come here in order to confront her, shame her and frighten her
in to leaving his life alone. But the truth was though he might
hate her for her lies and her deception, the blame for his actions
was his alone. And he still wanted her.

When she hadn't shown up at 9:00 he'd been
relieved. Though he felt what he planned to do to her was justified
by her charade, it made him uncomfortable. If she didn't call his
bluff, he wasn't sure he could stop.

"Is the coffee ready yet?"

Dressed in his sister's baggy castoff sweats,
Maggie stood in the doorway. Head high, eyes wary, her facade back
in place, she looked adorable, like a ruffled stray kitten facing a
large angry dog.

In her hands like a shield she held a bundle
of damp clothing. She'd dried her hair and pulled it into a knot at
the back of her head. The severe style emphasized the clean lines
and smooth skin of her face. Despite her youthful appearance, how
had he ever mistaken her for a teenager? The clues were in her
eyes. A wealth of world-weary experience stared out at him.

"Here let me throw those in the dryer for
you." He took the clothes. She jumped as their hands brushed.

Hiding his smile he went to start the dryer.
When he came back she still stood where he'd left her. A small
frown wrinkled her forehead.

"Feeling better? Frostbite and hypothermia
are nothing to fool around with. You should have stayed home."

She smoothed any expression from her
features. "Aw hell, it's not like I set out across country. I
didn't even leave town. I was never more than a few feet from
someone's front door. How much danger could I have been in?"

"You almost froze just walking up my
driveway. You figure it out."

"Well, I didn't. All's well that ends well."
She dismissed his concern. "You got anything to eat? I'm
starved."

He watched her settle at the kitchen table as
if nothing had passed between them, as if nothing had changed. His
resolve hardened. She'd soon learn different, but first he'd feed
her. The condemned deserved a hearty meal. "Grilled cheese sandwich
and some tomato soup okay?"

"Sounds wonderful. I missed dinner tonight.
Where's Alex? Samson?" A wary edge shaded her questions.

"They're staying the night with Lisa and
Bobby. We're alone."

"Oh."

She looked away but not before he saw her
eyes widen. Good, let her wonder and worry a bit.

Silence fell over the room as he cooked then
watched her eat. Though she seemed serene he took note of the
subtle clues to her apprehension, the quick dart of her gaze at him
when she thought he didn't see, the way she worried her lower lip
with her upper teeth, and the rapid flutter of her pulse in the
hollow of her throat. He knew she sensed something.

When she finished eating she pushed up the
sleeves of her sweatshirt to help him clear the kitchen. Her fading
California tan glowed golden on her bare arms. As she moved he
caught the raspberry scent of Alex's soap and shampoo clinging to
her skin and hair. On her it smelled of tropical nights and steamy
sex. Heat pooled in his groin. He realized he still wore nothing
but his shorts and robe. Turning away before she noticed his
arousal, he tightened the belt. If he wanted to teach Maggie McCade
a lesson, he had to first learn to control his own urges.

"Help yourself to more coffee. I'll be right
back." Suddenly unsure of who was predator and who was prey here he
fled up the stairs to don some armor – jeans and a sweatshirt.

Angry at his own weakness where Maggie was
concerned, he yanked on his clothes and headed back downstairs to
confront her. The sweet, feminine scent lingering on the moist
bathroom air made him pause. A slim masculine wallet and a simple
key ring with four keys on it sat on the sink. Unlike most women
his Mad Maggie never carried a purse. She traveled light.

She wasn't a teenager. How old was she? A
sense of invasion made him hesitate then he snatched up the wallet.
She'd invaded his life and privacy. She didn't deserve to keep her
own. He opened it.

The sparse contents spoke volumes about her
life. There were no pictures, scribbled notes or phone numbers, no
personal memorabilia, just her investigator's license, social
security card, one credit card, an insurance card and her driver's
license.

The date jumped out at him. Today was her
birthday.

His Maggie was thirty today.

Maggie poured herself another cup of coffee
and wandered back to the living room. Caffeine rocketed through her
system. There'd be no sleep for her this night. She stood at the
front window and watched the snow fall. Other than the faint glow
of the streetlight at the end of the drive nothing beyond the porch
was visible. Even her car had disappeared. A maelstrom of white
blocked the world, trapping her inside Jared's house. Apprehension
snaked through her body. Her bare toes curled against the smooth
wooden floor. Hard learned and honed skills sensed a change in
Jared. But what?