Rekindled (18 page)

The hardcover in her hand was a biography. She opened it now, and was suddenly caught up in the same world she was trying to flee. On the inside cover of the volume was an inscription that she hadn’t noticed earlier. It brought back a storm of memories.

“To my favorite sister-in-law. Have a marvelous vacation and be sure to spend a week with us when you get back. Maryellen.”

From the first, Jeff’s family had adored her. They had always insisted that they would hold Jeff personally to blame if the marriage ended. In that spirit, they had stayed so close to Anne’s side that she had to finally beg them for space. They had eased off, but with reluctance.

Anne’s parents had persisted, urging her to give up the apartment and move back home, but she refused. She knew that as crammed with reminders of Jeff as the apartment was, it was better than the Westchester home where she had grown up. To return there would be an admission of failure-failure to make the kind of happy life her parents had.

A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her lips. Her childhood had been happy indeed, even those awkward adolescent years when she was an ugly duckling, by modest accounts. Oh, her parents denied it, but the mirror didn’t lie, and, anyway, the ugly duckling became a swan well before the Senior Prom. By that time she was quiet and graceful, thriving academically, socially, and emotionally. Nothing in her rosy first twenty-seven years had even remotely begun to prepare her for the heartbreak at the start of her twenty-eighth.

Brought back to the present by a pang of hunger, she closed the untouched book and went to the kitchen. She flipped on a single light, mixed tuna into a salad, put a pot of coffee on to perk, and toasted rye bread. With the sandwich plate in one hand and a coffee mug in the other, she retraced her steps, flipping the light off with a nudge of the elbow.

Her hunger surprised her. Unusual for her, she finished the sandwich. Revived, she sat back in the chair, the mug warming her hands as the fire warmed her feet, and it suddenly struck her that she was beginning to feel. It had been months since she had smelled coffee brewing or felt the barefoot plushness of a carpet. But the coffee did smell good. Same with the burning logs and the pines outside, and her feet did feel, albeit smooth sanded oak planks rather than the thick carpeting of home.

Pushing the glasses up on her nose, she stared at the biography, but it wasn’t a biography kind of night. Jumping up, she returned to her room for a replacement. Mystery or romance-the choice was easy. A romance might appeal to her later in the week, when she was feeling stronger. She took the mystery and set off.

The addition of several logs brightened the blaze in the hearth. Edging her chair closer, she read from its light, and the book drew her in. Within a chapter, she was the heroine. She was only marginally aware that the rain was coming harder, beating with increased force against rooftop, windowpane, and clapboard. It was a fitting backdrop for the story of a young woman stranded in the deep woods in a cabin not unlike her own. Anne felt a quick qualm at the comparison, debated switching to the romance after all, but was inexorably drawn back to the tightly written piece. Burrowing deeper into the chair, she gave herself up to the plot.

She read for two hours, pausing only for more coffee. The gold watch on her wrist read eleven, but she was wide awake, stimulated by caffeine, her new surroundings, and the riveting edge of the story. As Chapter Four became Five and then Six, the mystery deepened. Accidents were neither accident nor coincidence. Someone was after the heroine. No, something was after her, or so it appeared from the bizarre markings left by footprints, paw prints, or whatever in the winter snow. Terror slowly mounted. The woman was trapped, hunted, doomed. As Chapter Seven ended and Eight began, she hatched her escape plan against seemingly insurmountable odds. Then, complicating an already desperate situation, came the blizzard. Gale force winds, blinding snows, chilling temperatures conspired to keep her at the mercy of the wild beast that stalked her.

With a thud, Anne put the book facedown onto her lap, heart pounding in vicarious fright. Mystery, my foot, she mused with regret, this book is sheer horror! It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d picked it up last night or last week in New York. Here, though, she was alone, isolated from the familiar, a good three miles from a shred of civilization.

Spooked, it took her a minute to realize that what she’d assumed to be the thundering of her pulse was the thunder outside. Lightning followed quickly, brightening the dark side of the room for a shocking instant, its blue-white gleam icy in comparison to the warm orange glow of the fire.

Hastily she added several more logs, desperately needing to put the book down, desperately needing to read on, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to sleep until the last page had been turned and the mystery solved. She raised the book again to another deafening clap of thunder. It vibrated through the house along with tongued bolts of lightening.

Anne’s nerves prickled then, because, in the thunder’s wake came another noise. This one was more human and threatening. A car was approaching, coming nearer, loud enough to be heard above the storm. It reached her front door and stopped.

Huddled in the chair, she held her breath. It was twelve thirty-five, well past normal calling hours even in the city. Perhaps one of the villagers wanted to warn her about the storm. Perhaps someone was lost. Perhaps … perhaps … A furious pounding came at the door. Had it been a gentle knock, Anne might have dared answer it. But this knock was angry, clearly no neighbor expressing concern. At least the door was locked, though she wished fervently for the dead bolt she had in New York.

“Open up! It’s wet out here!” The voice was deep, gruff, and angry. “Open the damn door!”

Anne didn’t budge. This was her cottage for the week, and she had the papers to prove it. She didn’t have to open the door.

But the banging went on, hard knuckles on wood. “Come on, whoever you are, open the door! I’m getting soaked and I can’t reach my key.”

His key? Was this a common visiting place? Had the realtor forgotten to tell her something?

Feeling vaguely guilty at being warm and dry while someone was out there wet and cold, she approached the door. “Who is it?” she yelled, resting her forehead against the smooth oak.

“It’s Mitch, dammit. Open up!” An impatient hand jiggled the doorknob from the outside.

“I don’t know any Mitch,” she shouted over the storm. “What do you want?”

What came back was a menacing growl. “I want to get dry. For God’s sake, open up. I do have a key, but if I have to put these bags down to get it, I’ll be madder’n hell when I get in there!”

Assuming she could believe him, he had a point. If he did have a key and would eventually open the door whether she liked it or not, she could save him the effort and spare herself his anger. Cautious, she reached for the knob. She opened the door a few inches, leaving her weight against the wood in case she didn’t like what she saw.

Without warning, a heavier weight thrust it full open, throwing her back into the room. Startled by the unexpected force and cursing herself for her nerves, Anne lost her balance and tripped, falling backward onto her bottom with a thud. From that vantage point she watched, wide-eyed, as a huge man entered, savagely dripping water. He tossed in several large bags before slamming the door shut and leaning against it.

The fire had begun to die, leaving only the faintest glow to light his face, but it was enough to show a tight jaw, sneering lips, and eyes that impaled her.

“You bitch! What took you so long? Why didn’t you open the door?

Can’t you see what the weather is like? And who sent you anyway? Was it Joe?” Narrowed eyes gave her an insolent once-over. “No, it must have been Lennie. He goes in for the plain, scrawny type.”

Anne was dumbstruck by the sudden turn of events.

“What?” he went on. “No denials? No coy protestations?” He unbuttoned his heavy wool jacket, shrugged it off, and tossed it onto an empty chair. Even without its bulk, with only snug denims and a dark turtleneck, he was imposing.

To her horror, he advanced until he towered directly over her. “Well?

Don’t you have anything to say? Or are you just going to lie there, all helpless and inviting?”

Anne found her tongue. “You shouldn’t be here. Get out!”

A coarse laugh filtered through the sounds of the storm. “Ah, having second thoughts, are you? Reneging on your little deal so fast?”

Anne slid backward on the floor. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Right in one! I don’t know who you are, but I don’t want you or any other woman up here. So”-he lowered his voice but failed to relax his jaw-“I’d suggest you pick up your little carcass and get out.”

Anne was incredulous. “I will not.” Her eyes didn’t leave his for a second, though she inched farther away.

Suddenly he was crouched before her, steel-muscled shins imprisoning hers and making movement impossible. “What did you say?”

Willing a strength she didn’t feel, Anne held his gaze. “I said that I wouldn’t leave. I’m here for the week. If anyone is leaving, it’s you. Now!”

She practically shrieked the last. Between frustration and fear, she was losing composure.

But her order had the opposite effect. The man moved forward, resting his weight on his right hand, on the hard floor inches from her hip. “So this is a new kind of game,” he taunted.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but her voice fell to a whisper when his face came closer. “This is no game.”

Lit by the pale orange cast of the fire, his lips were firm and grinning wryly. His eyes narrowed again, homing in now on her mouth, which quivered. She couldn’t move. Terror rose up from the pit of her stomach.

“No game?” he echoed as she struggled to pull herself free of his leghold. With the grace of an athlete and the power of a lion, he stretched fully over her, flattening her onto the cold floor.

Panic hit then. “Let go! Get off me!” Futilely she pushed against him, but his body weight was awesome, stealing her breath. Gasping for air, she continued to push as his mouth lowered. “No!” she cried and wrenched her head to the side.

He brought it back with a firm hand. “No game, you say? We’ll see about that.” His lips seized hers with a steadiness that held her head flush against the oak planks. Startling in intensity, relentless in duration, his kiss had an animalism that was primitive and raw.

She fought desperately, writhing beneath him until one large hand seized both of hers and pinned them to the floor above her head. Only then did his lips finally release hers.

Fighting tears, she gasped for breath, and all the while he studied her. When he finally spoke, he was calm and cynical. “Tears? That’s not part of the game plan.” In an effort to raise himself, his hand tightened on hers, forcing them to bear the brunt of his weight. She cried out in pain when her wedding band dug in.

He freed her quickly then, and sat back on his haunches. She recoiled, crawling backward until she hit a wall, then jumping to her feet and racing to the hearth. She grabbed the only weapon in sight, a heavy iron poker. “Don’t come near me,” she warned in a high-pitched whine.

Her threat reached its mark. He didn’t move a muscle.

Silence hung heavy in the air. Even the rain had eased to a gentle patter on the roof. The storm was ending. But what was she to do now? As the gravity of her predicament settled in, a fit of trembling shook her with such force that the poker waved precariously.

Appearing to sense her terror, the man rose slowly, palms open and out from his sides. “Take it easy. I won’t hurt you.”

“You already have.” She raised the poker higher.

“Put that thing down,” he ordered, but gently, all anger gone now. “You’re apt to hurt yourself”

She shook her head and held the poker at the ready.

“Look.” He sighed, running his fingers through the damp hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Let me turn on a light. At least then I can see what manner of woman has the upper hand on me.”

She eased up on her stance. Light would help her, too.

He crossed to the nearest lamp and turned it on. It bathed the room a warm yellow. “That’s better,” he said and turned to face her.

Anne took a good look at her would-be assailant. He was tall and rugged, thinner than she had first suspected, though the breadth of his chest and shoulders spoke of strength. His sweater was black, his jeans faded, though darkened by rain at the hem, where they fell over sodden brown leather boots.

She had expected a dark and glowering face. What she saw were features that were strong but kind, skin that was clear and only faintly tanned, hair that was thick and blond, turning silver, in damp waves.

There was an underlying gentleness. But his lips were stern, his cheeks lean, his jaw set. And eyes that were silvery hazel stare ‘ (I at her without a blink.

“If you’ve finished,” he said with a mocking twitch of his lips, “would you please put down that poker? You can see I’m not a thug,” She lifted the weapon higher. “How about a rapist?” She wasn’t being deceived by a sweet-talking, good-looking man.

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I’m no rapist. I wouldn’t have forced you into anything. Especially once I saw that wedding band. I don’t fool around with married women.”

Tears threatened again. How bittersweet that the symbol of a marriage that had ended should save her from the unspeakable. So she had Jeff to thank still.

“Who are you?” she asked in a quavering voice.

“You really don’t know? Come on, you’re holding all the cards. You can confess.”

Her voice came stronger. “Who are you?”

Still he persisted. “It was Lennie, wasn’t it? He’s been trying to set me up with a woman for weeks now!” His frustration sounded sincere.

“Who are you?”

With a sigh of defeat, he thrust a hand in his pocket. “Mitch.”

But she knew that already. “Where are you from?”

“New York.”

“You just drove up from there?”

“Yes. I, “Why?