Rude Awakening (2 page)

His thoughts turned to what he must appear like to other people. Stiff-backed, somewhat prickly, a man to be respected. A man who didn’t let anyone in. His standards were perhaps a little too high in all areas. Maybe he needed to loosen up a bit, let his guard down a touch in order to get what he wanted. No woman found an uptight man attractive, no matter how appealing the packaging was. Oh, he’d heard whispers at the club from women he passed, who thought he hadn’t heard their lurid remarks about his muscled physique and how they wished he’d whip them into shape. One woman had even gone so far as to mutter that burying her nose in the hair around his cock haunted her dreams.

Such things disturbed him, made him feel a prize to be won, a trinket dangling from a sub’s arm—someone to be paraded as a good catch, looks, body, money and all. He prided himself on being able to spot a gold-digger a mile off, and perhaps that was his problem. He always suspected that was what they were after, so closed himself off, fucking them only with his cock and not his mind.

A slew of snow sailed down from above, startling him out of his pity party. He leapt back, feeling stupid, heart thumping at the sudden ferocity with which the snow had fallen. The roof was clearly overburdened. He moved closer to the window, peering out and seeing a stack of snow that almost reached the outside windowsill. If the weather kept up like this, Len would have his work cut out for him come Monday morning.

Harry turned from the window and stared around his living room, the opulence nothing but just the contents of his home to him. To others it would appear the height of elegance, all dark red walls and rugs, two deep-seated leather sofas in cherry hide, their backs studded with buttons, sitting opposite one another, a highly polished walnut coffee table in between. A real fire crackled in the grate, the fireplace a huge monstrosity he’d had installed with the image in mind of him and that special woman in his life sprawled on the rug in front of it—touching, caressing, exploring.

How was it he’d attained every other dream except that one? Was he being greedy in wanting the icing on the cake—a woman to love and adore, to share his wealth and life with?

It seemed he was.

He huffed out another sigh and turned his back on the room, returning to the window. Trees as tall as ten men bordered the edge of his property, so far in the distance they appeared merely bushes. The clouds, heavily pregnant with snow, made the sky appear a mid-grey instead of the true night-time blackness they shrouded. Moonlight somehow filtered through them, though, touching the grounds with fingers of silver, bouncing off the whiteness covering it. A few specks of snow danced, as though afterthoughts to the deluge that had teemed down not an hour since, and he prayed no more would fall tonight.

Something white ghosted out of the trees, a wisp of movement that darted for a moment then disappeared. Another chunk of snow falling from the branches, perhaps, or a figment of Harry’s imagination. A chill sped up his spine and he shivered, wondering why he felt so cold when the fire blazed. Staring at snow would do that. Despite being enveloped in warmth, when looking out at the scene before him, he knew full well how to imagine being frozen out there. The chill dispersed, and he shrugged, spinning on one heel in search of where he’d placed his brandy earlier. He spied the cut-crystal glass on the walnut sideboard beside the door, a few mouthfuls of liquid still inside—liquid that would ensure the chill was kept at bay.

He strode over and picked up the glass, downing the brandy in one gulp, pleased at the fiery burn that spread through him. He poured another and took it to the window, cursing himself for the torture he was inflicting by idling away his evening like this. Boredom—it filled every fibre of him, taking a firm grip and not letting go.

Mind over matter. He knew all about that and pushed himself to think of something interesting to waste away the time. He could go out to the club, select a woman and book a dungeon for a few hours, losing himself in sex and control.

But it doesn’t work out like that, does it? I want more. Something… Christ, just something more.

He stared at the tree line, and damn, there it was again, that flick of white. Were there red squirrels in the treetops, scurrying across the branches, dislodging snow? Instead of disappearing, the smudge of movement increased, darting left to right, growing arms that spread out to the sides.

Was that a damn person out there?

Harry pressed his nose to the glass, annoyed when his heated breath misted the pane and obscured his view. He stepped to the side and looked out again. Yes, someone was out there, he was sure of it. Stomach knotting, the chill returning, he tossed the brandy down his throat then glanced at the trees again. The shape was still there, larger now, as if whoever was out in such foul weather was making for his house. He left the window and placed a guard in front of the fire, then picked up his mobile and slipped it into his trouser pocket.

Out in his large foyer, he opened the built-in coat cupboard and took a sturdy pair of boots from the shelf, pulling them on and tucking his trouser hems inside. He selected a heavy black coat—fine wool that kept out the cold when he turned up the collar—then wound a grey scarf about his neck. He slipped his hands into black leather gloves and, on instinct, grabbed another of his coats from a hanger and draped it over his arm.

He closed the cupboard door and took his keys from a hook beside it, putting them in his coat pocket. He went back into the living room to look out of the window, and although the shape had gone, he decided to go outside and check anyway. That smudge had grown arms, he was sure of it, and even if it turned out to be his imagination, he couldn’t live with himself if…

He left his house, a blustery, spiteful wind shunting him back a step, as though trying to prevent him investigating. The strength of the cold was an utter shock to his system, and he shoved his hands into his coat pockets and took a lung-freezing breath to steady the tingle of nerves swirling in his belly.

Harry trudged through the snow towards where he’d last seen the shape. It was a way ahead—damn him for having such a big front lawn!—and he kept his gaze on the spot, snow gripping his boots in what he felt was an attempt to stop him walking.

What were those fanciful thoughts all about? Wind and snow didn’t have minds of their own, and he’d be damned if he was going to allow his idle brain to conjure scenarios that couldn’t possibly exist. He pushed on, determined to reach his destination, his stubbornness lending him the strength his legs needed to wade through the snow.

He was almost there so took his hands from his pockets and shook out the spare coat, dashing away the stray flecks that had attached to the material. He peered ahead at a large indent, the inside walls of it about forty centimetres high. Beyond it was a channel gouged into the snow, a wavy line where someone had struggled to walk from the tree line. His heart stuttered, banged against his ribs so hard the bones felt tender, and he released a ragged breath that puffed out as a white cloud.

As he neared the edge of the indent, he stared down to see a woman lying on her side, her hands closest to him, arms stretched above her as if she’d reached out to the house. Her long, black hair fanned out in snow-clumped hanks, and he’d swear the ends were frozen. All that covered her was a denim mini-skirt and a red V-neck sweater. A collar surrounded her neck, cheap black leather, and it appeared to be too tight, the skin around it chafed. Legs, bent at the knees, were red raw, the woman having possibly crawled a short way, or even all the way from the trees. And no shoes on her dainty feet either. Shock and surprise rendered him unmoveable for a moment, even though his mind screamed that he reach for his phone and call for help.

“Jesus Christ!”

He dropped the spare coat—a violent splash of crimson—and went down on his knees, tucking his hands beneath her and dragging her towards him. With her torso draped across his thighs, he cradled her head in one arm and snatched the glove off his free hand with his teeth. Hand trembling, he touched two fingers to her neck…which bore what he recognised as a collar. He was relieved to find a faint pulse—but it was extremely faint, and if she stayed out here much longer it would fade completely. With some difficulty, due to her floppy body and his arms seizing up from the cold, he managed to wrap her in the coat, conscious of the blue tinge growing rapidly around her plump mouth. He laid her on the ground then stood, scooping her into his arms. He estimated her weight at not much more than one hundred pounds, and the brief thought entered his head as to how she had become so thin or whether she’d always been that way.

Holding her close, he staggered back the way he had come, using the path he’d created. His house seemed too far, mocking him from the distance, and he upped his pace, clenching his teeth against the throb of his protesting thigh muscles. At last he reached home, and, lifting one knee so he could balance her back across it, he managed to push open the door without dropping her.

Inside, heat smacked him with as much ferocity as the wind had when he’d first come out, and he slammed the door shut with his boot sole. Quickly, he moved into the living room, placing her on the deep-pile rug before the fire, wondering if that was the right thing to do. So much heat after so much cold might make her ill. Whatever—he followed his instincts and removed the coat and her clothes, tossing them aside. He laid her out on her back and checked her pulse again—still faint but there—and massaged her limbs for what seemed a great length of time. He noted he still wore one glove but dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter, so long as he brought warmth to her body.

Would she wake? Should he call an ambulance? How long would it take for one to arrive in this weather? His house was out in the sticks, the roads virtually impassable. He’d been lucky to get home tonight, his car slewing all over the road, snide ice lurking beneath the snow. So long as she was alive, he determined it would be okay to continue what he was doing.

The snow in her hair melted, leaving dark patches on the rug. Her lips gradually lost their blueness, a rosy pink replacing the previously frightening colour, and her cheek closest to the fire took on the red of warmth, not the raw scarlet of cold.

Her eyelids flickered, and he sucked in a sharp breath when they opened fully and bright blue eyes stared back at him. He breathed out, so pleased to see her awake, and smiled to give her reassurance.

“I found you outside,” he said, feeling stupid in stating the obvious.

She struggled to get up, eyes growing wider, darting from side to side in panic.

“It’s all right, I won’t hurt you,” he said, unsure what the hell to say to take that scared, pained look from her face. “What were you doing outside? Is there someone I can call? Family, so they can come and collect you?”

She shook her head, leaning back on her elbows, ribcage prominent like a fishing creel covered in skin. He gritted his teeth at the lengths some women went to for what they thought was the perfect figure, when, in fact, he suspected bones dressed in a thin layer of flesh didn’t truly appeal to any man.

“A hot drink,” he said, standing and holding his hand out. “And a blanket?”

She nodded again, and he took her hand, tentative to do so at first in case he scared her. But she took it, pitifully bony fingers curling around his, and he led her from the living room and out into the foyer.

“I have blankets in here,” he said, jerking his head at the coat cupboard. He opened the door and reached inside to a shelf, tugging a blanket free and handing it to her.

She let go of his hand and accepted the tartan fleece, wrapping it about her shoulders quickly, as though finally recognising her naked state. Her whole body shook, her teeth chattered, and her eyes appeared large in her tiny, pixie-chinned face. Where on earth had she come from? What life had she led that made her look half-starved and frightened? And what the hell was she doing outside in a snowstorm?

Those questions and more fizzed on his tongue, but he refrained from asking them just yet. Bombarding her too soon might see her taking flight again, and until he could hand her over to someone who cared for her, he’d keep his probing to a minimum.

“Come this way,” he said, cursing himself for sounding the toff people thought him to be. “To the kitchen.”

He walked across the foyer to a door beside that of the living room and pushed inside. He flicked on the light and held the door open for her, guiding her across the room, as she shivered on shaking legs, to one of the pine chairs around the matching table.

“So there is no one I can call?” he asked again, gently, pouring still-hot coffee from his percolator and adding four spoons of sugar in case she was in shock. He’d heard sugar was good for that. Whether it was true or not remained to be seen.

“No,” she whispered, accepting the mug in both hands, taking a healthy gulp and wincing.

“I see.” He pulled out a chair opposite and sat, watching her for signs of distress. “Your name then?”

“I…I don’t remember.”

She took another sip, her body shaking less, though it still gave a violent jerk now and then.

“You don’t remember?”

As she shook her head and turned away from him to stare at his back door, he wondered if she was getting ready to bolt. If she did, there wasn’t much he could do about it, short of holding her prisoner while he called the police then let them deal with her.

“Hmm,” he said, his need to fill the silence strong. “Do you know why you were outside with no coat on?”