Snowbound Heart (2 page)

By the time the dark shape of the chalet appeared before her, the ends of her fingers and her toes were numb, and her face was whipped red and raw by the wind. The hem of her long coat was matted with snow, and flakes of it were caught like tiny frozen stars in the long blond strands of her hair. She stumbled a little in the deepening snow as she moved toward the front entrance. She could not prevent herself from running the last few yards that carried her up the ice-and-snow-covered steps and across the long lower deck. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her hand and knocked on the door. While she waited, she glanced around her. The afternoon light had taken on a blue-gray cast, especially here around the house, in the shadow of the evergreens. Soon the swift mountain night would fall.

There was no answer to her repeated knocking. She hesitated a moment; then, with the lovely curves of her mouth set in grim lines, she moved around the deck to the side of the house. Here were sliding glass doors backed by the white lining of draperies. Her knuckles made a sharper, more insistent sound on the cold glass; still no one came. The door was locked, securely locked, Clare moved on. Another set of glass doors, these also locked. How much would it take to break the long double panes? she wondered. She might have to find put.

At the rear of the house, she stopped. More glass doors overlooked the deck, while above them rose a towering wall of glass to the peaked roof of the chalet. Before it, the deck was pointed like the prow of a ship, designed obviously to take advantage of a view, though so far as Clare could see, it jutted out over nothing except a yawning chasm filled with white snow clouds.

Continuing along to the far side of the house, she came to a blank wall that faced onto the evergreen woods. Set into it were a number of high windows and a single steel-clad door. She was about to turn away when on impulse she stepped to this formidable entranceway and tried the handle. It turned under her hand.

Her success was so unexpected that she stood for a full minute staring at it before she even tried to push the heavy panel open. Noiselessly, easily, it swung wide. Clare stepped inside.

She stood in a laundry room. A cocoa mat lay before the door, protecting a floor of polished tiles. Gleaming appliances lined one wall, while on the other was a sink of stainless steel and chrome. Staring about her, Clare stamped the snow from her boots and brushed it from the folds of her coat. Finally she closed the door behind her.

Compared to the windblown chill outside, it felt warm in the house. The sudden quiet away from the sighing and thrashing of the fir and spruce overhead had an unnatural feeling about it. Clare, as she started toward the open door at the other end of the laundry, found herself moving with almost stealthy footsteps.

The laundry opened into a compact modern kitchen with shining wood cabinets. To one side was a table with a Tiffany-style lamp of cut glass in shades of dark green, rustred, and amber hanging above it. Beyond stretched an enormous living area. The floor was covered with deep pile carpet that rolled in rust-brown waves to a massive moss-rock fireplace, the chimney of which soared up into the cathedral ceiling. With the draperies closed, it was dim inside the room, lit only by the fading light coming through the expanse of glass that reached to the apex of the roof. She could just barely make out a spiral staircase that wound upward to a balcony overlooking the living area, and a row of doors that must be bedrooms.

“Hello!” Clare called. “Is anyone here?” Her voice echoed in the lofty space, but no one answered.

“Hello?” she called again, standing still with her hands in her pockets as she gazed around her. Nothing stirred in the deepening shadows of the great open room. With slow steps, almost as if she were mesmerized, she put her foot out onto the carpet and walked toward the yawning black opening of the fireplace. Coming to a stop before it, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She did not like the idea of trespassing, nor using things that did not belong to her, but she had to have shelter. She needed warmth and food or she would die. It was as simple as that. The apologies would have to come later.

Beside the fireplace there was a woodbox with kindling, and a fair supply of logs stacked inside. Matches hung in a wrought-iron holder beside the massive mantelpiece. Laying a fire was no problem. Until she had moved into an apartment of her own, Clare had lived with her mother and father in a rambling Victorian house that had boasted a fireplace in every room. The wood in the box was pine, which seemed strange to Clare, who was used to oak. Pine, considered too fast-burning for firewood, was reserved for commercial use in Louisiana, for making paper and plywood. The dry, lightweight lengths would doubtless be easier to get to burn, no small consideration at this moment.

She was right. Within minutes, yellow-orange flames licked at the pine. Kneeling on the hearth, Clare stretched her hands to the blaze. As the heat grew, she felt the tight knot of apprehension in her chest begin to dissolve. Not only was there wood in the box, she had noticed a large stack of split logs under the decking at the front of the house. She could stay here for some time if she had to. She disliked the idea of worrying Beverly, but she could do nothing about it. For tonight she was all right; tomorrow would have to take care of itself.

“Tonight” was the right word. In the short time it had taken for her to lay the fire and get it burning brightly, darkness had descended. Clare, got stiffly to her feet. Outside, she could still hear the whine and rush of the snowstorm. On such a night, the best place for her to sleep would be in front of the fire. Since she had dared so much already, she might as well go a little further and see if there were blankets to be found in the upstairs bedrooms. She should have thought of that before night fell, of course. Now she would have to manage a light of some kind.

There was always the possibility that there was a flashlight or candles in the house, if she could only find them. The best place to start looking was in the kitchen, and if she should happen to come across something to still the pangs of hunger beginning to make themselves felt in her midsection, she did not think that she would have the willpower to resist.

The first cabinet door she opened held a supply of paper plates and cups, items not unreasonable for a summer place. The second held canned goods, also expected, though the supply seemed overgenerous to have been left from summer. The third cabinet held dishes, simple brown ironstone, but in the fourth was something that brought Clare to a halt. It was bread wrapped in cellophane, bread as soft and fresh as if it had just come from the bakery. Clare pressed it gingerly, then drew back her hand. Taking a deep breath, she closed the cabinet door, then turned toward the gleam of the refrigerator. Grasping the handle, she pulled it open.

The appliance light came on instantly, throwing its cool white glare into the room, illuminating shelves holding milk, cheese, juice, bacon, meat, fruit — anything a hungry person might crave.

The implication of the food and the glowing light inside the refrigerator held her stunned. In that instant a sound came from the direction of the laundry room. She heard the opening of the door, the scrape of the cocoa mat, and then, as she turned in that direction, a man, tall and broad in heavy clothing crusted with snow, swung into view.

At the sight of her he stopped, a scowl drawing thick blond brows together. “What the devil … ?” he exclaimed.

Clare’s grip on the handle of the refrigerator tightened until her knuckles gleamed white. “I … I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I thought the house was empty.”

“Did you now?” the man asked. His voice was soft, but the bite of sarcasm in it was so stinging that she flinched.

“Yes. I didn’t mean to trespass, but the door was open, and I had nowhere else to go.”

“You could not have left the same way you arrived? I am assuming, naturally, that you didn’t walk all the way up here.”

Clare shook her head, her gray eyes anxious in her effort to make him understand. “No, I couldn’t. I got caught in the snowstorm. My car skidded, and I went off the road.”

“Careless of you,” he drawled, and began to tug off his fur-lined gloves.

“Careless?” Clare repeated slowly, the anger stirring inside her at his complete lack of concern for her confusion. “It was unlucky, yes, even unwise, but I don’t think it was careless.”

“And I can’t quite think it was entirely unlucky, since it landed you on my doorstep.”

“You sound as if you think I did it on purpose! Believe me, stranding myself in such an isolated place with a strange man in the midst of a blizzard is the last thing I would think of doing.” Before the words had left her lips, he laughed in real amusement, a sound that rang in her ears with an odd and disturbing familiarity.

“A good try, but not good enough.” As he spoke, he reached up to pull off the heavy knit cap that covered his hair and toss it with his gloves to the kitchen counter. “If you really have wrecked your car to get in here, I won’t throw you out on your ear in this weather, as much as I might like to. You may as well be honest and admit this is exactly the way you planned it.”

“Honest … ?” Clare began, a frown drawing her brows together as she stared at him in wrath and perplexity. “I don’t know what you…”

As he turned full-face to her, she stopped. The firelight from across the room caught in his hair, sliding across its fine sculptured waves with the soft sheen of pure gold. It touched the gold tips of his lashes, the only feminine thing in the strong mold of his features, and glinted with pinpoints of fire in the vivid blue of his eyes. The beguiling smile known to millions of women curved his mouth. That it was touched with mockery did not make it any less effective.

“Logan Longcross,” Clare whispered on an indrawn breath. Understanding flooded over her in a wave. Logan Longcross, superstar, a movie idol, who could demand and get better than three million dollars for every picture he made, a major box-office attraction famous for his slow smile, for the sensitivity he brought to the roles he played, and for his intense dislike of the notoriety thrust upon him, with its corresponding lack of privacy.

“Yeah,” he agreed, the single word clipped and sarcastic.

“I see,” she said. “You think I am here because of a schoolgirlish case of star worship? Let me assure you I am no groupie desperate to be near you!”

He frowned judiciously. “Not bad,” he said, “but the outrage is just a bit overdone, and you forgot to accuse me of conceit.”

“I was just coming to that,” Clare retorted, her gray eyes stormy.

“I’m sure you were, and it might be a good idea to throw in another insult or two for good measure. You must not, under any circumstances, show that I have any attraction for you. That would be as good as admitting your guilt.” As he spoke, he stepped closer. Placing his hand on the refrigerator door, he drew it gently from her grasp and let it fall shut.

“There is no danger of that,” Clare said with a lift of her chin. She got no further. Before she could move, before she could even guess his intention, he reached out with sure strength and pulled her against him. His blue gaze, narrowed in speculation, held her for an instant, and then his mouth came down on hers. Shock held her motionless under the burning pressure, and then, as she recognized the leashed contempt and deliberate testing of her weakness that drove him, she brought up her hands and pushed him from her.

He released her and stepped back. Surveying her flushed face and tight-pressed lips, he lifted an eyebrow. “Score another point in your favor. I could almost believe you neither expected nor wanted that.”

Clare drew a deep, trembling breath. “Of all the arrogant, self-satisfied men I have ever met, you are the worst!”

“Self-satisfied? I think there is a distinction between the attraction I might have as a man and the fascination women like you find in big-name entertainers. Whatever it is that has brought you here has more to do with the publicity department of the movie studio than it does with me. I fail to see why you think that would give me any satisfaction.”

Logan Longcross had no monopoly on sarcasm. Clare allowed herself to smile. “Next you will be saying your star image is a burden that you never wanted.”

“That’s right,” he said, his voice hard. “I wanted to be good at my job, to move people to laughter or to tears, to make them think. I wanted respect, not this overblown glorification.” Abruptly a tight, controlled look descended over his features. “Never mind. If you want to pretend to be a young woman thrown into my company for a night through misfortune, then that is the way we will play it. It won’t make any difference in the long run.”

“I promise you this is no game for me,” Clare said.

“No, of course not,” he agreed, his voice much too grave. “You may as well take off your coat too and be comfortable. Here, let me turn the light on for you. You will be surprised how much easier it is to make youself at home if you can see what you are doing.”

In the process of shrugging out of his insulated jacket, he swung toward the light switch on the far wall. His sleeve caught the strap of Clare’s canvas tote she had left sitting on the end of the counter, and sent it toppling toward the floor. Even as it fell, he swung with lightning reflexes to catch it. Only the sheaf of tear sheets Clare had pushed into the side pocket for Beverly spilled out, fluttering to the floor.

With a muffled oath Logan flipped on the light, then bent to retrieve her papers. He straightened with them in his hand, turning as though he meant to pass them over as she stepped toward. Her fingers had closed on them when his grip suddenly tightened.

“Who,” he asked softly, his gaze on her by-line, “is Clare Thornton?”

“I am,” Clare answered, made wary by something in his manner, despite the quiet, even timbre of his voice.

“At least there is something you will admit”

As Clare met his eyes, she caught her breath at the temper she saw blazing in their bright blue depths. “I am a freelance writer, if that is what you mean.”

“A freelance with ambition, or so it seems. I believe I owe you an apology. You were telling the truth when you said you were no fan of mine. Your purpose in coming here was not nearly so straightforward. Tell me, what did you mean to call the article you were going to write? ‘I Spent the Night with Logan Longcross’? Or maybe ‘I Discovered Logan’s Mountain Retreat’?”