Stranded (4 page)

He doesn’t respond as he approaches the front door.

Panic laces my voice “I’ll freeze to death out there!”

“Just like you would’ve if I hadn’t stopped.” His voice is deep and soft in my ear.

“But I was wearing a coat then.”

He stops at the door. “Hmm.”

I'm getting through to him!
“And pants and shoes.” 

He shifts his arms, and I feel the bulge of his bicep in my back, then I notice his eyes roving over my bare legs.

I don’t like the way he is examining me, but I continue trying to make my case. “Don’t forget that I have a sprained ankle.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he says, evidently not impressed by my pleas. Then he sets me on my feet.

I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s changed his mind, but then he opens the door. A gust of freezing air carrying thick flakes of snow blows in, and I gasp. My hand automatically reaches for the door jamb, and I wrap my fingers around the wood, digging my nails into the hard surface.

“Looks pretty cold out there,” Drake says as he stands behind me, blocking my retreat from the freezing air.

“Yes. And I’d rather not go out there, if you don’t mind.” I try to put a note of confidence in my voice, but inside I'm terrified.
Is this guy completely crazy?

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.” He begins shutting the door, and I loosen my grip on the door jamb, then he shuts the door completely. He scoops me up again without asking my permission, but I don’t protest for fear he’ll change his mind about letting me stay indoors.

My heart pounds as he carries me back to the area rug in front of the fire and gently sets me down. I snatch the blanket from the floor and wrap it around me as I shiver uncontrollably. “That was mean,” I mutter, almost afraid to say it loud enough for him to hear.

He laughs. “I thought you said I wouldn’t do something like that.”

Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, I frown. “And like you said, I don’t know you.”

He cups my chin and turns my head so that I'm forced to look him in the eye. “You need to check your attitude, Miss Spencer.”

When I gaze into his eyes I see the confidence of an alpha male, and I feel inexplicably drawn to him. Then I think about his comment, and my sense of pride takes over.
My attitude? Who does this guy think he is?
I frown.
Oh yeah. He’s the one who can throw me out if such a whim overtakes him.

“Understand?” He says it in a way that brooks no argument.

I nod, but I don’t like it.

Releasing my chin, he smiles. “Good. I came to my cabin to relax, and so far you haven’t made my time here very relaxing.” He stares at me with a sternness that makes me feel like I'm in the principal’s office. His voice deepens. “That needs to change.”

His scolding, plus my fear of being thrown out, scares me and hurts my feelings. Tears fill my eyes, and as hard as I try, I can’t hold them back. I turn my head, hoping he won’t notice.

“Are you crying, Ashley?” His voice is soft.

I shake my head, and rub the side of my face with my hand to hide my eyes.

“Look at me,” he commands in a tone that won’t be disobeyed.

Slowly, I turn my head and face him, and all the fight goes out of me. “I’m really tired,” I whisper.

He gazes at me for a moment. “Do you want to sleep in one of the bedrooms, or down here by the fire?”

Even though it is certain to be colder, I prefer the idea of sleeping in a room where I can close—and hopefully lock—the door. “A bedroom, if that’s okay.”

“It will be cold in there.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stands and bends toward me. I pull back, but he shakes his head. “I’m going to carry you whether you like it or not, Miss Spencer. I don’t want you tumbling down my stairs.”

After the falls I’ve had so far, that actually makes sense, so I nod. “I just want to grab my purse.”

He lifts it from the couch and hands it to me, then he picks me up like I weigh nothing, and begins carrying me up the stairs.

Clutching the blanket to me, I try to ignore the feel of his hard chest and muscular arms pressed against me, but find that despite my anger at men in general and the potential they have to break my heart, I’m feeling my attraction to this man—and potential serial killer—growing. As we reach the landing, the lights come back on and a moment later I hear the whoosh of the heater kicking on.

“That will make your room more comfortable,” he says as he carries me across the threshold of a bedroom and deposits me on the bed. He looks down at me. “There are extra blankets in the closet, and the bathroom is down the hall. I’ll put a towel in there for you, and . . .” He smiles. “I assume you don’t have a toothbrush in that purse.”

“No. I don’t.”

“I have a few extras. I’ll put one on the counter for you.” He turns to go.

“Drake?”

He turns and looks at me.

“Thank you.”

His smile grows. “You’re welcome.” Then he turns and leaves.

Chapter Eight

The moment he leaves, I dig through my purse and pull out my cell phone on the slim chance that I have cell service. When the top right corner stubbornly shows a circle with a line through it, I scowl. Then, to save the battery, I turn the phone off and set it on the table next to the bed.

Next, I hobble to the bathroom, but smile when I see a toothbrush and a towel laid out for me.
Maybe he isn’t so bad after all.
I gaze in the mirror.
And maybe he’s not a serial killer.

A floor vent pours warm air over my feet and I stand there a moment, enjoying the warmth as I brush my teeth, before heading back to my room. Closing the door firmly behind me, I look at the knob for a lock, but don’t see one.
If he wanted to hurt you, he would have done it by now
. Feeling more confident about my safety, I turn off the light—yay for electricity!—and crawl into bed. Snuggling into the thick comforter, I moan in pleasure, curling up in my borrowed t-shirt, and soon fall asleep.

I wake early the next morning—not surprising since I went to bed so early—and decide a hot shower would be heavenly. Padding down the hall to the bathroom, I notice that my ankle doesn’t hurt quite as bad as it did the day before, although I still favor my good foot.

I lock the bathroom door and pull off the t-shirt, then remove my bra and panties. “Hmm.” I consider the fact that I don’t have any clean underwear with me. My gaze goes to the sink and the bar of soap sitting in a small dish, and I decide to use the sink as my own little washing machine. I scrub my underwear, then drape them over the side of the sink.

The hot shower feels wonderful and I stand under the steaming water for several minutes before finally toweling off. I hang the towel on a peg, then bite my lip as I realize I have a bit of a quandary. My panties are clean, but they are wet, and I don’t relish the idea of wearing wet underwear.

Sighing, I put on my bra, pull the red t-shirt over my head, then carry my panties back to my room and drape them over a chair in the corner. I look forward to wearing my own clothes, and wonder if Drake turned the dryer back on the night before when the power came back on.

I don’t hear any movement and decide to go find out for myself. If I have to go commando in my jeans, that’s okay. It’s definitely preferable to walking around in the mini-dress bare-assed.

Poking my head into the hallway, I listen for sound, but don’t hear anything. I don’t know which one of the closed doors in the hallway belongs to Drake—and I certainly have no intention of finding out. But I
do
know where he went when he took my clothes from me the night before—down the same hallway where I went to use the bathroom. The laundry room has to be around there somewhere.

I creep out of my room and toward the stairs, then holding tightly to the rail, I make my way to the first floor. When I hear sounds coming from the kitchen, I freeze, listening. I can hear him in there doing something with dishes, and my stomach rumbles in anticipation of a hot breakfast. But first I need pants.

I turn in the opposite direction of the kitchen and carefully walk toward the hall where I went the night before. There are four doors in this hallway. I know which one is the bathroom, but the other three are closed. I open the first one I come to, but it’s just a closet. I close it and go to the next one, hopeful that it’s the laundry room.

Peeking inside, I see that it’s used as an office. My bare legs—and ass—are getting cold, and I'm eager to find my jeans. I open the next door and grin when I see the state-of-the-art washer and dryer tucked against the wall opposite the door. Through the clear door of the dryer I see my clothes, though I can’t tell if they’ve been dried properly.

I pull the door open and bend over to reach inside, stretching to grab the jeans. They are stiff, as if they dried by sitting in the cold dryer overnight, rather than being dried with heat.
I guess Drake forgot to turn the dryer on.
 

“Did you lose something?” A deep male voice says from the doorway.

My eyes widen as I immediately realize he has a crystal clear view of my bare assets. Waves of heat wash over me as I jerk upright—heat of embarrassment, as well as heat racing to the triangle between my thighs. 

Keeping my back to him, I try to regain my equilibrium, then slowly turn to face him, hoping the redness on my face isn’t too obvious. My eyes meet his, but I'm too mortified to speak.

His eyebrows are raised and the smirk on his mouth is pronounced. “I don’t remember putting any panties in there last night.” His smirk changes to a grin. “But it appears you’ve lost yours.”

Squeezing my eyes closed, I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole, but when I open them, Drake is still there, gazing at me impassively. Trying to look anywhere but his eyes, my gaze drifts down to his t-shirt. That is a mistake, because the one he wears fits snuggly, clearly emphasizing his muscular chest, flat abs, and prominent biceps. Then my gaze drops a few inches lower and I can’t help but notice the impressive bulge in his pants, a bulge that seems to grow before my very eyes.

The heat between my legs surges, and I know if I was wearing my panties, they’d be wet—and not from washing them. Trying to cover my embarrassment, I lash out. “You failed to turn on the dryer last night, didn’t you?”

He frowns. “I didn’t realize I was responsible for your laundry.”

Of course he isn’t, and I feel stupid for blaming him. With my pride hurt, I ignore his point. “Why did you come in here, anyway?”

He tilts his head to one side. “I made some pancakes and I wanted to know if you were hungry.” 

“Oh.”

“But I see you’re not quite dressed for breakfast yet.”

“If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

His smirk is back. “Panties are optional.” Then he turns and leaves.

Chapter Nine

My mouth hangs open at his bold comment. Doesn’t he know how mortified I am? Does he really need to point out the obvious? I shut the door to the laundry room, then go back to the dryer and remove my jeans. Since they are so stiff, I pull them on with difficulty. Even so, it feels good to finally cover my legs.

Next, I remove the t-shirt he loaned me, then pull on my blouse. Now I'm feeling a bit more like myself—except for the going commando part. I haven’t done that before, but notice it gives me new sensations. Sensations that I kind of like. After putting his t-shirt on top of the dryer, I make my way to the kitchen.

The table is set for two, with mugs of steaming coffee at each place.

“You look like you’re getting around better,” Drake says, glancing at me as he flips pancakes on a griddle.

“My ankle feels better today.” I try not to think about the view he had in the laundry room moments ago.

“Good.”

My gaze goes to the window, and I see that the snow is still coming down in thick, large flakes. Gusts of wind blow them sideways, making it difficult to see much.

“The blizzard’s gotten worse,” he says as he carries a plate of pancakes to the table. He motions to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

My stomach rumbles as I slide into the chair. “This looks delicious.”

He sets the plate down. “You have your choice of real maple syrup, jam, or . . .” He grins and a gleam comes into his eyes. “Whipped cream.”

I feel a tingle in my core at the look on his face, but push it aside as I remind myself that men have only brought me heartache, and I have no interest in getting involved with anyone. Even someone as gorgeous as Colton Drake.

“I prefer syrup,” I say as I reach for the small glass bottle.

He picks up the whipped cream and squirts it onto his stack of pancakes. “I’m a whipped cream man, myself.” 

When his gaze meets mine, I feel myself go crimson. Concentrating on cutting my pancakes, I refuse to meet his gaze. “Do you think we can get my car out of the snowbank today?” I ask my plate. When Drake doesn’t answer, I say, “Well?”

“Oh, are you talking to me?”

I finally look up and see his ever-present smirk. “Who else would I be talking to?”

“You seemed to be having a conversation with your food.”

This guy’s a real jerk.
I stare at him and when he smiles, my stomach flutters.
An insanely hot jerk.
“So?”

He shakes his head as he puts a piece of pancake in his mouth.

“No?” I really need to get out of there. The more time I spend with him, the more I feel my resolve slipping. And I don’t want to do something that I know I’ll regret.

He leisurely chews his food, then finally swallows. “Until this storm blows out, we’re not going anywhere.” He grins. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, Ashley.”

The look on his face makes my insides clench in a not unpleasant manner, and I'm suddenly reminded that I'm going commando. “Do you have any cream?”

With one eyebrow raised, he lifts the whipped cream and holds it out to me.

I frown, not liking all the innuendo. Well, maybe a little, but I'm not about to admit it. “I mean for my coffee.”