Page 2 of By Firelight


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There had been a brief half hour when she faced the very real possibility that she was going to die. The knowledge had been sobering. She hadn’t been scared, not really, but she remembered feeling a searing regret that she was going to exit this earth without ever experiencing the kind of love the poets wrote about.

She snorted, causing the dog to lift her head and whine. “Sorry, girl.” Maddy stroked the canine’s silky ears and blinked back a rush of tears. Love. Hah! Judging by her parents’ recent antics, love was a myth, a pretty illusion invented to dress up the sex drives of men and the emotional needs of women.

Her own brief experiences with male relationships were nothing to write home about. After three abortive tries at the love/sex dance, she had given up on men, and when her own physical needs demanded attention, she found release with a phallic toy and a couple of AA batteries.

Sex was messy, and love . . . if it existed . . . was impossible to control. Who needed the aggravation? Her self-imposed celibacy suited her just fine—at least until she came face-to-face with death and then was rescued by a man who made her rethink the virtues of plastic.

She pulled the blanket more closely around her shoulders and stared into the fire, mesmerized by the pop and crackle of the dancing flames. The heat was so delicious she wanted to purr. She understood now why primitive man worshipped fire. It was life-giving.

Her eyelids were heavy, but she blinked drowsily, determined to stay awake. She surveyed the room with interest, noting the large leather chairs and sofa as well as the brightly colored rag rug partially covering the hardwood floors. Some kind of antler chandelier hung overhead, casting a warm circle of light. A coffee table, littered with books and magazines, occupied the center of the room. The bottom shelf of the table held an assortment of childhood games—Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land, Monopoly. To the left of the fireplace, in the corner, stood a brightly decorated Christmas tree.

Seeing the tree made her heart squeeze with a now-familiar ache. She’d done her best to forget that today was December twenty-second. And she was a bit surprised to find that a single man living alone had gone to the trouble of putting up a tree. Well . . . She assumed he was single. But that might be wishful thinking. As far as she could see, there were no signs of anyone else occupying the cabin.

Which brought her to the picture. Over the mantel hung a large oil painting, probably four feet wide and at least two feet high. The subject was a nude woman, reclining on a patchwork quilt in a field of daisies. Her hair was black, her skin olive. She had a lush, sensual beauty that riveted the viewer. Her breasts were full, and the curve of her hip was nothing like the stick-thin Hollywood version of beauty. The picture was striking, the artist’s vision pure and full of joy.

Maddy wondered who the woman was and if Grant knew her or had simply purchased a beautiful picture.

She got to her feet, swaying as her head swam and the room spun dizzily. She sucked in several deep breaths and concentrated on not throwing up. Her hands and feet tingled painfully. She took a tentative step toward the kitchen, stumbling slightly in the overlarge socks. The blanket made a modest, if cumbersome, skirt.

She paused in the doorway and studied her surroundings. The cabin might be rustic, but it was far from primitive. The appliances were top of the line, brushed aluminum with black trim. The walls were rough wood, the windows covered with simple muslin curtains, edged in hunter green.

A rectangular oak table with bench seats was set with navy and green plaid placemats and plain ivory dishes. A loaf of bread, still steaming, rested in the center of the table. Her stomach clenched with sudden, fierce hunger.

She steadied the blanket with one hand and swept her hair away from her face. “Can I help?”

He looked up, his expression etched with sharp concern. “Sit down,” he barked. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

She didn’t argue. He supported her elbow as she took the few steps toward the bench and slid in awkwardly, hampered by the blanket. Fatigue threatened to overtake her, but hunger won out, barely.

Grant was torn between concern and amusement. She looked like a lost child. He handed her a mug of hot chocolate and watched as she sipped it cautiously. Her hands trembled and dark smudges beneath her eyes emphasized her exhaustion.

He turned back to the stove, making his voice deliberately casual. “My brother-in-law is a police chief in a D.C. precinct. You can call him and he’ll vouch for me. If it would make you feel safer.”

When she remained silent, he kept talking, keeping his voice matter of fact. “You know my name. How about returning the favor? I promise I’m not an ax murderer. My worst sins are leaving the cap off the toothpaste tube and occasionally washing my whites and my darks together.”

Her eyes were large and expressive, and he hadn’t missed the wariness hidden in their depths nor her defensive posture.

She responded to his teasing with a faint smile. Her voice was soft but clear. “I’m Madison. Madison Tierney. Most people call me Maddy.”

He ladled vegetable soup into two bowls and carried them to the table. Before sitting down, he grabbed a beer from the fridge for himself. He settled across from her and smiled. “So . . . Miss Maddy Tierney. Want to tell me why you were wandering alone in the woods in a snowstorm?”

Her cheeks flushed under his steady regard. She took another sip of her chocolate, bending her head and allowing a riot of ginger-red curls to obscure her delicate profile. “No.”

He chuckled, charmed by her obstinate honesty. “Don’t you think I deserve an explanation?” He leaned forward and tucked her hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her neck for a brief second.

She flinched and he removed his hand. He took a spoonful of soup and watched as she did the same. She ate with ladylike manners, but the fact that she was starving couldn’t be missed.

He allowed her to eat in peace for several minutes, while he cut hunks of bread for each of them and buttered them. In no time she had emptied her bowl.

He reached for it. “More?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m fine. It was delicious.”

He carried the dishes to the sink and returned to the table, determined to crack her silence. She cradled the mug of hot chocolate between her palms, her expression pensive.

He sighed. “You might as well tell me. We’re going to be snowed in for several days.”

Her head jerked up, her face shocked. “Several days?”

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