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* * *
Maddy was dreaming. She lay curled on a blanket beside a gurgling creek. It was spring, and wildflowers bloomed in profusion. Across the water on the other shore, a horse pawed the ground restlessly, its silent male rider eyeing her intently, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword.
She lifted a hand to wave, but the rider turned the horse suddenly. The animal’s front legs reared in the air. She tried to call out, to tell the man to wait, but it was too late. Horse and master disappeared into the distance.
Her heart sank. She had missed her chance, and somehow she knew in her heart the silent rider would not return. Sad, bereft, she closed her eyes and wept.
* * *
Grant glanced at his watch and cursed in stunned disbelief. It was almost midnight. He looked at Maddy, with the man’s eyes this time, and saw the steady, gentle evidence of her breathing.
His lips twisted in wry self-mockery. The artist had won out over the man, but only once, for this one night. Never again.
He carried the damp canvas to his bedroom, facing it toward the wall. No one viewed his unfinished work. It was a long-standing rule. He returned to the living room and added more wood to the fire, then covered Maddy with the sheets and blankets from the night before. It was late, and she was still tired from her ordeal, though she would never admit it. Only a selfish bastard would wake her.
* * *
Maddy roused sometime during the night, and several things happened at once. She felt an urgent need to go to the bathroom. She realized she was naked. And she saw the empty easel and knew that she was alone.
She slipped on the flannel shirt, tiptoeing stealthily down the hall to the bathroom. That accomplished, she ventured a few steps farther to pause at the open doorway to Grant’s bedroom. He was snoring softly, his face turned away from her. Enough illumination from the moonlit snow outside sneaked in around the curtains and enabled her to see that his big, long body was nude.
His bedroom was far cooler than the living room, but he seemed impervious to the chill. She debated climbing into bed with him. She had never actually tried to seduce a sleeping man, but knowing the mechanics of the male species, it surely wouldn’t be too hard, no pun intended.
She calculated quickly. They’d known each other thirty-six hours as of this moment. Would that meet with his approval? She shifted from one foot to another, her toes curling on the cold, hardwood floor.
Oh, poop. She was a big, sniveling coward. She’d wait for daylight to launch her offensive, and if Grant Monroe still resisted . . . Well, then it was his loss.
* * *
Grant listened to her soft footsteps fade away and, with a whoosh, released the breath he’d been holding. His heart pounded and his cock was hard. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and he was pretty damned sure Santa had promised him just what he’d always wanted.
* * *
December twenty-fourth dawned with brilliant sunshine but no sign of warming temperatures. Grant listened to a weather forecast on the radio and heard the promise of a quick thaw on Christmas Day. His jaw twisted in dismay. He didn’t want this little idyll to come to an end, particularly not when things were about to get very interesting. The deep snow was his ally.
After a mostly silent breakfast, rife with heated looks and snatched glances, Maddy holed up in the living room with her laptop. She typed furiously, barely lifting her head other than to occasionally pet Van Gogh and scratch the ecstatic dog behind her floppy ears.
Grant hovered on the edge of being jealous of the dog. That would be the last straw.
He paced restlessly from one room to the next, unable to settle on any one activity. He had more than enough wood for two blizzards, and the front porch was swept clean of snow, thanks to yesterday’s snowball fight.
He retrieved a staple gun from the toolbox in his Jeep and began hanging sprigs of mistletoe from every available doorway. He wasn’t averse to helping Santa out. The old guy was pretty busy, after all.
The air in the cabin was thick with the childhood excitement of the day before Christmas, but the treats in store were entirely adult in nature. Grant wanted to have a gift for Maddy, but he was too selfish to part with the painting. It was his. He brought out his sketchpad and decided to do a drawing of Maddy and Van Gogh.
* * *
Maddy was nearing the end of her book, and the words seemed to be flowing from her fingertips onto the page. Maybe sexual frustration was good for creativity, she mused, not completely able to block out Grant’s disturbing presence. He seemed restless, and if he was feeling a tenth of what she was, she knew why.
When he wasn’t paying attention, she scribbled lines on a notepad, trying to write a poem worthy of a Christmas present for her host. The words seemed stilted, maudlin. And she despaired of capturing her feelings on paper. What did she feel for Grant Monroe, anyway? She could write an X-rated verse, but she accepted, with no small amount of trepidation, that she felt something deep and significant . . . something new and exciting.
Was it real? Could it be trusted? That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.
They ate the last of the chili for lunch, cleaned up the kitchen and played another game of Scrabble. It was a completely civilized experience. No suggestive words, no cutthroat competition, no heated challenges. It was boring as hell.
The afternoon dragged on, neither willing to bring their unspoken plans out into the open. Finally, Grant proposed finishing the picture.
Maddy frowned. “The light won’t be the same.”
