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“I distracted you?”
She nodded vigorously. “You’re the one who was feeding me. I can’t help it if I got sidetracked.”
He stared at her mouth, making her stomach quiver with nerves and something else much more dangerous. “Your lip is sticky,” he muttered, leaning forward.
She froze, afraid to respond. He moved slowly, closing the gap between them. When his lips brushed hers they both sighed. It was sweet and delicious and scary as hell. Her heart was pounding and her legs trembled.
“You taste better than the marshmallows,” he muttered. He stepped back and turned on a lamp, flooding the room with additional light.
She walked to the sofa on unsteady feet, unsure if she was disappointed or glad that he had called a halt. The man was a stranger. Despite the confidences she had shared with him, he had offered nothing of his own background.
She watched moodily as he put on his snow gear and took the dog out. The silence in the cabin when they left seemed overpowering. She wandered down the hall and found a bathroom. After taking care of her most urgent need, she glanced in the mirror and winced. She looked like a cat dragged through a bush backward. She washed her face and found a comb in a drawer. She took down her hair, straightened it as best she could, and then resecured it with the rubber band.
Listening carefully for Grant’s return, she rummaged in a small zippered pocket of her pack and found some flavored gloss. It wasn’t nearly as yummy as the marshmallows, but it put a faint shine of color on her lips. After a quick call to reassure Daphne and Mimi, she returned to the living room.
When Grant and the dog entered some minutes later, she was sitting on the sofa reading the latest National Geographic. She looked up as they came in, feigning an expression of mild interest. “How is it out there?”
Grant looked at her like she was demented. “It’s snowing,” he said, irritation in his voice. “What did you think?”
“You don’t have to be so grumpy. I didn’t make it snow. By the way, what’s the dog’s name?”
“Van Gogh.”
“But isn’t the dog—”
“A female? Yes. But the dog doesn’t know who Van Gogh is, and I happen to like the name.” He said it as though daring her to challenge him. She wasn’t about to go there. His mood had turned surly.
He poured food and water in the dog’s dish, then settled in a chair across from her, his jaw clenched with determination. “No more stalling, Maddy. If your parents weren’t the reason, I want to know why you didn’t go back with your friends.”
She gnawed her lower lip, not wanting to reveal all her secrets, but sure he would spot a prevarication. Oh, what the hell . . . She tossed the magazine on the table. “I needed to figure out how to murder someone on the AT and dispose of the body.”
