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Two
Grant’s jaw dropped. He felt it hit his chest. He was locked in his own cabin with a psychotic killer. And she looked so normal. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He walked casually toward the door. He wasn’t sure he could actually shoot a woman, but the rifle might dissuade her from causing him bodily harm . . . if he was lucky.
His pretty little wacko burst out laughing. “Oh, Lord, Grant, if you could see your face.” She was grinning from ear to ear, and he wondered if hysteria often preceded cold-blooded murder.
He took a step closer to the rifle, resting his shoulder casually against the door. “What do you mean?” he asked, wincing at the crack in his voice.
She left the couch and approached him. His pulse quickened, and not in a good way.
She put her hands on her hips, a move that thrust her small but shapely breasts against the thin fabric of her burgundy turtleneck. “You can relax,” she said, still grinning. “I’m not really going to murder anybody.”
He shifted uneasily from one foot to another. Wasn’t that what the killer said right before you got whacked?
She put a hand on his arm and, to his shame, he flinched. She rolled her eyes. “Open my backpack, Grant. Tell me what you see.”
He eyed her warily. “Okay.” If the murder weapon was in there, perhaps he could dispose of it quickly. He opened the bag, ready to encounter a knife, a gun . . . perhaps a vial of poison. His hands closed on a slim, rectangular object. He pulled it out and stared at it blankly. A laptop. It was a laptop.
She started laughing again. “I write murder mysteries, Grant.”
Understanding dawned, and he felt his face flush with embarrassment. Had he really thought, even for a second, that this delicate little woman was capable of murder? He looked up, seeing the amusement on her face. Amusement at his expense. “Ha, ha . . . You got me,” he said, tucking the computer back in its hiding place. Now he understood why she’d asked him to make a foray into the storm to retrieve her bag.
He tugged her ponytail. “You did that on purpose.”
She shrugged, unrepentant. “You were badgering me for information. I simply told you the truth.”
“Brat,” he muttered. “I ought to put you over my knee.” He said the words lightly, jokingly, but the careless comment took on a life of its own. Maddy’s eyes widened and he watched in fascination as her nipples thrust against her sweater. The room was quite warm.
He tried to swallow, his throat suddenly parched. “A writer, huh. Tell me about that.”
She ignored his inane attempt at conversation. Her hands crept up to his shoulders. Her head tipped back, her golden eyes filled with purpose. She stepped closer, and her soft breasts teased his chest. “Are you interested in having sex with me, Grant Monroe?”
His eyes narrowed. Yes, hell yes. His cock jumped to attention. Grant ignored his importunate body part and reminded himself he was an honorable man. He removed her hands and checked her forehead. “You’ve had quite an ordeal, Maddy. Don’t make any rash decisions. You need to rest.”
“I can’t believe this. Several million sex-starved men in Virginia and I find the only one with scruples. Unbelievable.” She frowned. “And I’m not delirious, darn it. Surely you’ve been propositioned before.”
His lips quirked. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who goes in for casual sex. Is this about almost dying?”
She ground her teeth. “No, dammit. I said I hadn’t been in love, not that I haven’t had sex. I’ve had sex . . . lots of sex . . . great sex.”
He grinned and remained silent.
She threw up her hands. “How hard is this to understand? You’re here. I’m here. We can’t leave. Why not enjoy it?” She paused, clearly struck by an unpleasant notion. “You’re not a priest, are you?”
He chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m not a priest.”
“Believe me, Grant, I feel fine—well, maybe a little tired, but that’s to be expected.”
He shook his head, unsure if he was trying to convince her or himself. “You’re off balance from coming so close to . . . well, you know.” He couldn’t say it out loud again. The thought of Maddy lying dead in a snowdrift made him feel sick.
Her expression cleared. “If you think this is about that whole dying-without-love thing, you can rest easy. I’m not asking you to be my soulmate. This is about sex. . . two adults enjoying carnal pleasure.”
She said that last part with a defiant toss of her head. He grinned, pretty damn sure this intriguing woman was not really so cavalier about sex. Despite her question that tested his self-control to the limit, he couldn’t help but believe this was not her usual style.
He doggedly changed the subject. “I want to hear about Maddy the novelist.”
Her smile told him he wasn’t off the hook, not by a long shot. “What do you want to know?”
“The usual. How did you get started? When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”
