A Husband In Her Stocking. Christine Pacheco
face.
“If you don’t mind, I need to use your phone, maybe call a tow truck.”
A few seconds of silence. Another heartbeat closer to hypotltermia.
Then slowly, as if on the whisper of an angel’s wings, the door opened wider.
He didn’t wait for a second invitation. Wiping the soles of his boots on the step, he entered the house, transferring his wet leather gloves into one hand.
The woman sealed out the blizzard and closed Kyle in. Heat reached out, enveloping him and allowing him to suck a welcome breath deep into his chest.
He’d barely noted her eye and hair color when the noise from a sudden crash made her face drain of color.
“Excuse me,” she said, turning.
Before he formed a word, she’d dashed away. Kyle stood there for a few moments, debating what to do. Mind his own business? Offer assistance?
“Darn it.”
The faint sound of her pseudo curse reached him, galvanizing him into action. Not stopping to think, he followed the direction she’d taken.
As he strode through the living room, a second crash exploded. Breaking into a near run, he found her in the kitchen, kneeling in front of a huge cupboard, cans of food scattered around her.
A white dog rested a paw triumphantly on a colorful bag sporting a picture of a collie.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Evidently startled, she swung around to look at him. A fringe of layered blond hair shaded her face, but not her wide and wary eyes.
Just then, the animal growled, hackles raised.
“Snowflake...” the woman warned, a sigh of exasperation escaping.
The mangy mutt stalked toward him, and Kyle remained rooted on the spot.
“He’s more bark than bite. He wouldn’t hurt a soul,” she said, pushing up to a standing position.
“Hi, guy,” Kyle said, holding his hand steady and not trusting her words of promise.
Snowflake growled again, then sniffed Kyle’s hand.
“Mind your manners, Snowflake.”
After looking toward his mistress, the dog sat. Apparently satisfied, Snowflake offered his paw. Kyle dutifully shook it.
“Some protector,” she said, but rumpled Snowflake’s fur affectionately when the dog returned to her side. “You managed to get all the way into the kitchen before he noticed you were in the house.” Snowflake stretched out and placed his head on his paws. “Now he thinks you’re his best friend.”
“Obviously he senses you’re in no danger.”
No response.
“He’s right.”
The woman wiped her hand down the thigh of cream-colored leggings. For the first time he noticed just how attractive his savior was. Blond, hazel-eyed, and with ladylike curves all in the right places. A potent combination.
“Kyle Murdock,” he said, extending a hand.
Surprisingly she took it. Heat met cold. He felt the icy tentacles of winter’s grip melting away at her touch. Maybe, just maybe, he’d survive the storm, after all.
She was more petite than he’d realized, only a few notches above five feet. Her smaller hand disappeared inside his larger one, and he had an insane urge to hold on to it longer than was polite.
With a slight smile, she extricated her hand.
Kyle realized her wide-open eyes——expressive and large—were her most compelling feature, making a man think of long, hot nights and a bed barely big enough for two.
Right now her eyes contained a hint of caution that made the hazel color appear darker than he suspected was normal. He reminded himself he should be on his way, try to find a hotel before the storm worsened.
“Mind if I use your phone?”
She pointed to a small oak stand and said, “It’s right over there.”
The woman moved aside, and he took his time removing the unnecessary aviator shades from his eyes. In anonymity, he savored her subtle beauty. She wasn’t gorgeous in the normal sense, but the aura of dignity and serenity she wore—a complete antithesis to what raged inside him—transcended the usual, making her seem extraordinary.
She seemed alluring, unpretentious. And so different from the woman he’d nearly married.
Dismissing the thought, as it was leading him in a direction he didn’t dare go, Kyle tucked his glasses inside a pocket of his jacket. He crossed to the far wall and placed his gloves on the oak telephone stand, then thumbed through the directory until he found the single listing for a towing service. He punched in the numbers.
One ring, followed by a second. Then silence ricocheted down the line. “The phone’s dead.”
She swallowed deeply, folding her arms around her middle. The action stretched the cotton material of her pastel pink sweater taut across her breasts.
Kyle gulped.
He hadn’t imagined the woman could have such unbelievable impact on his long neglected libido.
Turning away, he replaced the phone in its cradle, trying to erase the vivid sight of her from his mind.
Through the window above the sink, he saw the swirling snow and dreaded the thought of braving the brutal elements again. Facing her once more, he asked, “Maybe your husband could help me dig out the Harley?”
Several seconds of silence yawned between them.
“I don’t have a husband.”
She lived out here all alone? And opened her door to strangers? He didn’t like it. Not one bit. And the fact he didn’t like something that was none of his business irritated the hell out of him.
“But I do have a twelve-gauge shotgun.”
He raised a brow.
“And competency in its use.”
“Noted.” He allowed a smile. Her tentative one was reward enough.
Just as quickly, though, the smile disappeared and her brow furrowed.
It was interesting to watch her undisguised play of emotions. She’d knotted a hand at her side, and her shoulders were slightly rounded, protective. But her whiskey-colored eyes remained wide.
“You must be cold,” she said softly, almost reluctantly.
“Frozen,” he admitted. “I was trying to make it to Conifer before nightfall—”
“You still can. I’ll drive you. My car’s in the port.” Her voice held a breathless note. Obviously she was relieved to have arrived at a logical conclusion. And he hated to shatter that resolution.
She reached for a coat that hung near the back door but stopped at Kyle’s words. “It’s snowed in.” She looked at him, and he noted a frown had settled on her features. “The carport that’s at the side of the house?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I noticed when I was walking up to the door that there’s two, maybe three, feet of snow blocking it.”
The woman dropped her hand.
Kyle grabbed the gloves he’d placed on the phone stand and offered a wan grin. “I appreciate your help.” He stuffed unwilling fingers into the soggy, cold leather, then started back toward the front door.
“Wait,” she said, the word uttered so softly he wasn’t sure he’d actually heard it.
Kyle Murdock stopped and leveled his disturbingly