Powerhouse. Rebecca York
the covers. In this bed, and if he hadn’t gotten up and walked away, they would have made love—just like that.
Which meant she’d been kidding herself for the past five years. She’d had the strength to walk away from Matt Whitlock because that was the only way to cut off the pain of their relationship, but she’d never gotten over him. And in a few minutes, she was going to have to tell him something that might make him hate her.
And after that she was going to beg for his help.
Would he understand her decision five years ago? Would he help her? Or would he order her out of the house? She hoped not until she could get her car out of the snowbank. And then what? She’d be right back where she’d started. In desperate trouble.
That thought made her swing her legs over the side of the bed. She had to get this over with. Now. Standing, she looked around. Her jeans and long johns were gone, and she remembered that Matt had pulled them off. Probably because they were wet from her falls into snowbanks.
In place of her discarded clothing were a pair of sweatpants and some thick socks enveloped by his familiar scent. The pants were too big for her slender five-foot-nine-inch frame, and the socks flopped around on her feet. His, she presumed. She pulled on the pants, then the socks. When she didn’t see her purse, she had a moment of panic. Then she figured it was with her coat and boots in the mudroom. In the bathroom, she finger-combed her hair and splashed water on her face, then inspected her visage, wishing she had some lipstick. She didn’t look great, but it would have to do. And she knew she was only stalling for time. Despite her earlier resolve, she was having a failure of nerve again.
She bought herself a few more moments by turning to the window. The storm had blown over, and the moon had risen, making a path of light along the snow-covered ground. Looking at her watch, she saw that she’d been asleep for a couple of hours.
Through the window she could see the familiar outline of the bunkhouse. Only one dim light burned over there. When she’d been here five years ago, the place had been blazing at night.
No more.
Where were the men who worked for Matt?
Well, that wasn’t her concern, really.
Before she could think of some other excuse to stay in here, she pulled open the door and walked down the hall. Past the office where she and Matt had worked on his accounts together. Past the comfortable den where they’d watched DVDs and eaten popcorn in the evenings.
Sometimes they’d get a popular TV series and start watching the first season. Not once a week but two or three episodes a night if they were really hooked. She smiled at the memory as she continued through the empty dining room—and finally into the kitchen.
Matt was standing at the stove, his shoulders rigid, and she saw that every nerve in his body was crackling with tension. Obviously, he’d heard her coming, and he was wondering what the two of them were going to say to each other.
She’d set him on edge, and she wanted to whisper “sorry.” But that wasn’t a very good way to start off this confrontation.
Of course, there was no good way.
As she stopped in the doorway, he turned quickly, and she gave him a long look. She’d been too out of it to really see him earlier. Now she took in his dark, sun-streaked hair, the worried look in his blue eyes, and the tension around his strong jaw.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Okay. Thanks to you. How did you know I was out there?” “I have an alarm system.” “You do?”
“Yeah. I knew somebody was on the road.”
She nodded, wondering when he’d put that in. Her head jerked toward the bunkhouse. “Do your men bed down early?”
He kept his gaze fixed on her. “I’m not working the ranch. Only Ed Janey is over there.”
“Why?”
“Ed’s been here a long time. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”
She swallowed, trying to take it all in. It seemed a lot had changed in five years, and nobody had told her. But why would they?
“I mean—why aren’t you working the ranch?”
“I made some good investments, and I pulled my money out before the stock market crashed. I’m living on that.”
MATT WATCHED Shelley’s reaction. She was probably trying to wrap her head around all the changes that had taken place since they’d seen each other last.
He didn’t particularly want to explain his reasoning to her. It would be easier simply to send her away. Not in so many words—but to plant the idea in her head. The way he’d planted the idea of her going to sleep.
But she looked strung out, and not just from getting half frozen. She’d come here because something was badly wrong, and he had to find out what it was—and if there was some way he could help her.
The teakettle whistled, giving him an excuse to turn back to the stove. After lifting the kettle off the burner, he opened the cabinet and took down two packets of hot chocolate.
Still with his back to her, he poured the contents into two mugs, then stirred, stirring up memories as the scent of chocolate wafted toward him.
He and Shelley had sat in the evenings in front of the fire sipping hot chocolate. They’d talked about all sorts of things, and he’d felt so close to her. Well, as close as he could feel to anyone when he had a secret that he had to guard at all costs.
“That smells good.”
“You always liked hot chocolate,” he answered.
When she sat down at the table, he set the mugs between them, careful not to touch her. Then he pulled out the chair opposite her and sat.
Neither one of them spoke.
For something to do, he took a sip of the hot liquid. She did the same, her hands wrapped around the crockery. It looked as though she was holding on for dear life.
He could barely taste the drink as he waited for her to tell him why she was here. She looked so alone and vulnerable that he wanted to reach across the table and grab her hand. But he hung on to his own mug because that was a lot safer than touching her.
Finally, when she didn’t speak, he cleared his throat. “It’s been a long time.” “Yes.”
While she’d been sleeping, he’d let his imagination run wild. She was in trouble. He knew that much. And he’d turned over all the possibilities in his mind. Had her business crashed in the recession, and she needed money? Had a client asked her to do something illegal? Had she discovered someone was cooking the books at a company, and she didn’t know what to do about it? Or was it something personal? He didn’t even want to speculate on what that might be.
Forcing the issue, he finally asked, “What brings you here?”
Suddenly she looked as if she wanted to cry—and as if she wasn’t going to give in to tears.
“You’ll feel better when you tell me.”
“I doubt it.” She swallowed hard, then raised her head and met his gaze. “My son, Trevor, has been kidnapped,” she blurted. “I think you’re the only one who can help me find him.”
Although the words reached his ears, they didn’t really make sense. Maybe because, in a million years, he never would have expected them.
“Did I hear that right? You have a son, and he’s been kidnapped?”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord. I didn’t know … I mean. You have a son?” he said again, totally confounded by the revelation. The obvious thought leaped into his mind, and he felt his stomach clench. “I didn’t know you’d gotten married.”
She