Snowed (4 page)

Who is this?
her mind raged.
What happened?
With relief she realized her underwear was intact, so nothing had actually happened. Not in that sense anyway. Which meant this man couldn’t be Mike Carleton.

Carefully she turned her head, enough to glimpse the muscular arm that curled possessively over her while its owner slept. Slowly, so slowly, she began to ease out of the man’s embrace.

“Mmm...Sleeping Beauty awakens.” The deep, drowsy voice froze her in midescape.

James Bradburn!

He pulled her back against his long frame and let his big hand travel down her side and the curve of her hip. His breath was hot against her scalp as he slowly parted the silk kimono. “I think it’s time for me to open my birthday present.”

“Birthday present?” Leah’s voice quavered. She clutched the kimono closed.

“Mmmm...” The tip of his nose nuzzled her scalp, a strangely erotic sensation. “You smell like lilies of the valley.” His lips brushed her ear, making her shiver. “And something else. Ah yes. Eau de Maker’s Mark. Intoxicating.”

She tried to turn and face him, but he kept her pinned to himself, spoon fashion. “Allow me to refresh your memory, Mr. Bradburn. If I smell like sour mash whiskey, it’s only because, of the two of us,
I’m
the one who can hold my liquor.”

He took a moment to digest this. “I see you didn’t appreciate my little quip last night. Perhaps you’d have preferred seeing me grovel in abject apology. Sorry. Not my style.”

She sighed in exasperation and stared straight ahead at an enormous, old-fashioned chest of drawers. All she wanted to do was escape this bedroom, locate her clothes, and catch the next train to Manhattan. Then she could collect her things from her hotel and slink back to Arkansas with her tail between her legs.

James’s hand went on the prowl once more, and Leah reflexively blockaded her chest with her crossed arms. He went still. “What’s your name?” he asked softly.

“Leah Harmony.” Too late, she wished she’d made up a different last name. But if James remembered, or had even known, that his family’s gardener way back when was named Douglas Harmony, he gave no indication.

“Leah Harmony,” he said, “I am deeply sorry I doused you with bourbon. I assure you it wasn’t intentional.” When she didn’t respond, he leaned over to look at her, but she turned her face in to the pillow. “Believe me, when I ply a woman with alcohol, I’m usually a bit more subtle.”

Leah felt the edge of the kimono being eased off her shoulder, and gasped as James pressed a whisper-soft kiss to her neck. She snatched the slippery fabric from his fingers and yanked the sash tight, even as he slid yards of silk off her leg to stroke the inside of her knee.

“Mr. Bradburn, you’ve obviously jumped to the wrong conclusion about this...about
this
.”

“Is that right? Well, it’s hard not to jump to conclusions whenever a lovely young woman deposits herself in my bed on the night of my birthday, wearing my robe.”

Beautiful. Perfect. How many beds in this mansion, and the one she flees to has to be his.

She said, “
Whenever
a woman deposits herself in your bed? So I take it this sort of thing happens to you all the time?”

“Of course not. I was speaking figuratively.”

“Well, speaking
non
figuratively, Mr. Bradburn, I want to get up. Right now. Please move your arm.”

A frigid silence ensued. When James finally spoke, his voice was edged in steel. “This is a dangerous game you’ve decided to play, Leah. I don’t know what you’re up to, but the party’s over, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m beginning to think I should’ve spanked your precious butt awake at three
a.m.
and booted it out into the snow.” Abruptly he shoved her onto her back, looming over her. His black hair was disheveled, his face shadowed with beard stubble. “What the hell are you
—
” He stopped, his eyes riveted to her left cheek.

She touched her face, and his gaze shifted to her slender wrist. He captured her arm, and then she saw them, too. The ugly purple bruises that had bloomed during the night. The left side of her face felt tender and swollen.

He stared down at her, his expression troubled. “What happened to you?”

She couldn’t speak. The memory of Mike’s attack threatened to choke her.

James’s broad bare chest, lightly covered in black hair, rose and fell faster now. He was angry, but his anger was no longer directed at her, she realized. “Tell me, Leah. Who did this to you?”

She turned her face away as tears stung her eyes.

He said, “You didn’t have these bruises when you left the ballroom last night.”

How could she tell him about Mike? She’d used the man, a business associate of James, to gain entrance to his home. To gain access to...

His dead father. And hers.

Her eyes squeezed shut, and the tears fell in a torrent of grief and confusion. Who was she crying for? she wondered.

Through her sobs she heard James’s voice, steady and deep, as he pulled her up and wrapped her tightly in his arms. “Leah...Leah...it’s over. Don’t be afraid.” Long, strong fingers stroked her hair, her back, until the wracking sobs finally wound down and she was conscious only of the warmth of his chest, the measured beating of his heart, and the reassuring, now familiar scent of him.

“I’ll wait until you decide to tell me.” But he would have an answer. That much was clear.

“Mike Carleton.” Was that her voice, so tiny?

She felt him stiffen, heard his heated oath. He held her away from him and let his gaze sweep over her as she clutched the kimono closed right up to her chin. “Leah, did he...?”

“No.”

“He tried.”

“Yes.”

He cursed again. “That bastard did this under my roof, to a guest in my home.” A vein pulsed in his temple. “It seems I have more to apologize for than drenching you in bourbon.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m still old-fashioned enough to believe that a lady under my roof is entitled to a certain degree of protection.”

She couldn’t resist. “Is that what you were doing a little while ago, protecting me?”

“A simple misreading of the situation. Don’t worry. Ravishing unwilling females has never held much appeal for me. You’re safe.”

Safe from James. She ought to be relieved.

You’d
better
be relieved,
she thought.
You’d better be tickled pink that you’re safe from this of all men.

Abruptly he swung his legs off the bed and crossed to the dresser. Leah’s eyes widened when she saw he was wearing only clingy white boxer briefs. Seemingly unconcerned about his state of dishabille, he lifted a comb from the dresser top and ran it through his hair, then reached into a drawer for a pair of jeans. As he slid his long legs into them, the muscles of his shoulders, back, and buttocks shifted and bunched. Leah found herself sitting primly with her arms around her raised knees, her eyes fixed on a large framed photograph opposite the bed.

“Where did this thing with Carleton happen, by the way? Not here in my bedroom?” he asked.

“No. In the library.”

He pulled the faded denim up over his lean hips and looked at the kimono she wore. “Did he tear your dress?”

“No. Mary took it.”

“To wash out the booze. Of course. Mary, the paragon of efficiency. I can hear her now.” He summoned a comically thick burr. “‘Holy Mother of God, ye’ve gone and dashed foul American whiskey on the poor wee lass!’”

“I was waiting in the library when Mike found me. Apparently he felt that being my escort entitled him to certain...uh...”

“Conjugal rights?”

“Something like that.”

“Why am I not surprised?” James said. “What was he doing upstairs?”

“Cocaine.”

He swore.

“With Tim and Wanda.”

“Well, I don’t know any Tim and Wanda. Must be some lowlife buddies of Mike’s.” Casually James adjusted the crotch of his snug jeans prior to zipping up, and once more Leah found the framed photo worthy of her rapt concentration. Later she couldn’t remember what it was a picture of.

He seemed to remember something, and grinned. “Did you do that to his nose?”

She nodded. “I bit it.”

One black eyebrow arched. “My, what a dainty creature we are. Has milady had her rabies shots?”

“It’s called desperation, Mr. Bradburn.”

“It’s James. You needn’t be so formal. After all, we’ve slept together.” Ignoring her poisonous glower, he continued, “All I know is, not long after you left the party, Carleton streaked through the ballroom hollering for his overcoat and looking like he’d gotten his snout caught in a bear trap. And unless I’m mistaken,” he added pointedly as he extracted a red flannel shirt from a drawer, “he was walking funny.”

“You’re not mistaken.”

She recognized his brotherhood-of-males wince. Not that she imagined he had a shred of pity for her attacker. “My guests found the spectacle of Carleton’s departure hugely entertaining,” he continued. “I don’t think he appreciated the humor. Actually, I didn’t give it much thought at the time. I try to have as little to do with that bastard as I can.” He watched her as he buttoned the shirt. “At least now I know how you ended up here, Leah. I must admit that having a woman flee to my bed in an effort to
preserve
her honor doesn’t do much for my masculine ego.”

“James, why do you associate with a man like that?”

He sighed. “That’s my agent’s doing. Kara’s a gem, but she has this unfortunate habit of glossing over foul personal traits if she thinks someone can be an asset in business. This is the final straw, though. I can live without Carleton and his gallery. So. Now we know about my lapse in judgment. What’s your excuse, Leah? I mean, I may have done business with the guy, but you dated him.” When she didn’t reply, he continued, unfazed. “You don’t seem like the kind of woman who’d have to settle for a creep like Mike Carleton. The way I figure it, he must’ve done some fast talking to pull that one off.”

He looked at her expectantly, and she averted her eyes. Should she tell him the truth? That it wasn’t Mike who’d wheedled her, but the other way around? She’d come here for one purpose only
—
to satisfy her own burning need to confront James Bradburn, Sr. To force him to acknowledge the atrocity he’d committed and its tragic consequences. The fact that such a confrontation was no longer possible was deeply frustrating. There was unfinished business here. Yes. James had a right to know about his father. To know how truly evil he’d been.

She started to speak, but her voice failed her. She had no hope of punishing the old man now. Could she, in good conscience, poison the son’s memories of his father? Who would she be punishing then? Who would suffer? Certainly not the one who deserved it. James Junior evidently had high standards of honor if this morning was any indication. She had no right to subject him to the anguish this particular revelation would cause simply because it would be a welcome catharsis for her.

The whole sordid mess was too confusing.
He
was too confusing. For one thing, she recognized in herself certain reactions to James
—
to James the man
—
that scared her to death. Some things could never be. Never. The best thing she could do for both of them was to leave on the next train to Manhattan.

“Never mind,” he said quietly, rolling up his sleeves. “I can tell you don’t want to talk about it. Don’t dwell on this, Leah. Just chalk it up as one of life’s brutally educational experiences.” There was a bitter edge to his voice when he added, “I’ve had a few of those myself.”

When he was silent for a few moments, she turned to see him standing there in unabashed appraisal. Of her. Before she could decide whether to be embarrassed or indignant, he nodded to himself and said, “You look good in my bed.”

She gaped at him. He did say
safe
, didn’t he?

He turned and opened the door. In a flash Stieglitz darted past him and vaulted onto the bed, giving Leah a couple of brisk rubs before settling on her lap. “Good morning, Stieglitz,” she said, stroking him.

James watched the spectacle with a look of wry amusement. “Some cats get all the luck.” He disappeared out the door and down the hall. “Shake a leg, Leah. Time for breakfast. I’m starved.”

She gave the cat one last caress and slid off the high bed, following her host down the hall and into the library, where he opened the heavy green velvet drapes. Sunlight flooded the room, and her gaze was drawn to the acres of unrelieved white beyond the window. February in New York was certainly a far cry from February in Arkansas.

He looked around the room where she’d endured Mike’s attack, scowling murderously. “I wish I’d known.”

Leah’s dress and tights, neatly folded, sat on the desk, along with her shoes and shoulder bag. She picked them up. “I’m going to change.”

As she headed for the bathroom, he said, “I’ll get breakfast started. Just follow your nose to the kitchen.”

She washed, dressed, and brushed out her waist-length strawberry blond hair, keeping her back to the mirror. One glimpse of her bruised and swollen cheek was more than enough. She tried to ignore the various aches that reminded her of her terrifying ordeal.

She descended the stairs and followed the teasing aroma of coffee and frying bacon past the ballroom, a drawing room, and the dining room. One corridor led to another until she emerged at last in a huge, old-fashioned country kitchen.

A ceiling-high stone fireplace dominated one wall, and Leah noticed that James already had a low fire going. The heavy oak table and chairs in the center of the room had a smooth patina from decades of use. Through an open door she glimpsed a well-stocked pantry. Stieglitz reclined in a cushioned basket in a corner, in reassuring proximity to his food dish.

James had his back to her as he fried bacon in a griddle on the massive iron cookstove. She couldn’t imagine a more homey or intimate scene. Or a more incongruous one. Here was the famous, wealthy
—
not to mention disturbingly sexy and intriguing
—
photographer James Bradburn cooking breakfast for her, Leah Harmony of Little Rock, Arkansas, in the kitchen of his Gold Coast mansion.