Unwrapped (2 page)

Once she pushed open the door, the car tipped precariously, making her descent anything but graceful. She tumbled out surrounded by a pile of petticoats and ivory organza. As soon as she got to her feet, the cold wind sliced through her, pulling at her hair and freezing her bare shoulders. Fighting against the wind, she grabbed the billowing full skirt of her dress and pulled it up around her shoulders and head. It wasn't a ski jacket, but it worked. Although her nose soon felt like a block of ice and her toes had lost all feeling—which was probably a good thing, considering her Christian Dior heels were too tight. Stopping at a bend in the road, she leaned against a mailbox and tried her phone again. She was still out of service—

A mailbox?

Jac lowered her phone and stared in awe at the gray metal box on the rustic wooden post. Her gaze traveled up the narrow, rutted road that wound through the trees.

She was saved! And not a moment too soon. Icy flecks of snow swirled down from the dark skies, hitting her face and bare hands like stinging insect bites. Using her phone for light, she started up the dirt road.

It was much darker and scarier than the highway. The dense forest seemed to close around her like a thick, cold blanket. An owl hooted, and Jac stumbled, catching her heel in a deep rut. The heel snapped, and she fell to her knees, ripping her dress and landing in mud. At any other time, Jacqueline would've been horrified. She'd spent the last sixteen years of her life trying not to get dirty—trying to be the clean, pristine niece her aunt expected her to be. But tonight she was too cold, too tired, and too scared to care about a little dirt. She struggled to her feet and continued up the hill. Her efforts were rewarded a few moments later when she spotted a light through the trees.

Civilization.

Sort of.

The small, dilapidated cabin was nothing like the Gerhardts' large mountain home. In fact the cabin would have easily fit in their living room. But to a cold, mud-covered woman, it looked like heaven with its warm, beckoning lights and curl of smoke coming from the chimney.

A pickup truck was parked in front. As Jac stumbled past, she held up her phone and read the words printed on the side door.
M&M Construction
. It sounded like a reputable business and made her feel much less scared.

The wind wasn't as bad on the porch. So she took a moment to release the skirt of her dress and fluff it out before knocking on the door. It took ten polite taps followed by a bout of hysterical pounding before the door was jerked open.

Jac's hand froze in midair.

A man wearing nothing but a kilt stood in the doorway—or more like filled it—his half-naked body outlined by the flickering fire behind him. Having only been to bed with older men, Jac had never been this close to so much…hardness. This man had chest muscles you could crack an egg on and a stomach that looked like her Granny Lou's antique metal washboard.

Jac's gaze swept up to his face. A face that was just as hard as his body. His angular jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a firm line, and his eyes intense and unforgiving. For a second she wondered if she wouldn't have been better off with the gas station attendant. Although she'd never seen a
CSI
episode about a murdering Scotsman. In fact the only murdering Scotsman she could think of was in
Braveheart
. And William Wallace hadn't killed irrationally. He'd just wanted revenge for his dead wife. Which Jac thought was so romantic. Unfortunately, her romantic theory was shot to hell when the man opened his mouth to speak. His lips parted to reveal a set of pearly white teeth with two very long—very sharp—fangs.

“Trick or treat,” he growled.

P
atrick McPherson watched the woman in the long white dress hurry down the steps and out into the flying snow, holding her lit cell phone in front of her like a groupie at a rock concert. Most men would have been surprised, or at least a little curious, at finding a lone woman in a wedding gown at an isolated cabin in the middle of a blizzard. But most men didn't have a matchmaking great-aunt. A great-aunt who was too stubborn for her own good. No matter how many blind dates Patrick refused to go on, or how many times he ignored the women his aunt dragged to family gatherings, Aunt Wheezie wouldn't give up. In fact his refusal to go along with her matchmaking schemes had only resulted in out-and-out war. In the last month, Wheezie had started to meddle in areas of his life that she had no business meddling in. Every day he would arrive at an M&M Construction jobsite to find a newly hired female assistant, contractor, or even metalworker who looked at him like his dogs and cats did when he brought home Boston Market. And not more than a week ago, Wheezie had rented out one of the family condos to a prospective bride who kept stopping by for a cup of sugar.

Patrick didn't have any sugar. He drank his coffee black and ate his cereal with nothing but a splash of 2 percent milk. But even if he had been a sugary kind of guy, he wasn't about to be bulldozed by a ninety-two-year-old woman. No matter how much he loved his aunt. Or how many marriage-crazed women she threw at him.

The frigid wind and snow whistled under the eaves of the porch, causing bumps to rise up on his arms and reminding him that he still wore the costume he'd pulled together for his friend's Halloween party. Between the party and the drive to the cabin, it had been a long night. All he wanted was to go back inside by the fire and get some sleep. It didn't look as if that was going to happen. The bride took a mean tumble and didn't get up. And while Patrick could ignore crazy behavior, he couldn't ignore someone hurt. With a heavy sigh, he headed down the rickety porch steps.

When she saw him, she lifted her dress to run, but Patrick easily caught up with her and flipped her none too gently over his shoulder. She was tall for a woman, as tall as, if not taller than, his sister, Cassie. But she wasn't as strong as his sister. Her attempt to get out of his arms was pathetic at best.

He strode up the steps and into the cabin, kicking the door closed before tossing her onto the sofa. She landed in a pile of muddy material and wild blond hair. He didn't care for blondes. Blondes usually had bad attitudes—which might explain his own golden locks. He plucked a pebble from his foot as she fought her way up from the couch, showing off a set of dirty but extremely long legs.

“Don't you touch me,” she said in a voice that held a slight Southern twang. Clutching a bright-pink handbag to her chest, she pointed her phone at him. “I-I'm warning you. I know Pilates and…I ate a lot of garlic for dinner.” She edged around the couch until she had it safely between them.

Patrick studied her. She wasn't a pretty sight. With her long tangled curls, she looked like she'd spent the last four hours on the back of his Harley. She had makeup under her eyes and mud smudged across one cheek and shoulder. Her lips might've been nice if they hadn't been pressed together in a tight line. As far as he could tell, the only good thing about the wild apparition before him was the set of creamy breasts that swelled above the edge of her dress.

“Let me guess, the Corpse Bride?” he asked.

“Let me go,” she stated in a voice that quavered with either fear or cold. Since her chin was hiked at a stubborn angle, he figured it was cold.

“Look”—he pointed a finger, and then grew more annoyed when he saw it was covered in mud—“there's nothing I'd like better than to let you go. Except we have a slight problem.” He raised his eyebrows. “Would you like to take a guess on what that is?”

She didn't answer. Her gaze seemed to be pinned on his mouth. Surprisingly, a twinge of desire sizzled through his veins. Or not so surprisingly, considering the fact that he hadn't had sex for months. Aunt Wheezie's matchmaking attempts had really screwed over his sex life.

Frustrated with the entire situation, he answered for her. “It seems you have no transportation. With the nearest town a good twelve miles away, the only place I can let you go to is a cold, dark forest with large, hungry mountain lions. So I suggest you call whoever dropped you off and have them come get you. And if it was my Aunt Wheezie's chauffeur, he and I are going to have problems.”

She hesitated for only a second before lowering her gaze from his mouth and tapping the screen of her phone. He didn't need to hear her frustrated groan to know her attempt had failed. That was one of the things he loved about the cabin—you rarely got good cell phone service. Which meant no calls from his overbearing father, his protective mother, his teasing siblings, or his matchmaking great-aunt Wheezie. Of course right now he would've given his left nut for a phone that worked.

Patrick released a long, tired sigh. How had his plan for a fun, relaxing weekend run so amuck? Instead of spending the weekend in Denver attending his nieces' and nephews' Halloween parties, where little devils raced around on sugar highs, cute princesses had major screaming meltdowns, and poopy-diapered pumpkins smeared cupcake frosting everywhere, he'd planned to spend the weekend the adult way. First at a Halloween party with Jell-O shots and women in nasty costumes and then at his cabin…alone.

The Halloween party hadn't disappointed. Besides the usual nasty nurses, police officers, and French maids, there had been nasty witches, nasty storybook characters, and his favorite—nasty team sports. He hadn't complained a bit when the brunette wearing a Broncos jersey and stilettos had pulled him into a bedroom and asked to see what was under his kilt. It was only after her cute tight end had him primed and ready that he noticed her wedding band and sent her back to the locker room.

Women
.
Was there a man on the face of the earth who understood them? He sure didn't. He didn't understand their preoccupation with gossip, their ability to fire off a good twenty texts between each paltry bite of grilled chicken salad with low-fat dressing, or their strong desire to meet the “right one.”

Patrick wasn't the right one. He loved his single life too much to give it up for the rules and regulations of married life. He was willing to give up a weekend for great sex, but that was where he drew the line. Let his three brothers and sister carry on the McPherson name; he was more than happy to be the bachelor uncle of the family.

“Look,” he said, “I don't know what plans you and my aunt cooked up—or why you've suddenly changed your mind. And frankly, I don't give a damn.” He walked over to the sink in the small kitchenette. “You made your bed, Goldilocks, and now you'll have to sleep in it. Because I'm not driving you back to Denver tonight.”

He turned on the faucet, but barely had time to slip his hands beneath the cold water before he heard the door open. He might've let her go if not for the blast of snow and frigid air that accompanied her departure. With a grumbled oath, he went after her, grabbing her arm before she even made it past his truck. A truck that now leaned to one side with a flat tire.

“What the hell!” he yelled as his grip tightened on her arm. “Did you do that?”

Instead of answering she swung at him with her huge purse. Her aggression coupled with the flat tire and escalating snowstorm took the last of his patience. Dragging her back inside, he kicked the door closed before jerking the purse from her hand. Which resulted in her pummeling him with her fists.

“Enough!” He dropped the purse and grabbed her wrists, pulling her hands behind her back and bringing her body flush against his. The contact caused her to still and Patrick's anger to take a backseat to sexual awareness.

The woman was soft. Not fat soft, but feminine soft. The kind of soft that females were born with, but few kept. Not with their crazy diets and hours spent in Zumba classes. But this woman didn't have hard muscles or sharp bones. Just round curves and warm valleys.

Patrick glanced down. It was a mistake. Her creamy breasts spilled over the edge of the satiny neckline like two soft, sweet dollops of heaven. Snuggled between his hard pectoral muscles, they looked—and felt—sexy as hell.

His cock came to full attention. And since he was a true Scotsman and never wore anything under his kilt, there was nothing to hold him back. Thank God her dress was made of yards and yards of material. But then she gasped, and he figured even yards and yards weren't enough to hide his desire. What did he expect? After four long months without sex, he was surprised his cock hadn't burned straight through her dress.

She stopped struggling, and her gaze lifted. Not to his eyes, but to his mouth. Her conflicting actions confused him. Did she want to leave, slash his tires, or kiss him? Maybe she was one of those women who liked to play rough. The type who liked to heighten the sexual tension by playing hard to get. Well, it was working. His sexual tension was at an all-time high. And since she was the one who had knocked on his door, he decided to release some of it.

Tugging her closer, he kissed her. Unlike most women, she didn't try to take control. Nor did she try to stop him. She just stood there with her eyes wide and her breath held as he deepened the kiss. She tasted like chocolate and caramel, making him realize that he had a sweet tooth after all. Her lips were soft and heavenly, her mouth hot and habit-forming.

Worried about losing control too quickly, he pulled away and nibbled his way to the pulse beneath her ear. She smelled like Aunt Wheezie's homemade bread baking in the oven. Wondering if her skin tasted as good as it smelled, he sucked the sweet flesh into his mouth before taking a nip.

The woman in his arms released a sexy little moan before going completely limp. Not an I'm-so-turned-on-I-can't-stand kind of limp, but a completely-passed-out kind of limp—as in fainting dead away. Luckily, Patrick caught her before she slipped to the floor. Scooping her up, he carried her to the couch and checked her pulse. Her beat was rapid, but then again, so was his. He picked up his cell phone from the end table and checked for service. When he found none, he tossed down the phone and headed for the kitchen. He had always remained calm in emergency situations. Not that this was an emergency situation.

Yet.

It didn't take him long to light the kerosene lamp and wet a dish towel with water. He set the lamp on the coffee table before sitting down on the edge of the couch and running the cold, wet towel over her forehead.

“Hey, Goldilocks, wake up.” He gently washed away the streak of mud on one cheek before moving to the streak on her shoulder. Beneath the drying mud, he found a nasty-looking red welt. A welt in the exact shape of a seat belt.

Holy shit
.
He sat back. She wasn't some woman his aunt had sent. She was a victim of a car accident, and from the look of the welt, a pretty good one. He released a snort of disgust. His sister was right. At times he was an inconsiderate jerk. While this woman was probably concussive, he had been trying to figure out how to get her in bed. He went to press his fingers to the pulse at her throat, but stopped when he noticed the two red indentions. Indentions he'd put there.

“Dammit!” He reached up and pulled out the fake fangs. They weren't the cheap plastic kind kids used. These were porcelain and made exclusively for him by a female dentist he'd once dated. The dentist had sent the fangs after he'd ended their relationship, along with a note about how well they went with his cold heart. Patrick hadn't been insulted as much as impressed. The fangs fit to perfection and looked real as hell. Real enough to scare his nieces and nephews every Halloween. And real enough to intrigue some nasty women. Unfortunately, after spending the night drinking beers and scoping out women, he'd completely forgotten about them.

No wonder the brunette Bronco had kept offering her neck. Except he hadn't wanted to bite the brunette's bronzed neck—just the pale neck of an accident victim. He ran a finger over the welts. Never in his life had he hurt a woman. At least not physically. He'd broken a few hearts, but never skin. A moan came from Goldilocks's slightly parted lips, and her eyes fluttered open. He watched as a myriad of emotions passed through their sky-blue depths. Confusion. Fear. And finally resignation.

“Am I a vampire?”

He chuckled at the joke and smoothed the damp hair off her forehead. “No. I don't change my victims…I just snack on them.” She didn't crack a smile, but her shoulders relaxed, bringing his attention back to the welt. “How badly are you hurt?”

Her hand went to the marks on her neck. “Surprisingly, it didn't hurt as much as I thought it would.”

Patrick felt his face heat with embarrassment. “I'm sorry. I forgot about the fangs.”

Her gaze flickered to his mouth, and damned if he didn't get hard again. “Well, I guess since you didn't…umm…overindulge, it's not a big deal.”

Overindulge
?
Oh, he wanted to overindulge. Especially with those phenomenal breasts just a reach away. But he wasn't that big of a jerk. “So can you tell me what happened? Are there any other victims?”

“No. No one else was in the car with me when Bigfoot—I mean, a deer jumped out in front of the car. I would've been okay if my brakes had worked properly. It was almost like someone had tampered with—” She paused, and her eyes widened. “Mr. Darby.” She glanced at the door. “And he's probably the one who flattened your tire.”

Patrick started to wonder if she wasn't suffering from a concussion. She seemed to be talking irrationally. Of course most women talked irrationally. “I thought you said no one was in the car with you. Who is Mr. Darby?”

“No one was in the car with me. Mr. Darby is the guy who's trying to k—” She stopped and cleared her throat. “Never mind. It's not important. So you were saying?”