Книга - A Christmas Cowboy

A Christmas Cowboy
Suzannah Davis


All I Want For Christmas… Mac Mahoney was in deep trouble. The hard-nosed reporter had foolishly gotten snowed in with his ex-girlfriend Marisa Rourke. Now they had to ignore the sizzle that still flared between them. And to make matters worse, her five-year-old was somehow convinced Mac was the daddy he'd ordered from Santa.Is a Daddy Considering their complicated - and extremely seductive - past, Mac was the last person Marisa wanted to meet under the mistletoe. He claimed all he wanted from her was a story, but she knew from experience that she couldn't quite trust him. How could she risk breaking her heart - or her son's - again?









A Christmas Cowboy

Suzannah Davis







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Brian, Jill and Brad


Special Thanks to A Martinez and the cast and crew of “Santa Barbara”




Contents


One (#u97ae3a4e-0b59-58e9-88a1-920a76bc8ba3)

Two (#u4370f48f-ab04-54d1-a1c4-9f96a3b110f4)

Three (#u7e1b374b-68a9-5f75-9e9d-731563d90190)

Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




One


Could a mother be charged with kidnapping her own son?

With a cry of frustration and fear, Marisa Rourke gave up her futile attempts to start a fire in the rustic hunting lodge’s massive stone fireplace. A kerosene lantern illuminated the small figure asleep in a pile of blankets on the old leather sofa. Bending over him, Marisa stroked her five-year-old son’s straight sandy hair. The golden tint was identical to her own, a happy coincidence of Nicky’s adoption.

To her relief, his cheeks were warm and his breathing deep and easy. Love flooded Marisa, a feeling so powerful she had to close her eyes. It was followed immediately by a surge of fierce protectiveness. Nicky was hers. Hers. And no one was going to take him away from her!

But how long before hypothermia became a threat to a small child? Outside, the December blizzard of the century had blown down all the power lines crossing the California High Sierras, and now the emergency generator refused to crank, giving the spacious, two-story log dwelling with its wide banks of wraparound porches all the characteristics of an icebox. Since cowboys were Nicky’s latest obsession, bedding down in front of the fireplace like ranch hands sleeping around a campfire had suited him just fine. In fact, so far, Nicky Latimore had found everything about this unexpected adventure with his mother perfectly charming.

Marisa wished her own feelings were as uncomplicated. A week ago, her life had been...well, if not exactly perfect, at least contented. Despite her industrialist husband’s death in a car accident three years ago, she was managing, juggling her booming acting career as Dinah Dillman on “Time Won’t Tell,” TV’s most popular daytime drama, and her duties as spokesperson for the Adopt-a-Child Foundation with the demands and joys of single parenthood. Until reporter Marcus Craig “Mac” Mahoney had bulled his way back into her life.

Even after ten years, she hadn’t been ready. Tall, sable-haired, everything about the tough investigative journalist from his changeable hazel green eyes to his ex-boxer’s physique had been so familiar Marisa could have wept. Instead, Mac’s scandalous accusations during the “Jackie Horton Live” television talk show regarding the illegal adoption racket of Dr. Franco Morris had turned her into a desperate runaway.

Again.

Shaking off a chill that bit deeper than the outside temperature, Marisa tucked Nicky’s blankets closer, reliving her panic upon learning that Elsie Powers, a Louisiana native now living in nearby Riverside, was claiming the good doctor had stolen her infant son—stolen Nicky!—under false pretenses and emotional duress. And Elsie wanted him back.

That’s why Marisa had run, escaping from Los Angeles with her child in her housekeeper’s anonymous sedan, leaving behind the paparazzi, her agent, her lawyers and the police. Like a wounded animal, she’d come to ground in the same secluded mountain hideaway that had been her sanctuary the last time Mac Mahoney had shattered her world. Only this time, there was even more at stake.

With a shudder of apprehension, Marisa swung a quilt around her shoulders and went back to work on the obstinate fire. Outside, the wind howled.

It was the wind, wasn’t it? Straightening, Marisa listened hard. Something was different, she realized. Had the tenor of that inhuman wailing changed somehow? She thought uneasily about wolves, then wrenched her galloping imagination back under control. She and Nicky were safe inside the lodge—except perhaps from frostbite if she didn’t get the fire going! There was no reason to fear—

A thump sounded on the porch, and Marisa surged to her feet. A three-sided balcony opening onto the second-floor bedrooms overlooked the large den, the base of its staircase spilling into the foyer at the front of the lodge. From her vantage in front of the fireplace, Marisa could see directly into the shadowy hall. Something struck the front door, making it vibrate on its hinges. Her heart leapt to her throat. With a quick glance at Nicky’s sleeping form, she gathered her courage, picked up the heavy cast-iron poker from the hearth and went to investigate.

The moment she reached the door, it rattled violently again, and she jumped back in alarm. What kind of animal would attack a human stronghold? And then she heard it: faint, wind-whipped echoes above the banshee scream of air. No wolf ever sounded like that—except the two-legged kind!

Warily, Marisa peeked through the heavy curtain covering the window beside the front door. The movement drew the attention of the snow-covered figure on the porch. A ferocious face glazed with ice and snow glared at her from the depths of a parka’s fur-lined hood. “Dammit, Marisa, open up!” he roared. “I’m freezing!”

The blood drained from her face.

Mac.

* * *

He was mad as hell and getting angrier by the minute.

Raising his gloved fist, Mac Mahoney pounded on the lodge door again. Half-blinded by driving sleet, lungs seared by the frigid wind, feet numb inside his boots after a mile-long trek from where his Jeep sat bogged in a snowbank, he was in no mood for any of Marisa Rourke’s foolishness. By God, the woman had already caused him enough trouble to last a lifetime!

The door creaked open a bare two inches. “Go away!”

He caught it just before it clicked shut in his face. Now he was furious. Shoving his shoulder against the door like a linebacker, he felt the momentary resistance of her weight on the other side, then he barreled through, flinging it wide open. A mountaineer reaching the summit of Mount Everest couldn’t have been more triumphant. Until he saw the poker.

“Hey!” He ducked the blow she aimed at his head.

“Get out!”

“Are you nuts?“

“Not crazy enough to tolerate the likes of you.“ Bundled in turtleneck and Scandinavian sweater, Marisa threw back her shoulder-length hair and glared at him, her eyes like blue ice. Snow laced with sleet blew in through the open doorway. “Get the hell out.”

Exasperated, Mac shoved back the hood of his green, multipocketed parka, wiping ice crystals from his dark eyebrows. “It’s snowing like the devil out there!”

“I don’t care if you fall off a glacier.” The knuckles of her hand grasping the poker turned white. “I’m warning you....”

Mac couldn’t help it. He laughed. Until the swipe she took at him caught him sharply on the top of the shoulder. Enraged, Mac sprang, catching her wrist and pinning her against the wall.

“Drop it!” The padding of his thick parka had saved him from major damage, but he spoke through teeth gritted with pain. Stubbornly she held on to the poker, her angry breaths pushing her breasts against his chest. The air was charged with the smell of snow and fury.

“You aren’t welcome here, Mahoney. Get it?”

“I didn’t spend the past hour slogging uphill on foot in this mess to freeze to death. Let go.” He squeezed harder.

She gave a cry, and her hand opened. The heavy poker clanged to the floor. Without releasing her, Mac kicked the front door shut. After the scream of the wind, the near silence was deafening. Her eyes glittered. “You are such a bastard.”

“So I’m told.” Showing his teeth, he leaned in closer. Even through his sodden, bulky clothing, he could feel her heat, smell the intoxicating scent of her perfume. His belly clenched in response, and the unwelcome sensation made him furious all over again. “So be warned. You try anything like that again, I won’t be so forgiving.”

Her lip curled, showing clearly what she thought of the quality of his mercy. “What are you doing here?”

“Better question, what are you?”

“I—” Her lashes lowered. “Vacationing.”

“Huh. More like running away. Again.” His mouth twisted in contempt. He released her and stepped back to strip out of his wet coat. “That’s always been your answer to everything, hasn’t it, Marisa?”

Her expression wavered.

Guilty, Mac thought. She’s guilty as hell.

He cast a glance at the shadowy interior of the lodge—heavy wood-and-stone construction, oversize furnishings, the requisite Indian blankets and antler trophies strategically positioned on the log walls. The masculine environment was at odds with Marisa’s slender femininity.

“So this is where you disappeared to ten years ago. Quite an interesting choice of refuge for a poor little rich girl, isn’t it?”

Her chin came up. “Save your insults, Mahoney. You don’t know anything about me—you never did! How did you find me?”

“Just played a hunch. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out you’d seek sanctuary at your Uncle Paul’s.”

“You didn’t figure it out before.”

His look was steady. “I didn’t try.” God, the satisfaction of saying that! After all these years with the acid eating away at his gut, to be able to tell her that her leaving him hadn’t meant a thing, that he’d picked up his life and gone on without missing a beat. If it were only true...

Mac tossed his parka and his soaked gloves aside, then massaged the tender lump swelling on his shoulder beneath his thermal underwear and plaid flannel shirt.

“Did Paul come with you?” he asked abruptly. As he recalled, Paul Willis was a garrulous old codger, a longtime travel writer who’d been a favorite friend of Marisa’s, as well as her godfather, during her teen years, when her well-to-do yachting parents had been out gallivanting around the world.

“He’s in India.”

“Too bad. I would have enjoyed seeing him again.”

Rubbing her bruised wrist, she gave him a hostile glare. “Cut the small talk. What do you really want?”

“Answers.”

“Crawl back under your rock, Mahoney. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Wrong. The way I see it, I’ve got ten years’ worth of explanations coming to me. I’ll settle for some straight talk about this Dr. Morris situation.”

“There is no ‘situation,’ except in your feeble brain!” she hissed.

“Let’s get one thing clear. You aren’t cheating me out of an ending this time around.”

Her gaze turned wary. “What do you mean?”

“I’m offering you a chance to tell your side of the story. Why else would I have tracked you to the back of beyond? A good journalist never lets a scoop slip out of his hands if he can help it, right?” His grin was cocky. “Besides, this black-market-baby story is just what I need to clinch a big contract with Independent News Network. So there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you blow my chances by disappearing on me again.”

“That’s what this vendetta is all about? About you? You son of a—” With an inarticulate cry of outrage, she launched herself at him again, fingers curled into punishing claws.

Mac grunted, fending her off, and finally grabbed her wrists and twisted them behind her back so that she arched against him. “My God! What’s the matter with you, woman?”

Panting, impotent, held fast against his bulk, she glared her hatred. “You have to ask? Using an innocent child for your own ends. You insensitive, selfish clod! Why can’t you leave us alone?”

Mac tightened his hold, looking down into her eyes. “Because I always finish what I start, Marisa. Or have you forgotten?”

“Go to hell!”

He laughed. “Sorry, no can do. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got ourselves a prime piece of the Polar Express roaring down outside. No one’s going anywhere anytime soon, not unless they’ve got suicide in mind. I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“What? No!” Panic flickered in her eyes.

“What’s the problem?” Holding both her wrists in one hand, he brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “As I recall, we once loved being alone together.”

She choked. “You—”

He caught her chin in the crook of his hand, forcing her face up to his. His mouth hovered over hers, tantalizing, insulting. “Maybe you’ve forgotten other things, too, princess. Like how you used to sigh and moan in my arms. Like how we felt when we were a part of each other.”

She trembled against him, color rolling over her cheekbones, the pulse at her temple throbbing. “Mac, no...”

“I haven’t forgotten, Marisa.” He bent closer, his eyes hooded. “I haven’t.”

“Mommy?”

Mac jerked and released her. Marisa pushed past him, going down on her knees beside the small, towheaded boy in rumpled Snoopy sweats and droopy socks. She gathered the child into her arms and pressed her flushed cheek against his, reciting a soothing litany. “Nicky, I’m sorry! Did I wake you up? Everything’s all right, honey.”

Wide-eyed with amazement, Nicky looked Mac over from head to heels. “Mommy, you found a cowboy!”

Mac couldn’t prevent a snort. He’d been called a lot of things, but this was a new one. “Sorry, pal. I’m a city boy from New Jersey.”

“You got boots.” Nicky’s tone was accusatory.

Mac glanced down at his old Ropers. “Yeah, well, fat lot of good they did me—my toes are frozen.”

“No more than you deserve for poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.” Marisa scooped up Nicky and held him protectively, as fierce as a lioness defending her cub. “It’s cold, Nicky. You have to get back under the covers.”

As if in response to her words, a huge shudder shook Mac. “Jeez, you’re right. It’s as cold as the devil in here. Why haven’t you got a fire going?”

She didn’t answer, but her expression was mutinous. After carrying the youngster back into the den, she settled him into a nest of blankets on the sofa. Bringing up the rear, Mac noticed the pile of spent matches and scorched kindling in the fireplace, and he laughed again.

“I see your trouble. Good thing I showed up, huh, Marisa? From the looks of things, you could use some help.”

“Not yours.” Her tone was scathing.

“As they say, ‘beggars can’t be choosers,’ princess.”

She cast him a resentful look over her shoulder. “Don’t call me that!”

Shrugging, Mac sat down on the edge of the stone hearth to tug off his boots and peel off his icy socks. “There’s another one about ‘if the shoe fits...’”

Nicky watched the exchange with sleepy-eyed interest. “What’s the cowboy’s name, Mommy?”

“Judas,” she said. “Now go back to sleep.”

“Funny name for a cowboy,” Nicky mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Mac’s jaw clamped in annoyance. Fatigue and cold had made his muscles ache and his temper short. He tried to massage life back into his numb feet. “The name’s Mac, kid. Your mother’s been reading too many bad TV scripts.”

“You call him Mr. Mahoney, Nicky. He’s a reporter who’s always had a way with words—as long as it’s a cliché or a cut.”

Mac blew out an exasperated breath. “Look, dammit, we can keep this up all night, or we can call a truce and make the best of it.”

“Suits me, since I have nothing I want to say to you. And I’ll thank you to watch your language around my son!” Nicky was curled into a ball and already snoozing again, so Marisa tucked the blankets around him, then went to the hearth and struck one match, then another. The kindling caught but died out immediately. “Damn.”

“Watch your language,” Mac mimicked, reaching for the box of matches. “Let me do that.”

“I can take care of it!” She held on to her end of the matchbox in a small tug-of-war.

Mac lifted an eyebrow. “And I can see how well you’ve done so far.” He saw anger play across her expressive features and pointed a warning finger at her straight nose. “Look, I’m tired, cold and hungry. You take another swing at me and I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

Evidently she believed him. She released the matchbox. “Fine. Go ahead. But I’d like to remind you that your circumstances are all your own doing. No one invited you here.”

Busy rearranging logs and crumpling newspaper, Mac smiled dryly. “I’ve never let a little thing like that stop me before.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

She stared at the tiny flame that flickered, caught and began to grow under the stack of logs. Mac observed the dark smudges of fatigue—or stress—beneath her eyes. He steeled himself not to feel any sympathy. “How long has the power been off?”

“Since about noon. The phones are out and the generator won’t work, either.”

“No wonder it’s so cold in here.” He propped one bare foot on the hearth, toasting his sole before the fire’s growing warmth. “When did you get here?”

“A couple of days ago.”

“Must have been a hard trip, just the two of you.”

She snapped her gaze from the fire’s mesmerizing dance. “What is this, an interrogation?”

“Good grief, you’re one suspicious female. Forget it!”

Frowning, she leaned her hands against the mantel, her knuckles white. “Forget you’re the one who’s unleashed a pack of lies about my husband and my son and just forced me to spread out the welcome mat for you? Not bloody likely, Mahoney! I’d love nothing better than to see the back of you right this moment.”

“Tough talk, babe. But I know you’re too softhearted to send me packing in the middle of a blizzard.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “Not that I’d go.”

She smiled back, too sweetly. “I wouldn’t force a rabid dog out in weather like this, but you’re another matter. So keep your distance and don’t press your luck. And first thing in the morning, you’re out of here, understood?”

“Sure.” His assurance was meaningless.

He knew it.

She knew it.

Still, the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease a bit. Maybe she believed him. And maybe she was lying to herself the way she’d once lied to him. It would be interesting to find out.

Marisa moved away from the fire. “I’m bunking with Nicky. Find yourself a place to bed down and stay out of my way.”

“I’m just beginning to defrost. I’ll stay by the fire.” He pushed a pair of overstuffed chairs together at the end of the sofa.

Marisa seemed ready to protest, but then her mouth compressed in annoyed resignation. “I’ll find some extra blankets.”

Mac pushed her to see what would happen. “And a sandwich? And some dry socks?”

She rounded on him angrily. Her eyes moved from his bare feet, up the long length of denim-covered legs to the mocking expression on his face. Whatever she saw made her swallow. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The corner of his mouth lifted at her concession. “Thank you.”

She brushed her hand over her sleeping son’s fair head, flicking Mac a suspicious look. Apparently deciding Nicky wouldn’t come to any harm in Mac’s presence for the moment, she picked up the lantern and left the room.

Mac’s smile faded, and he let out an unsteady breath.

From the way his gut twisted just looking at her, he was still just as foolishly susceptible to Marisa Rourke as a mature thirty-year-old woman as he’d been to the lovely journalism student he’d known ten years ago. Lucky for him that now she’d declared all-out war between them.

Not that he blamed her. He hadn’t exactly been comfortable with the way Jackie Horton had blindsided her on the television talk show. But Jackie and Mac’s longtime producer, Tom Powell, had insisted on pinning the actress down under a cross fire of startling accusations.

“An elite baby mill...”

“Police today arrested exclusive Bel Air physician, Dr. Franco Morris...”

“Marisa, isn’t it true that you and your late husband, Victor Latimore, used Dr. Morris to acquire your own baby?”

“We have copies of Dr. Morris’s records, verifying names, dates and fees...”

“It’s a lie! You’ll hear from my attorney!” she shouted.

Mac grimaced at the memory. But it had to be done, for impact value, Tom had said. To pull the viewing public into the story, raise an outcry, close the baby mill. And Mac had agreed. Dr. Franco Morris had been preying on innocents long enough. Bottom line was, as always, get the job done.

Mac shrugged and began to unbutton his damp shirt. Every detail he unearthed was another step closer to putting the dirty doctor behind bars permanently. The involvement of a celebrity of Marisa’s stature—Mac’s mouth tightened in disdain at the application of such a term to a soap opera star—would insure that the black-market-baby investigation got the media attention it deserved. And, of course, there was the matter of that contract....

Heck, he wasn’t unsympathetic! The kid was cute enough, and Marisa’s maternal affection appeared genuine. Like it or not, however, Marisa Rourke Latimore had to accept responsibility for her and her dead husband’s actions. And Mac should have his butt kicked for not anticipating that at the first hint of confrontation Marisa would tuck in her pretty tail and head for the hills—literally. Actions had consequences. How the hell did she think she could run away from this mess?

After spreading out his shirt on the stone hearth to dry, Mac stared into the now-blazing fire, his hands resting on the snap of his denims. He’d tackled plenty of tough assignments all over the globe—hostage crises, earthquakes, revolutions—but he knew that this one could be more than he’d bargained for, especially if he let old memories get in the way of the truth. His instincts told him those old memories were far from dead for Marisa, too. Mac hadn’t missed the way her mouth trembled when he touched her. The chemistry was still there, despite everything.

Not that he wanted to fan the ashes of a dead love affair into life again. He’d learned the hard way what he could count on, what he couldn’t. Still, in Mac’s book, Marisa owed him. A period of enforced isolation with an old lover hadn’t been in his game plan when he’d discovered her involvement in the Morris story, but he was human enough to take advantage of the present situation. He would enjoy seeing that she finally paid—at least in some small measure—for the way she’d betrayed him so long ago.

His smile returned at the prospect. He unfastened his jeans, then slid out of them and draped them over a chair back. They began to steam almost immediately. Clad in long-sleeved thermal undershirt and long johns, he rested both hands on the mantel, letting the waves of heat soak into him. The frantic detective work and two-day drive in stinking weather, not to mention that mile hike uphill in a snowstorm, were catching up with him, and the warmth was making him drowsy.

“Here, this is the only thing I could—” Behind him, Marisa’s words broke off with a small gasp of outrage.

Mac straightened, stretched and gave her a lazy glance over his shoulder. “Get a grip, princess. You’ve seen me in my skivvies before.”

“Not an experience I wanted to repeat,” she snapped. Face flaming, she dropped blankets, a rolled-up pair of wool socks and a paper plate holding a ham sandwich into a pile beside the chairs he’d chosen. “But I suppose your behaving with the least bit of common decency is too much to expect.”

“Hey, I was wet. You want me to sleep in damp clothes and catch my death?”

“It’s a thought.” Without looking at him, she kicked off her shoes and crawled onto the sofa beside her son, arranging the blankets over them both.

Mac wrapped himself in a fluffy comforter and sat in the chair to pull on the dry socks. He made his tone conversational. “You know, the most sensible thing would be for us to cuddle together to conserve body heat.”

“In your dreams, Mahoney.” Her voice was muffled by the piles of blankets, but the agitation in her tone was plain. “Shut up so we can sleep.”

Reaching for the sandwich, Mac propped his long legs in the seat of the matching chair. Yeah, in my dreams, he thought. If she only knew.

Halfway through the sandwich, he paused long enough to examine it more closely. Ham, cheese, mustard, no mayo. He hated mayonnaise. She’d remembered....

The next mouthful went down hard. She remembered. As much as he did? With as much pain? They’d had so much. At least he’d thought they had. Did she regret at all that she’d left him without a word?

Mac set aside the unfinished sandwich, huddling down in the chair and pulling the comforter up around his ears. Dancing orange shadows illuminated the room and the rounded forms of the woman and child on the big sofa. Although the cadence of her breathing was even, he knew she wasn’t asleep.

“Marisa?” His voice was low, barely audible above the howling of the unrelenting storm outside.

“Hmm?”

“Where did it go wrong?”

There was a long silence, so long that Mac decided she wasn’t going to answer him.

Finally, she replied. “Does it matter?”

Mac had no answer that he could voice, but it did matter. God help him. It did.




Two


Marisa awoke smiling, her dreams melting into gossamer images of beaches and a green-eyed man and the sensation of sunshine warming her skin. She stretched, indulging in the perfect euphoric moment. In the next instant, sleep slipped completely away, and she sat up with a gasp.

Nicky! The space on the sofa beside her was empty. Blood surging, Marisa threw back the blankets and rolled to her feet in a panic.

Above the crackle of the steadily burning fire, high-pitched childish chatter drifted from the direction of the kitchen. She stumbled toward the rear of the lodge, stopping short at the cased opening into the cozy dining area and country kitchen.

“My mommy can do that better.”

“Yeah, kid? Well, your mommy’s still snoozing like Goldilocks, so I guess it’s up to me. See if this suits you.”

Marisa quit breathing. Mac Mahoney stood with his back to her—his bare, beautifully muscled back—pushing a glass of orange juice across the counter to Nicky. Her mouth went dry. Mac’s shoulders were as broad as ever, the well-defined muscles covered by bronzed skin. Her fingers tingled with the urge to explore the velvety texture.

The dim natural light filtering into the kitchen revealed spoons, pitchers and puddles of sticky orange concentrate littering the dividing bar. Outside, the wind continued to howl and the sky, still a sullen lead color, filled the air with flurries of gray snow, but the lodge was noticeably warmer, thanks to Mac. Yet the image of him stoking the fire during the night while she slept unsettled her. So did the realization that a pair of snug jeans on the right man could be utterly devastating to the female libido.

“Don’t like ‘The Three Bears.’” Nicky perched on a tall stool, slurping juice from a tumbler. “Too sissy.”

Mac poured bottled water into a battered percolator and rummaged in the cabinets for coffee. “You never heard the real story then.”

“What story?”

“Not the one they tell babies.” Mac frowned over the measuring scoop and read the side of the red coffee can again. “The one about how the bear family gobbled up Goldilocks for breakfast instead of porridge. Fricasseed blonde.”

“Really? Cool.”

“The twit got what she deserved for breaking and entering, so let that be a lesson to you, kid. There aren’t any free lunches in this world.”

“Mommy makes my lunches. And she puts four scoops of that stuff in the coffeepot. Are you sure you’re not a cowboy?”

Marisa couldn’t resist a smile at that. Mac surreptitiously unscooped a couple of spoonfuls of coffee grounds out of the strainer basket with his fingers, then turned on the gas burner of the bottled-propane stove. Marisa couldn’t help noticing how his thick, mahogany-colored hair grew long at his nape. He’d always been too impatient for regular haircuts.

“Sorry,” he said to the boy. “I wouldn’t know the north end of a horse from the south.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Nicky sighed, then his blue eyes brightened. “Are you the new daddy I asked Santa to bring?”

“Nicky!” Marisa nearly swallowed her tongue in chagrin. Face flaming, she stepped into the kitchen to quiet her all-too-outspoken offspring. Mac turned toward her, and she drew up sharply with a horrified gasp. “Oh, my God.”

A painful-looking blue-and-purple streak ran from the top of Mac’s muscled shoulder to his collarbone—her doing. That blow with the poker had done more damage than she’d realized. Remorse flooded her.

“Mac, I’m so sorry!” Without thinking, she lifted her hand, hovered hesitantly over the livid bruise for a moment, then gently stroked the area of abused flesh as if to draw out the pain.

The instant she touched him, Mac shuddered. Swift as a striking snake, he captured her wrist, holding her in midstroke, her fingers barely brushing his skin. His lips compressed, and something emerald and potent and wild flared behind his eyes in a look so heated Marisa felt dazed and dizzy.

“Don’t do that again—unless you’re prepared for the consequences.” His voice was rough, his lean jaw shadowed by dark stubble. He looked like a pirate, ruthlessly masculine and intent on plunder.

Marisa blinked, unnerved and confused. Her breathing came short and choppy, and her skin felt unnaturally sensitized. Mac’s fingers were like a fiery bracelet burning into her wrist, tracking the pulse that thundered there. Was he merely warning her against trying to wallop him again, or was that dangerous golden glint in his green eyes the product of something else? Something as elemental as the arc of electricity that had passed through them both at her innocent touch. Thoroughly rattled, Marisa twisted her hand free and stepped back in haste.

“No. Of course. That is—” Realizing she was babbling, she shoved her disheveled hair from her face and drew a deep breath. “No, I won’t. You should put ice on it. Or maybe a hot pack? There’s bound to be some liniment...”

Their contact broken, Mac was once again his usual mocking self. Half-smiling, he gave an easy shrug, as if that disturbing moment had been only in Marisa’s imagination. “Relax, princess. I’ve had worse.”

“Oh. Yeah, right.”

A shiver ran down Marisa’s spine at his casual acceptance of the dangers inherent in his work. Over the years, it had been hard for her to miss Mac’s news reports from hot spots all over the globe. Not that she’d been looking for him on purpose, of course. It was just that any time there was a political crisis, a natural disaster or another injustice to be revealed to the world, the viewing public could count on Mac Mahoney reporting from the thick of things. In his dedication and passionate pursuit of truth, Mac had never let a little thing like personal safety stand in the way of a good story.

“Just don’t let it happen again.” Mac’s voice was gruff as he turned back to the stove. “Coffee will be ready in a minute.”

“Yes. Uh, thanks.” Weakly, Marisa took the stool next to Nicky’s and gave the boy a good-morning hug. Thankfully the lad hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary about his mother’s reaction to their visitor. “How’re you doing, partner?”

“Call me Tex today, Mommy.”

“All right, Tex. Was your bedroll comfortable last night?”

“Yup.” Nicky grinned, his face shining with impish pleasure at the imaginary role. “Me and Mac got up with the roosters. Didn’t we, Mac?”

Mac grunted something unintelligible.

“That’s Mr. Mahoney, Tex,” she corrected.

“Leave it,” Mac ordered. “We don’t need that kind of formality. Right, Tex?”

“Right, Mac!”

Marisa would have argued, but then Mac shoved a mug of black-as-sin coffee at her, automatically pushing the sugar and dry creamer in her direction. “Thanks.” Marisa swallowed hard around a sudden thickness in her throat.

After all this time, he still remembered how she liked her morning coffee. A little thing, but the realization touched some chord deep inside her, softening her wariness and hostility— Marisa reined in this new feeling with a firm hand. This was treacherous territory. She couldn’t afford to let down her guard, not with Nicky’s future at stake!

And what had Nicky meant about a “new daddy”? Had her little boy been pining for a male role model without her even being aware of it? she wondered guiltily. Being a single parent wasn’t easy, but she’d done her best since Victor’s death. However, for Nicky misguidedly to settle his affections on a cynical, hard-nosed reporter who was intent on ruining their lives would be pure disaster! Yes, the sooner Mac Mahoney was on his way and out of her life again, the better.

Stirring her coffee, she flicked Mac a brief glance. His bronze nipples pebbled in the cool air, winking from a light thatching of brown hair that tapered down the corrugated muscles of a belly just as flat and hard at thirty-seven as it had been a decade earlier. Swallowing, she dragged her gaze away. “Ah, I suppose you’ll want to make an early start....”

One dark eyebrow lifted, and the edges of his hard mouth curved upward in a pitying smile. “Never give up, do you, princess?”

Her chin tilted in preparation for battle. “I thought I’d made myself clear—”

“So has the weatherman.” Mac tapped an index finger on the small, battery-operated weather-band radio sitting on the counter. “Good thing Paul keeps his pantries well stocked. Time to batten down the hatches.”

Marisa’s fingers clenched around the handle of the mug. “Wh-what does that mean?”

“Travelers warnings are everywhere, all roads are closed and nothing’s moving in or out of these mountains. They say we’ve got three or four more days of this at least. Might let up by Christmas Eve, earliest.”

“A white Christmas? Oh, boy!” Nicky crowed. “I never had snow for Christmas before! Is the chimney big enough for Santa? I better go look!”

He scrambled off the stool and raced into the den. Dismayed, Marisa stared after him. Trapped up here with Mac Mahoney, forced to endure his accusations, his cross-examinations and her own wayward responses every time he came too near—for Christmas? It was too much to contemplate! Fuming, she glared at him. “I’m not staying here with you. If you won’t leave, I will!”

“Don’t be a fool, Marisa. The roads are treacherous. You wouldn’t get ten feet.”

She knew she was being unreasonable, fighting the inevitable, but her mouth was mulish. “I might. And at least I wouldn’t have to endure your odious company!”

“You can’t fool me. You might risk your own neck—and I’d be happy to let you, believe me—but you’d never risk the kid’s.”

Her shoulders slumped. “No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The smugness of his expression made her long to smack it off his face. But violence wasn’t the answer, so to restrain the impulse she lifted her mug to take a fortifying sip. The bitterness of the double-strength brew made her choke.

“Too strong?” Mac asked mildly.

Marisa climbed off the stool and emptied her mug in the sink. She followed with the entire pot of coffee. “Everything about you comes on too strong.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re stuck with me, huh?”

She bit her lip, frustration and helplessness choking her.

All right, she thought, she had to accept the situation, uncomfortable as it made her—but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Nor did it mean she had to give Mac any answers just because circumstances forced them together. She had better sense than to let outdated emotions cloud the fact that his actions had made him her enemy now. There were larger issues at stake—keeping warm and fed on top of the list.

Yes, that was the ticket. Stay cool but civil, wait out the storm and make certain she gave Mac Mahoney nothing that he could use in his damned story! He’d eventually get bored and move on to seek other prey.

“Since you barged in without an invitation, you’ll have to earn your keep, Mahoney. Get dressed, for God’s sake. We need more wood inside, buckets of snow to melt for washing and flushing. I won’t have any freeloaders, is that clear?”

“I can do my part.” He raised his eyebrows. “You intend to feed me breakfast before I brave the storm?”

Belligerence gave her voice an edge. “What do you want?”

Mac bared his teeth—a peculiar, predatory smile that made the hair on the back of Marisa’s neck stand up. “Porridge?”

* * *

He got oatmeal. A bowl of oatmeal sporting a happy face made with a jelly smile and two raisins for eyes. Nicky, dressed in corduroys, sweater and six-guns, had insisted. “You’re bigger than me. You must get hungrier.”

The boy’s bright blue eyes looked so expectant, Mac didn’t have the heart to tell him that he despised oatmeal, no matter how artfully it was decorated. Grimly, Mac pushed back the cuffs of his plaid flannel shirt and picked up his spoon. It couldn’t be any worse than Bedouin goat-milk couscous.

Marisa, her face freshly scrubbed and hair pulled back in a ponytail, but still wearing the slacks and sweater she’d slept in, set another bowl before Nicky and ruffled his fair hair affectionately. “Eat up. Cowboys need their energy.”

Trained to observe, Mac noted the easy manner between mother and son. It didn’t jibe with the picture of the affluent “star” foisting the upbringing of her child on paid servants, only seeing the little tyke when he was paraded before the dinner guests. Instead, they shared a rapport that could only have been built with genuine love and hands-on diligence.

Marisa had help, of course. When he’d gone to the pseudo-Spanish Beverly Hills monstrosity Victor Latimore had built for his new bride, intent on offering Marisa a chance to say her piece about the Morris matter, Mac had met Gwen Olsen, Marisa’s nanny-housekeeper. Pulling the truth out of Gwen that Marisa had vanished without leaving so much as a note behind had produced a powerful feeling of déjà vu, launching Mac into the chase that had led him here, straight to a damned bowl of oatmeal!

Grimacing, he shoveled in the first mouthful. To his surprise, it wasn’t half-bad. She’d laced it with brown sugar and a touch of cinnamon.

Nicky grinned up at him. “Good, huh?”

Mac tried another bite, decided the kid was right and dug in. Maybe if his own mother had possessed the imagination to draw faces in his cereal bowl, he wouldn’t have grown up so wild and rebellious.

But Vivian Mahoney, abandoned by her husband and beaten down by life and the two menial jobs she worked merely to keep herself and her son fed, hadn’t had the time for such niceties or the energy to cope with her street-smart son. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the coach down at the local Boys’ Club and a stint in the Golden Gloves boxing circuit, no telling what kind of turn—for the worse—Mac’s life might have taken. His mother had died when he was seventeen, and he’d always thought she had not so much given up on life as simply been worn out. But growing up on the mean streets had given Mac his drive, propelling him through Princeton on a scholarship while he worked double shifts and weekends at a foundry. When you’d never had much of anything, you took nothing for granted.

Especially not a woman’s love.

Marisa was finishing her own bowl of hot cereal, her gaze abstracted as she poked into cupboards and a pantry, pulling out various cans. Face bare and hair scraped back, she hardly looked like a glamorous actress, but her classic Ingrid Bergman-type bone structure gave her a compelling beauty that would remain ageless. Mac wondered what millionaire Victor Latimore had seen when he looked at his wife.

“I think I’ll put together a stew to simmer over the fireplace for our lunch. How’s that sound, Nicky?” she asked.

“Can I help pour things into the pot?”

“Sure, honey.” She was already pulling a hefty cast-iron kettle from the cupboard.

Mac pushed back his empty bowl. “Where’d you learn to cook? I didn’t think that was something you ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’ types did.”

Her look was level. “I guess there’s a lot of things you don’t know.”

Annoyance hardened his mouth. If there was one thing Mac didn’t stand for, it was being accused of not having his facts down cold. “What I don’t know, I find out. That’s a promise.” He slid off the kitchen stool, gratified by the shimmer of apprehension clouding her blue eyes. “I’ll go get that wood.”

Sometime later, Mac finished stacking firewood from the backyard pile onto the porch near the back door, then gratefully carried a final armload inside to the hearth in the den. Visibility was nearly zero, and even the short trek between the lodge and its various outbuildings and sheds was an arduous one given the grueling wind-driven snow. Paul had a considerable stockpile of firewood, but if the storm kept up as predicted and power remained out, Mac thought he might eventually have to take the ax he’d found in the toolshed to a couple of the trees surrounding the place. Not a prospect he relished, considering the weather.

“Hold it right there, you varmint!” A pint-size bandito brandishing twin cap pistols and wearing a bandanna over his nose leapt out from behind a fort of pillows and blankets draped over chair backs.

“Don’t shoot, Tex. I’m one of the good guys.”

“That’s what they all say, partner. Now reach for the sky.”

Mac’s lips twitched as he dumped the wood on the hearth. “Bloodthirsty galoot, aren’t you?”

“I ain’t no galoot—I’m a cowboy!” Pulling down his kerchief, Nicky gave Mac an indignant look.

Unfastening his parka, Mac added sticks to the fire and punched it up. “I’d never have guessed.”

“Well...well, shoot!” Disgusted, Nicky plopped down on the sofa arm. “Bet if I had a horse you could tell. I hope Santa brings me one. Think he will?”

That stopped Mac. “Uh, hard to say. Where’s your mother? Upstairs?”

“Nah.” Nicky rolled onto his back and began to drum his heels on the sofa. “Outside. She made me stay here. What does ‘hold down the fort’ mean, anyway?”

“What the hell!” An image of Marisa frozen in a snowbank flashed through Mac’s head. The vision was at once ludicrous, startling and scary. “Outside? Where?”

“Checking the gen-gena—”

“Generator?”

“Yeah. And you’d better not let Mommy hear that bad word. She’ll make you sit in the time-out chair.”

“She won’t be able to sit when I get through with her!” Muttering darkly, Mac jerked at his parka zipper. “Damn fool woman—what’s she thinking?”

Halfway across the den, he turned abruptly and pointed a finger at Nicky. “You stay put until I get back. Sheriff’s orders. Okay, Tex?”

Nicky’s eyes were wide. “Yes, sir. Can I be your deputy?”

“You got it, kid.”

The boy’s awed and triumphant voice followed Mac out the door. “I knew he was a cowboy.”

The wind hit Mac smack in the face and took his breath away. Leaning against it, he came down the porch steps, ducked his head and slogged through the growing drifts toward the small lean-to attached to the combination barn and garage set behind the lodge proper. From the power lines strung from it, he guessed it was the location of the generator. On a clear day, there would be a commanding view of the snow-topped Sierra Nevada peaks in the distance, but now everything was just a gray white blankness, the silhouettes of the buildings barely visible and the outline of Marisa’s tracks already disappearing.

The wind buffeted Mac’s shoulders, and ice particles stung his cheeks. Marisa was so slender, just a puff at this force could send her tumbling down the mountainside—and then what? That she would be stupid enough to place herself—and therefore the kid—in danger incensed him. He burst through the door of the lean-to in a rage. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Marisa jumped and dropped the flashlight with which she’d been inspecting the gasoline-powered generator. The beam went out when it hit the concrete floor, and the little room was plunged into almost total gloom. “Now look what you’ve made me do!” Falling to her hands and knees, she groped for the flashlight. Clad in a puffy down jacket, knitted cap and gloves, she looked as young and delectable as any ski-resort snow bunny. Then she found the flashlight, flicked it on and speared him right in the eyes with the bright beam. “At least close the damn door.”

He kicked it shut, but the violence did little to relieve the pressure that was building up inside. “Just what the devil are you doing?” he roared.

Her chin came up. “Giving this thing another look. You got a problem with that?”

“You’re damn right I do!” He stepped closer, grabbed her arm and shook her, making the flashlight beam bounce. “From now on, don’t you poke that pretty nose of yours outside without telling me first. Is that clear?”

“I don’t take orders from you, Mahoney.”

“Don’t let that ridiculous stiff-necked pride of yours get you in trouble. This isn’t the kind of weather you can play around in.”

“I wasn’t playing. I was trying to help!”

“Then use your head. Unless all that daytime drivel you’ve been feeding the viewing public has left it totally empty.”

Her teeth snapped together. “Keep your contempt for my profession to yourself.”

“Now there’s a trick and a half! Last time I had the misfortune to tune in, you and that pretty boy you play against were cuddled up in a hot under-the-covers scene. Tell me, do you often work naked in this ‘profession’ of yours?”

Marisa’s eyes flashed her annoyance. “Dear Mac. As abrasive and crude as ever.”

“I’m paid to ask the hard questions, honey,” he drawled.

“Eric and I share a great respect for each other’s work. It’s a matter of trust and communication.” Her voice went sugar sweet. “But some people have trouble understanding such a simple, basic concept. And, unlike others I can name, Eric has never made so much as a single off-color remark to me.”

“Too tongue-tied by your beauty au naturel, I guess.”

“For your information, Eric and I have never gotten naked together...on camera.” Smiling as he chewed on that, Marisa pointed at the generator. “Now, why don’t you use a little of that brute strength you’re so fond of showing off to crank this thing!”

Jaw taut, Mac glared at her, then reached for the starter rope. Ten frustrating minutes later, he gave up. “It’s no use. If I could break it down, maybe clean out the carburetor...”

Marisa sighed. “Forget it then. We’ll just have to make do.”

“Not something a princess is accustomed to, eh?”

She looked blank for a moment, then pitched the flashlight at his head and stormed out of the lean-to. Mac ducked and went after her, his temper at the flash point. He caught up with her in two steps, looped his arm around her waist and physically dragged her into the garage, ignoring her futile attempts to break free as the wind howled around them.

“Let me go!”

Shutting the garage door behind them, Mac obliged, thrusting her down onto a pile of stacked boxes. “Sit. And shut up. We’re going to get a few things straight.”

“I’m sick of you!” Marisa whipped off her cap, shook her hair free and wiped her damp face. “Sick of the sight of you, do you hear?”

“Yeah. You’re my favorite person, too.”

Mac looked around. The garage was frigid, but being out of the wind was a relief. Several generations of tarps and tools and outdated farm and sporting equipment of every description hung from the rafters and walls. A gray sedan sat in one of the parking spaces, the vehicle Marisa had used on her escape from Los Angeles. Which brought him back to the reason he was here.

“Are you ready to tell me what really went down with you and your husband and Dr. Morris?”

Marisa spluttered in fury. “Nothing, I told you! I never heard of him until that day in Jackie Horton’s studio! Nicky’s adoption was handled by the Latimore Corporation attorneys, and it was all perfectly legal, Mr. Hotshot Reporter!”

Mac’s voice was quiet. “Then why did you run?”

“I did not—” She caught a shaky breath.

“This place wasn’t as far as you planned to go with the kid, was it? What were you thinking? Canada, maybe? Some Greek Island? Talk about parental kidnapping with a twist, jet-set-style.”

Hot color burned her cheeks, but she looked him in the eye and denied it. “Assumptions, Mahoney. You’ve got no facts, and no self-respecting journalist is going to run a story based merely on air. You used to be capable of better than this.”

“You’d do anything to protect the kid, wouldn’t you?”

“He’s my son. What do you think?”

“I think there’s a birth mother out there who’s owed some explanations.”

“Look, I feel for the women this Dr. Morris exploited, but that’s only one side of this story. There are families involved, families and lives that you’re disrupting, even destroying—hasn’t that occurred to you?”

“We find the truth, we get justice. It’s as simple as that.”

“God, it’s not!” She stood up, staring at him in sheer disbelief. “Why must it always be either black or white with you, Mac? The world has shades of gray, too.”

“All I want to do is shut down the baby mill.”

“At what cost?” she cried. “Do the ends always justify the means to you?”

“If it keeps the bastard from using other innocent women like he did the kid’s mother.”

“I’m his mother! And I’m just as innocent and undeserving of this mess that you’ve made of our lives! Can’t you for one minute see past your damned story to realize that?”

“The facts say otherwise. And you’re going to have to face up to them eventually, one way or the other.”

“I’ve told you, your facts are all wrong!” Marisa shoved him hard in the chest with both hands. “And the kid’s name is Nicholas!”

He nodded, barely rocked by her puny blow. “As in the saint, right? Which reminds me. You’ve got a problem. He thinks Santa Claus is bringing him a horse for Christmas.”

“A horse. For Christmas? That’s just—” she gulped “—four days?”

Mac nodded again.

Her expression was stricken with a horrible realization. “Oh, God. We won’t be able to drive out by then.”

He shook his head.

“Everything’s at home. All Nicky’s presents. I had everything on his list. I can’t even get to a store! I never thought...I never dreamed...” Feeling behind her, she sat down heavily on the boxes again. Her eyes filled. “Oh, no.”

Mac felt something hit him in the gut. “Hey, don’t do that.”

She wasn’t listening. A tear splashed over her lashes and trailed down her cheek. “He’s just a baby. He’ll be so disappointed. How will I explain?”

Mac was gruff. “You’ll think of something.”

“It’s all your fault.” Her eyes were indigo, swimming in liquid crystal. “If you hadn’t started this, he’d be safe at home where he belongs, sleeping in his own bed, waiting for Christmas morning. I’ll never forgive you for this, Mahoney.”

“Marisa...” He was beside her, cradling her tear-streaked face in his gloved palms, bending forward so that his forehead almost touched hers. His throat felt thick. “Lord, help me, you’re still such a baby yourself.”

“Because I believe in dreams, Mac?” She held on to his wrists, looking up at him in misery. “You never really understood, did you? You were always too much the cynic to realize that dreams are the most important things in life. Especially a little boy’s Christmas dreams.”

From deep in his memory came a vivid picture of a small dark-haired lad—Mac, himself—with his nose pressed to a store window, longing with every fiber of his six-year-old being for the magnificent red dragline with the Tonka name on its side. It was better than a dinosaur, better than a fire truck, and most certainly better than the pair of sturdy school shoes that had been the only present to appear that long-ago Christmas morning.

Mac swallowed. “That’s not true.”

Her lids dropped and more tears slid down her face. “What am I going to do?”

“Marisa, don’t.” Seeking to comfort, he nuzzled her temple, then the corner of her eye, tasted the salty essence, murmured soothing nonsense. Like a flower turning to face the sun, she raised her face to his. Mac’s gloved thumb caught at the corner of her mouth. Slowly her eyes opened and she searched his expression, wondering and wary. She did not pull away from his touch. “You’re trembling,” Mac said.

“It—it’s cold.”

“I know.” He looked at her mouth and groaned. “It’s been winter forever.” He couldn’t help himself. He had to see if her mouth was still the flavor of honey and spice. Lowering his lips to hers, he kissed her.

She tasted even better than he’d remembered—a lush, soft sweetness, intoxicating, addicting. Mac sensed the little sighing breath she gave and opened his mouth to inhale it, to breathe her. Her hands tightened on his wrists. Forgetting himself, the past, the cold, he drew his tongue along the seam of her lips and was rewarded when they parted. Deepening the kiss, he drank deep of her, making love to her with just his mouth until neither of them could bear any more and they drew apart.

Mac dropped his hands and stepped back. Dazed, Marisa touched her lips, and he watched as the light in her eyes faded and changed into a look of dismay. “That shouldn’t have happened,” she said, her voice unsteady.

“No.” Mac felt as stunned and rocky as she looked.

For a moment, neither of them could say anything else. Then Marisa stood and moved toward the door, brushing non-existent dust from her slacks. “I’ve got to get back to Nicky.”

“Marisa, wait.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, about this Christmas thing...I’ve been thinking.”

She hesitated. “Yes?”

“We’re two reasonably intelligent, imaginative people. Surely somewhere around this place we can come up with a treasure or two that would please your little cowpoke come Christmas morning—until you can get to the store-bought stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Well...” Scanning the dim interior, Mac spotted a likely item and hauled it down. “How about this sled? I could fix the runner, splash a little paint on it—there’s bound to be some paint around. And what would be more perfect for his first white Christmas?”

“You—you’d do that?”

“Sure.” He set the rickety sled aside. “And you were always pretty good with a needle. Maybe you could whip something up that would appeal to him.”

She paused before the garage door, chewing her lip, a small frown pleating her brow. “Yes, I could do that.”

“Hey, we’ll cut a tree, string popcorn. It’ll be straight out of Norman Rockwell.”

Marisa gave a shaky smile, bemused by the picture he was painting. “It’s a solution, but this doesn’t seem quite up your alley, Mahoney. What’s the catch?”

On the point of pushing open the door, Mac sobered. He was amazing himself with this cracked idea, but what the hell! He did feel partly responsible for ruining Nicky’s Christmas. And there was that memory of the Tonka dragline. Slowly he offered Marisa his hand. “No catch. Just a Christmas cease-fire. For the kid’s sake.”

She studied his face for a long moment, her expression mingling distrust, uncertainty and hope. Then, wordlessly, she placed her hand in his. Squeezing her fingers, Mac pulled her into the shelter of his body, and they prepared to cross the stormy, snowswept wasteland together.




Three


Mac sprawled on the sofa, full of Marisa’s tasty stew and pleasantly tired from splitting firewood. The unfamiliar sensation of peace and a strange contentment made his eyelids droop as he inspected the pair seated cross-legged in front of the hearth. Their fair heads bent over their work, Marisa and Nicky sat surrounded by a growing mountain of colorful paper chains. The Christmas cease-fire—fought to a diplomatic solution within the confines of a frigid garage only hours ago—appeared in full force. Mac wondered how long it would last.

“This’ll be just like the pioneers’ Christmas trees, huh, Mommy?”

Busy with tape and scissors, Marisa nodded. “Absolutely. Homemade decorations are really the prettiest. And we can string some popcorn and bake sugar cookies to hang, too.”

“Are we really going to cut down our tree right out of the woods, Mac?”

“Sure thing, Tex.”

Bobbing to his feet, Nicky leaned on the sofa arm, his eyes bright with eagerness. “When? Now?”

Mac chuckled. “Could we wait until the wind dies down a bit? I just got warm again.”

“You’re a good chopper. Mommy said so.”

“It’s nice to be appreciated.” Mac’s tone was dry. His gaze caressed the supple curve of Marisa’s back, and she stiffened as though he’d actually touched her under her sweater.

“We’ve got lots to do before we’re ready for the actual tree, Nicky,” she said, rising with a rainbow of paper chains in her arms. She wouldn’t meet Mac’s eyes. “I’ll put these up and get started on that cookie dough, okay?”

“Can Mac help us make ‘em?”

She hesitated, looking back over her shoulder, then shrugged. “Sure. If he wants.”

As Marisa disappeared into the kitchen, Nicky fixed Mac with his bright blue gaze. “You ever made cookies?”

“Not that I recall,” Mac admitted. Cookie baking had not been high on his mother’s list of priorities.

Laying his small hand on Mac’s muscular forearm, Nicky said kindly, “Don’t worry, it’s easy. I’ll help you.”

Deep down in a place Mac hadn’t realized still existed, something melted at the boy’s generous spirit. Small wonder Marisa was so proud of the kid. Mac tousled Nicky’s hair. “Thanks, partner. I’ll count on it.”

“Mac...” Nicky chewed his lip, looking uncertain.

Cocking an eyebrow, Mac gathered the boy to his side. “Something eating you, cowpoke?”

“Mommy ‘splained about getting stuck in the snow, and how Santa Claus might have trouble finding us and all, and that’s okay—I’m a big boy—but...”

“But what?”

“But I forgot the Christmas present Gwen helped me pick out at home, and now I don’t have nothing to give Mommy!” Nicky finished in a rush.

“She’ll understand—”

“No, I gotta give her a present. I gotta!”

Feeling helpless, Mac lifted the agitated child onto his lap and tried to soothe him. “Well, we’ll just have to think about that, won’t we?”

“I’ve thought and thought,” Nicky said in a mournful voice. “I could build her a box to keep things in, but she won’t let me have a hammer.”

“Smart mommy,” Mac muttered. But Nicky looked so doleful Mac knew he couldn’t let it go at that. “I wonder...does she still like fancy earrings?”

“Uh-huh. How’d you know?”

Mac shifted uncomfortably. “I, uh, your mom and I were good friends a long time ago. First time I saw her, she was wearing these weird earrings that looked like giant comets.”

“Now she’s even got some that have snakes on them! They’re cool.”

Mac looked down into the boy’s expectant face. “That’s the answer then. I saw some fine wire out in the garage. We’ll make some hooks and then glue something interesting on them like feathers or baby pinecones. We’ll keep it a secret and she’ll really be surprised.”

A skeptical frown pleated Nicky’s brow. “I don’t know.”

“Trust me, she’ll love them. Especially if they come from you.”

Satisfied, Nicky settled more comfortably against Mac’s chest, prattling on about what odds and ends he might find for the planned earrings. Mac hardly heard him. His own unthinking reassurance had caused something painful to resonate in his memory and the past rose to taunt him.

* * *

The beach had been their magic place in those early days, where they basked in the sun, the gulls crying overhead, and felt the cool silk of the water and the harsh grit of the warm sand against their bodies. And he was teasing her, laughing at her mock complaints.

“I hate my mouth,” she’d said.

“I love your mouth.”

“It’s too big.”

“It’s just right.”

“My nose is too small.”

“Your nose is perfect.”

“And my eyes...”

He’d growled, “What about your gorgeous eyes?”

“They’re just plain old blue!”

“And you’re plainly fishing for a compliment! So why don’t you try catching this instead?”

He’d tossed the box into her lap and flopped down on the towel beside her, an arm thrown over his face to show how unconcerned he was. But it was a sham, for he’d been tense with expectancy and doing his damnedest not to show it.

“What is it?” she asked, dusting sand from her legs.

“Open it and see.”

He heard her peeling away the brown paper wrapping and her swift indrawn breath. “Oh, Mac, they’re lovely.”

Taking a chance, he glanced at the dainty set of earrings made from a pair of Bolivian pesos left over from his last foreign assignment, and then up into her face. The pleasure he saw reflected there made him relax again. “Yeah, well, I owed you, right? For making you lose that earring the other night.”

She blushed at the reminder of the passionate encounter that had left them both breathless and her minus a lot more than mere jewelry. And they never found the missing earring, even though he searched the interior of his old Buick for a long time. But she was fair. “That wasn’t all your fault. Besides, I lose them all the time!”

He rose up on an elbow, squinting up at her, his belly tightening at the sight of her slenderness in her minuscule bikini. “Well, they’re nothing much—”

Marisa touched his mouth with her index finger to silence his excuses. He was sensitive about her affluent background and the fact that his mother had raised him alone on just a waitress’s earnings. And a struggling reporter’s salary—even if he’d landed a teaching position for a semester—didn’t run to expensive gifts. He was casually offhand because down deep he feared she’d find him somehow lacking, that a girl who’d had all of wealth’s advantages would realize she had made a terrible mistake falling for a guy from his street-tough background. But he underestimated her intuitive understanding of him.

“I love them. Especially since they come from you.” She bent and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to wear them in public or anything—”

“Will you stop? They’re perfect!” Laughter bubbled from her throat. “And only an uncouth lout would criticize his own gift!”

Faster than a thought, Mac caught her wrists and rolled her onto her back, their legs tangling. “A lout, am I? Those are fighting words where I come from, lady!”

Lowering her lashes, she gave him a sultry smile. “You’re not so tough.”

“No?” Desire blazed at her challenge.

Marisa reached up to pull his head down. “No.”

And then Mac was kissing her, kisses salty sweet and wonderful, teaching her about herself and him, about what loving a man truly meant. They’d had so many dreams then. Damp and replete from their loving, they’d talked about them, whispering secrets in the warm California nights, then turning to each other again, so hungry, so eager to fill each other, even though in the end their dreams hadn’t been the same at all....

“I’ll take him now, Mac. Mac?”

He jumped at the sound of Marisa’s soft voice, and looked up into the azure depths of her eyes to find past and present mingling in an instant of confused arousal. Then reality returned, and she was there, reaching not for her lover, but for her son, who’d fallen sound asleep against Mac’s flannel-covered chest. “Leave him,” Mac said, his tone gruff. “He’s not hurting anything.”

“I can take him.” Though still soft, her voice took on a defensive edge. “Besides, I’m sure you aren’t comfortable.”

Bending, she scooped Nicky into her arms. Her hair brushed Mac’s cheek, and her scent, flowery and female, enveloped him. His body leapt in response, but she was already turning away to settle Nicky into a nest of blankets near the hearth to finish his nap.

Mac rose and made a job of poking at the fire, piling in new logs—anything to spare himself the embarrassment of her noticing how easily she could stir him. His involuntary response angered him. Remembered kisses were eternally golden because they were the ideal, he told himself, explaining away the moment of weakness, ignoring the fact that the kiss they’d shared that morning outshone even that unforgettable ideal like a star gone nova beside a sputtering candle.

Putting down the poker, Mac frowned into the flames, his mouth set. Marisa was dangerous, all right, and he’d better not forget it. He had learned the hard way once before, and Mac Mahoney had no intention of getting burned again, especially at the expense of the story of his career. He hadn’t missed the frightened light in Marisa’s eyes when she found him holding her son. No matter what they had shared in the past, she still saw Mac as a threat. And that told him she was hiding something.

Truce or not, sooner or later he’d find out what.

* * *

It wasn’t until the next afternoon that the storm died down enough for a Christmas tree-hunting expedition, but by that time Marisa’s nerves were so overstretched she was ready to scream. Cabin fever took on a whole new meaning when she was forced to spend it in close company with a man who despised her.

Marisa paused on the trail Mac’s boots had cut through the snow and raised hands high over her head to take a deep cleansing breath of the icy air. Leaden clouds lay low over the distant peaks, and the wind was already picking up again with the promise of more dangerous weather within the hour. In his hooded parka and with an ax slung over his broad shoulder, Mac plowed a path through the drifts toward a thicket of young firs, followed by Nicky, who looked round as a barrel in his bright red ski jacket and knit cap.





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