Snowball's Chance by Cherry Adair Page A

bottle of wine. She held it up. He shook his head. No drinking on the job. She found a corkscrew, opened the bottle, poured one glass, then resumed pacing, sipping as she walked.
    She stopped to run a hand through her wet hair. It was the deep, rich orange-red of an excellent XO cognac. Joe loved a mellow brandy on a cold winter’s night….
    â€œâ€¦ eep with me.”
    â€œSay what?”
    â€œI said—” She took another sip of golden wine, her eyes sparkling over the rim. “—you’ll have to sleep with me.”
    Joe nearly choked on his own saliva. “That isn’t protocol, Kendall.” Boy howdy it wasn’t protocol. “Besides, I have no intention of sleeping—anywhere. I’m here to protect you, remember? The second this snow lets up, I’ll wake you, and we’ll be outta here.”
    She met his gaze with a level look. “Under the circumstances I doubt if I’ll sleep either. But to be honest, without a solid five hours’ sleep, I tend not to function on all cylinders. So I’d like to at least try to get a few hours in before we leave. I’d feel a hell of a lot safer if you were beside me. I don’t mind if you want to leave the lantern on all night. I’d just like—I’d just like …”
    Protection. “Company?”
    Her nod was jerky as, for a few seconds, she concentrated on the wine she was swirling in her glass. Joe wondered if the woman ever relaxed. Hell. If she could relax. Filled with nervous energy, she eventually came to perch on the edge of a chair near the fire. Wired and ready to blow she twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers, then looked up to meet his eyes.
    â€œI’ve worked really hard overcoming this knee-jerk reaction every time I hear something behind me. A creak when the house settles, or when I see the glint of what I pray isn’t a knife.”
    Her gaze was steady as she looked at him. “I don’t want Dwight Treadwell to win, Joe. I don’t want to live in fear for the rest of my life because of what he did to me. I thought I’d done pretty well up until now. But knowing he’s somewhere out there—knowing that I’m no longer a random victim to him, but someone he specifically wants to kill—”
    â€œHe won’t come within shouting distance of you, honey.” Joe kept his voice low and soothing, his gaze away from the frightened, erratic pulse of her heartbeat in her slender white throat. And that scar. Hell. “I won’t let you out of my sight for the duration. I promise.”
    Kendall rose and held out her hand. “Then come to bed with me, Joe. Keep me safe.”

5
    H er heart pounded hard at her boldness. But her heart might as well be flatlining. When he didn’t take her outstretched hand she dropped it to her side, arranging her face into a mask of indifference. Her skin went sweaty and hot. Somehow she wasn’t surprised by his answer. The tightness in her chest made it hard to draw a normal breath. “Hey, don’t worry about it,” she told him brightly. “You’ll be sitting right there keeping guard while I sleep, right?”
    â€œKendall—”
    She lifted her chin. His gaze flickered to her throat—the scar—then came back up to meet hers. All she read there was pity. An emotion she’d seen more times than she cared to remember. Thanks to Treadwell, she’d forever be the Surviving Victim. Little else seemed to matter to people. She almost remembered a time when people looked upon her with acknowledgment—praise even—for the way she’d picked herself up after her divorce. She’d made a life for herself—defined that life. And now that was gone. For good if that unwelcomed, familiar glint was any indication. “I know it’s early,” she inserted before he could come up with some lame excuse for not wanting to have sex with her.