Snowed by Pamela Burford Page A

letting the hot water soothe her sore muscles. First a savage battle with a would-be rapist, then two hours of cross-country skiing. Her muscles shrieked in rebellion. She noticed with disgust the large purple bruise on her hip from where she’d been thrown against the table, and the marks where Mike’s fingers had dug into her breast. She’d never been so terrified in her life.
    She thanked God James didn’t share the other man’s violent inclinations. In fact, the most disturbing thing about him was her own reaction to him. She despised herself for the physical attraction she couldn’t manage to quash.
    She sighed. James hadn’t known how right he was when he’d called this blizzard nature’s “practical joke.” She stepped out of the tub and dried off. Of all the men in the world, this was the one she couldn’t even think of getting involved with, she reminded herself. It wouldn’t be easy, but she could handle the next two or three days. She had no choice.
    Leah donned a pair of baggy jeans and a pale blue vee-necked cashmere sweater. She slipped the sinfully soft garment over her head and rolled up the sleeves, then washed out her underthings in the sink and hung them over the side of the tub. With her wet hair hanging loose to her waist, she went downstairs.
    James was in what he called the Gold Room, a parlor designed by his maternal grandmother fifty years ago. The room still retained most of its original gold and pink furnishings, including the pink marble mantel over the fireplace in which a huge log now blazed. Stieglitz was curled in front of the fire, as near as he could get without actually singeing his fur.
    James didn’t notice her at first. He was standing in front of the fire, scowling into it, lost in thought.
    “James?”
    He turned abruptly, startled out of his reverie. A bottle of cognac and two filled snifters sat on a nearby table.
    “Do you happen to have a hair dryer?” Leah asked.
    “I never use one myself, but there might be one in a linen closet. Renee had a few.” He held out his hand to her. “Come here. You don’t need a dryer.” He pulled her down to sit cross-legged on the thick carpet, her back to the fire. “Move over, cat,” he ordered. Stieglitz didn’t look too happy at being forced to share the hearth.
    James sat next to Leah, facing her side. She felt his strong fingers burrow from the back of her neck over her head, loosening the strands of her wet hair. Her head dropped back, her eyes closed, and she groaned in contentment. He chuckled, a rumble from deep in his chest. “Tell me this isn’t better than an electric dryer,” he said.
    “Mmmm...”
    Long minutes passed as he continued to rub her scalp, fluffing her hair as it gradually dried. “Here.” He placed a snifter of cognac in her hand.
    “Mmmm, thanks.” The amber liquid spread its welcome glow into every limb, to the very tips of her fingers and toes.
    “You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you, Leah?”
    “Mmmm, uh-uh...” she assured him, and he chuckled again. It was hypnotic
—
the fire’s warmth, James’s pampering fingers, the cadence of his breathing. Leah felt transported.
    When her hair was nearly dry, he turned her in his arms so she faced the fire. She leaned back, cradled against his hard chest, feeling the even rhythm of his heartbeat against her back. His long legs, bent at the knee, bracketed her body. Lazily she opened her eyes, saw the shimmering flames of the low-burning fire, and closed them again. Never in her life had she felt so relaxed. So protected.
    After a few minutes he leaned forward to poke the fire, and like a rag doll, she moved with him. The muscles of his shoulder and chest flexed beneath her as he tended the blaze with one hand and held her securely with the other.
    What must it be like, she wondered, to share a life with a man like this? How many evenings had Renee lounged here with her husband and wallowed in the delicious security of his arms?