pricked his face and bare hands as he shuffled across the driveway as quickly as he dared.
Any thoughts he might have had about renting her a hotel room in town until the weather cleared flew out the window. No one was going anywhere tonight.
He’d keep his hands to himself if it killed him.
Entering the double garage, he found Bailey sitting in the still-running Mini, her white knuckles clutching the steering wheel. When he tapped on driver’s window, she blinked but didn’t move. It took a couple of tries for him to get the car door open—the iced-over handle kept slipping from his hands—but when he finally succeeded, a blast of sauna-hot air escaped. Somehow, the little car’s defroster had kept her windshield free of ice.
“Bailey?” No response other than a shiver. Adrenaline crash. He glanced down at the gearshift. At least she’d managed to put the car into Park. “Bailey, I’m going to turn the car off now.” As he reached for the ignition, his parka sleeve brushed against her down vest, a whoosh of rip-stop fabric. So much for keeping his hands to himself. His traitorous hearing picked up her gasp over the sound of the ice pellets pinging off the garage roof.
He inhaled as her emotional reaction flooded the cab. She was ambrosia. He wanted to swim in her, wallow in her, let her desire for him plane the rough edges off his frazzled libido. But… He waited several silent seconds, and then sighed. Yep, there it was. The guilt chaser.
With Bailey, there was always guilt.
He gently peeled her cramped fingers off the steering wheel. Despite the heat in the car, they were cold as icicles. Now that he had a firm grasp on her hands, he turned her body so she sat sideways on the driver’s seat, and tugged her to a standing position. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go inside.”
“ Rafe?” She looked at him, blinking owlishly. She wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup, and her blonde pixie hair was completely covered by a black knit cap with two tiny ears sewn onto the crown. “I need to leave.”
Her words sliced like tiny swords, but the emotions behind them were so much more complex: desire, guilt, sheer panic, and utter exhaustion. “Look at the weather. Let’s go in the cabin, get warm in front of the fire, and figure out what to do. Come on.” Closing the car door, he led her out of the garage and into the ice pellets pounding down from the sky. “What were you thinking, driving in weather like this?” he muttered, trying to shelter her body with his. Even through the layers of down, her essence leached into him. He gulped like a parched man crawling on hands and knees to a desert oasis.
Hell. What random cosmic alchemies had conspired to make her —an innocent, guilt-ridden human —the sole object of his desire? Why wouldn’t anyone else do?
“ The roads were okay south of Eveleth,” she muttered, skating across the driveway with him in a sloppy duet. “Got a late start. Had some work—”
An explosion rocked the night, a blown transformer shooting sparks into the black sky.
“Aah!” Bailey slipped and lost her footing.
He grabbed her. Bobbled .
And they both went down.
About the Author
Tamara Hogan loathes cold and snow, but nonetheless lives near Minneapolis with her partner Mark and two naughty cats. When she’s not telecommuting to Silicon Valley, she writes paranormal romance with a sci-fi twist. A voracious reader with an unapologetic television addiction, Tamara is forever on the lookout for the perfect black boots.
Tamara’s debut novel, TASTE ME, won the Daphne du Maurier Award for Mystery and Suspense, Prism Awards for Best Dark Paranormal, Best First Book, and Best of the Best, The Aspen Golden Leaf Award, and was nominated for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart® Award.
Any thoughts he might have had about renting her a hotel room in town until the weather cleared flew out the window. No one was going anywhere tonight.
He’d keep his hands to himself if it killed him.
Entering the double garage, he found Bailey sitting in the still-running Mini, her white knuckles clutching the steering wheel. When he tapped on driver’s window, she blinked but didn’t move. It took a couple of tries for him to get the car door open—the iced-over handle kept slipping from his hands—but when he finally succeeded, a blast of sauna-hot air escaped. Somehow, the little car’s defroster had kept her windshield free of ice.
“Bailey?” No response other than a shiver. Adrenaline crash. He glanced down at the gearshift. At least she’d managed to put the car into Park. “Bailey, I’m going to turn the car off now.” As he reached for the ignition, his parka sleeve brushed against her down vest, a whoosh of rip-stop fabric. So much for keeping his hands to himself. His traitorous hearing picked up her gasp over the sound of the ice pellets pinging off the garage roof.
He inhaled as her emotional reaction flooded the cab. She was ambrosia. He wanted to swim in her, wallow in her, let her desire for him plane the rough edges off his frazzled libido. But… He waited several silent seconds, and then sighed. Yep, there it was. The guilt chaser.
With Bailey, there was always guilt.
He gently peeled her cramped fingers off the steering wheel. Despite the heat in the car, they were cold as icicles. Now that he had a firm grasp on her hands, he turned her body so she sat sideways on the driver’s seat, and tugged her to a standing position. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go inside.”
“ Rafe?” She looked at him, blinking owlishly. She wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup, and her blonde pixie hair was completely covered by a black knit cap with two tiny ears sewn onto the crown. “I need to leave.”
Her words sliced like tiny swords, but the emotions behind them were so much more complex: desire, guilt, sheer panic, and utter exhaustion. “Look at the weather. Let’s go in the cabin, get warm in front of the fire, and figure out what to do. Come on.” Closing the car door, he led her out of the garage and into the ice pellets pounding down from the sky. “What were you thinking, driving in weather like this?” he muttered, trying to shelter her body with his. Even through the layers of down, her essence leached into him. He gulped like a parched man crawling on hands and knees to a desert oasis.
Hell. What random cosmic alchemies had conspired to make her —an innocent, guilt-ridden human —the sole object of his desire? Why wouldn’t anyone else do?
“ The roads were okay south of Eveleth,” she muttered, skating across the driveway with him in a sloppy duet. “Got a late start. Had some work—”
An explosion rocked the night, a blown transformer shooting sparks into the black sky.
“Aah!” Bailey slipped and lost her footing.
He grabbed her. Bobbled .
And they both went down.
About the Author
Tamara Hogan loathes cold and snow, but nonetheless lives near Minneapolis with her partner Mark and two naughty cats. When she’s not telecommuting to Silicon Valley, she writes paranormal romance with a sci-fi twist. A voracious reader with an unapologetic television addiction, Tamara is forever on the lookout for the perfect black boots.
Tamara’s debut novel, TASTE ME, won the Daphne du Maurier Award for Mystery and Suspense, Prism Awards for Best Dark Paranormal, Best First Book, and Best of the Best, The Aspen Golden Leaf Award, and was nominated for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart® Award.
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