Holly’s knees felt rubbery. Nick was in the house, and he was coming for her. In seconds, he’d be standing before her. There’d be no decisions to make, no weighing of right and wrong. Nick would open the bedroom door, look at her as he had a little while ago, the way he’d always looked at her, and she would run to him, go into his arms.
Footsteps sounded on the steps. Holly trembled. Waited.
The door swung open.
‘Nick,’ she whispered, ‘you came back.’
‘Damn right, I came back.’ He dropped his carryon bag to the floor and folded his arms over his chest. ‘Get this straight,’ he growled. ‘No way in hell am I going to drive that road tonight.’
She blinked. ‘What?’
‘You heard me.’ He unbuttoned his trench coat, slipped it off and tossed it on a chair. ‘I’m no happier about this arrangement than you are. You, me, this cabin… Believe me, this is not my idea of a good time.’
‘No.’ She cleared her throat. ‘No, it’s not mine, either. But you’re right.’
‘And before you put up a fuss…’ Nick frowned. ‘I am?’
She nodded as she began stripping half the blankets from the bed and piling them in her arms.
‘The storm’s bad. And that road must be a nightmare.’ She plucked a pillow from the bed, too. With the stuff in her arms piled high enough to almost hide her face, she maneuvered past him. ‘It was bad enough when I drove up, hours ago.’
‘Well, yeah. I just thought—’
‘Do you remember where the linen closet is?’
‘No. Yes. I…’ He was right? How could that be? He’d never been right, not where Holly was concerned.
‘It’s next to the bathroom. Grab a couple of sheets and bring them down with you.’
He watched, bewildered, as she made her way to the stairs. The bedlinens were piled higher than her head.
‘Hey! Holly, wait a second. I’ll take that stuff. You can’t see…’
‘I can manage fine, thanks. You just bring the sheets.’
Holly dumped the blankets on a chair near the sofa. Her hands trembled as she took the throw pillows and tossed them aside.
What on earth had she been thinking? She’d never have made love with Nick, not even if he’d begged! She was done with all that, done with wanting him—
‘Are these okay?’
She looked up. Nick was holding out a pair of flannel sheets.
‘Fine,’ she said, and took them from his outstretched hands.
‘Can I help?’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said briskly. ‘I can manage just fine.’
Nick frowned. He had the feeling she was right: she could manage fine. Something about her had changed, but what was it?
Maybe he’d been right, and there was a man in her life. It wasn’t his business. It was just that he was curious.
She bent over the sofa and smoothed down the bottom sheet. She was wearing an outlandish outfit—he hadn’t really noticed it before but now he took in the details. Sweatshirt, long johns, heavy socks. He’d never seen anything less feminine. No. That was a lie. The sweet curve of her back was—
‘Toss me the other sheet, will you?’
His eyes followed her every movement. The heavy sweatshirt disguised her breasts, but he didn’t need to see them to remember their conical shape or silken perfection. The rest of her was outlined clearly by the clinging long underwear. Her gently rounded bottom. Her long legs—legs that had once locked around his waist to drive him deeper as they’d made love…
Nick swung away and walked to the fireplace.
‘Heck of a thing,’ he said gruffly. ‘A fieldstone hearth, plenty of kindling and matches…’
‘And no firewood. I know. It was the first thing I checked, after the electricity went out. Well, the second thing, after the candles.’ She plucked a blanket from the chair, shook it out, then laid it across the improvised bed. ‘Too bad. I’ve gotten really good at building fires.’
‘Yeah? I’d have figured it took a small army to get anything started in those walk-in fireplaces at Pinetops.’
‘Oh, it pretty much does.’ She straightened, blew a strand of wheaten hair out of her eyes. ‘I meant in my place, in Boston.’
Nick nodded, his face a perfect blank.
‘Nice town, Boston.’ He bent down, stared intently into the fireplace. ‘Live alone?’
Holly hesitated. The desire to tell him that she lived with a man was almost overpowering, but what was the point? He wouldn’t care. Not that she wanted him to.
‘Yes. I live alone. And you?’ She knew the answer, knew that he hadn’t remarried, thanks to the media’s interest in him, but why tell him that? ‘Do you live in New York?’